Title: Double Trouble
Author: Cupcake-999
Sherlock/John. Rated T.
Summary: Sequel to Double Date. Makes sense to read that first.
Sherlock and John might have realised they loved each other, but that's not enough. That's not even enough for a beginning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.
Chapter One
Their first weekend together as a couple was over. They'd managed to reach the living room, steps heavy, having carefully avoided catching each other's eyes and making sure to keep at least a foot of distance between them on the cab ride home in the dusk, without either speaking. John of course cracked first.
"Well, that was…"
"Brutal." Sherlock delivered his judgement throwing himself down on the sofa with his back to the room, still in his coat and scarf.
"Indeed. Who would have thought being banged up for the weekend in the police station would be quite so…"
"Inhumane."
"Um. Or that entering the lobby of the Ritz to be arrested for credit card fraud by Scotland Yard's finest would be so…"
"Humiliating."
"Huh. Or forced voluntary repayment schedules so…"
"Barbaric."
"It really was. The whole thing. God. Tea?"
"We're out of milk." Sherlock must have felt John's amazement at this because he deigned to turn round. "We were out of milk on Friday and we've been away all weekend, so I'm deducing we're still out."
"Unless the milk fairies have been. You know, like the dish washing fairies, and the cleaning fairies, and the laundry fairies. That's how things get done round here, isn't it? Oh wait, no, I do them."
The look in Sherlock's eyes snagged John and he sighed, feeling guilty for taking things out on the other man. Although why he should feel guilty when Sherlock's playing fast and loose with objet trouvé credit cards had led to their arrests he didn't know.
"I'll make some herbal. Maybe chamomile will make us sleep and we'll forget."
Although he doubted he'd ever forget Anderson's unalloyed glee and clicking camera as uniformed officers happily avenging years of mistreatment by Sherlock had clapped them in handcuffs and bundled them into separate squad cars. What was the man even doing there? He was a forensic pathologist, for God's sake, not a Met officer. Oh, and the way he and Donovan had been in the station all weekend to gloat at him – and presumably Sherlock – locked up in their cells. 'Half-hourly welfare checks' be buggered. OK, so he didn't actually know they'd been doing tequila shots, but they had been laughing like drains and high-fiving each other as they'd rat-a-tat-tatted on his door throughout the night, angering his cellmates. John had the bruises to show for it.
Sherlock refused the cup John held out to him. John sighed and blew on the hot liquid, pushing his flatmate up to squash himself into half a foot of sofa. It made him sad that Sherlock drew himself up tightly, and didn't trap him in place by swinging his feet down on his lap, as he used to. John felt he ought to lighten the mood.
"Funny; I always thought detainees had the right to have a phone call. I didn't—"
"Yes you did. I took it. I needed two."
"Who did you call?"
John really hoped for once the answer was "Mycroft". Visions of the older Holmes brother waving his magic brolly and making the charges go away had danced in his head all weekend like Saville Row-suited sugarplums. He'd promised himself he'd never refer to their saviour as "Piecrust" again, no matter how much his latest diet failed.
"Mrs. Hudson. Tried her on the landline then her mobile as she's at her sister's. Had to tell her to record Top Gear."
John pinched the bridge of his nose then rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes. Sherlock stiffened and so John stopped invading his space and went to sit in his chair. He'd known this wouldn't be easy. Sherlock was… different from other people. Things were different around him; even John himself had been different since meeting up with him. But this situation was unprecedented. There were no models to draw on.
How many people went from realising they were in love with their same-sex flatmate, meaning they were gay, or possibly bi, who knows, he certainly didn't, to immediately going to consummate this love at a luxury hotel (Hooray! I'm a massive gayist! he thought hysterically) only to be brutally torn asunder as he and said flatmate were hustled into separate police cars? Would he now always associate the thrill of anticipation with flashing lights and blaring sirens? He doubted he'd ever be aroused again. God knows the water taxi along the Thames had been difficult enough as he'd fought to keep the atmosphere romantic by not hurling over the side. He knew he had to put his own issues aside and deal with Sherlock's, however.
"Look, about you twocing all those police officers' credit cards and the fraud…"
"I suppose you're waiting for me to apologise. And to promise to repay the debts by getting a job." Sherlock spat the last word out like he'd found a worm in his apple.
"No. Oh God no. The world isn't ready for that."
John actually smiled, despite his exhaustion – when had he last slept? – as a mental flicker-book of Sherlock employed in a variety of jobs and insulting people in each before causing World War Three flapped before his eyes.
He couldn't see Sherlock working as a—wait. What were his qualifications in? Had he even read for a university degree? An at-the-point-of-hallucinating John tried and failed to envision teenage Sherlock at lectures, studying. No, he would have been the one who changed the professor's slides somehow so they all said WRONG as they popped up behind him. Sherlock hadn't gone through growth and learning. That explained the gaps in his knowledge, his gangly social awkwardness; he'd been born from a stone egg on a mountain top, then achieved enlightenment…
"Great Sage, Equal of Heaven!" John had actually nodded off to sleep and woken himself up with these words. Well, at least he'd had a few minutes' kip. "It's OK. Don't worry. I'll get a proper job. Or two. Mike suggested I sign on with the Barts' staffing bureau thing they fill vacancies from now. He thinks the air ambulance bit of the trauma and emergency care centre would snap me up."
Sherlock looked even more miffed, if possible, and John made a mental note to leave his mobile at home and rely on his pager, if he started working at the hospital. Obviously Sherlock would find a way to bother him on that, but…
"At least this whole thing showed what a decent bloke Lestrade is. He was the only one not there gloating, did you notice? Course you did. I bet he'll have something to say to those idiots in his team as well, hey? I'm glad he gave it a miss."
"He wouldn't be there, in view of our history."
"Yeah, I suppose he does owe you a lot, seeing as how you solve most of his cases for him."
John was happy Sherlock was talking again. Blimey. That was a turn up. Usually he was desperate for peace and quiet.
"That, and our personal history."
John caught Sherlock's gaze. The silvery colour had darkened and a brow rose, waiting for a response.
"Yes, I can see that. No, actually I can't. You don't mean you and Lestrade…and that's why…"
The tight-lipped smirk and gimlet-eyed glare said it all.
"Wow. You must be bloody good, then." Stupidly John blurted out the first thing to pop into his tiny little brain.
"That, and the insurance policy I took out."
He's enjoying this! John's sleep-deprived brain spewed up the thought.
"Sherlock, I think I'm asleep. I'm not even sure I'm having this conversation. What the hell are you on about?"
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine. You know how when a relationship ends, people keep souvenirs?"
John recoiled, suppressing a scream as his flatmate cradled the skull sitting on the coffee table and caressed it with impossibly long, spidery fingers, a faraway look in his eyes.
"I, however, kept photos."
"Phot-ohh!" The supposedly soothing tea rushed back up to John's throat and he swallowed. "I take it you don't mean you and Lestrade strolling along the embankment at sunset, and you enjoying a hotdog?"
"That's exactly what I mean, but there's no need to be so coarse, John. You're not in barracks now."
"OK. I can't deal with this. Not now. Probably not ever. Can we agree that what happened in the past stays in the past and never, ever, ever, mention it again? Please? God, I need a shower. I stink. Who would have thought that being locked up in a cramped, shared cell with no bathroom facilities for a weekend would leave one quite so…"
"Sullied."
/ /
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