Disclaimer: If you already forgot it…I am still not owning anything. ;-)
For a while, things were good. Very good indeed. Not even the dangerous moments – like being stunned and momentarily incapacitated by a half-siren – could break his good mood. If anything, they enhanced it. Because John's alpha instincts flared up, when he thought his claim on a pack member was being challenged.
It wasn't a mating claim – or whatever the werewolves' term for that was, the detective really should inquire more about his friend's customs – but a claim nonetheless. Sherlock might have indulged the most outrageous initiatives of the Woman not because he loved her, or because he was still ensnared by her powers, but because that provoked a jealous, dominant John display. John might not be his Watson, but this didn't mean that he couldn't entertain the fantasy.
Being scented was almost enough to make the detective moan in such a way to rival her ringtone. He seriously needed to thank his handler. 'Mycroft' had put him up to that, thinking that she would not have power over him, since the vampire was already dead.
In truth, he did feel a spike in lust, which could perhaps be attributed to her influence. Only, it was mostly misdirected – not making him her eager slave, but fixating on John Watson 2.0, new and improved. Still, he admired her – recognized her as a worthy opponent, with more than a nice body to her name.
The one who seemed truly and fully immune to Irene's talents, instead, was his very hot-blooded and normally flirty blogger. One would think that the werewolf would be slobbering over such a gorgeous specimen of female, but she didn't seem to be able to obtain anything but a dark scowl from him.
It might be because Irene (probably a distant relative, actually) was only a half-siren, and she was concentrating her luring powers on the most dangerous – for her – consulting detective rather than his 'sidekick' (oh how most people misunderstood their dynamic). But honestly, Sherlock was not about to complain about John not attempting to pursue yet another woman. He wasn't entirely insane.
Still, no matter how delightfully possessive John was, he never tried to stake a claim of the couple – in a sentimental and/or sexual – kind, to the sleuth's great disappointment. Not even after the siren pointed out that their relative immunity to her powers might be due to a preexisting attraction. John denied it a few times, before giving up on convincing her – like he did with Angelo – and his denial was enough to persuade the consulting detective to not breach the subject, no matter how encouraging the wolf's possessiveness seemed to be.
At least, John didn't violently object to the vampire shadowing him around – which his nose should have warned him of. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that his friend's natural wary nature had been entirely ruined by the modern Mycroft's continuous kidnappings, and made him an easy target for any criminal, supernaturally gifted or not, who deemed him an interesting hostage.
It wasn't that the sleuth thought his packmate (he'd adapted surprisingly quickly to the concept, cherishing it, even) couldn't hold his own. If anything, the former army doctor could be even more vicious in a fight than his undead friend, who at least tried – mostly – to keep his feelings divorced from his battle technique. Well, unless you threatened one of the few creatures he deeply…cared about. (Yeah, caring sounded about right.)
He just felt like he could breathe easier (ridiculous since he didn't need to breathe, he realized – still) when he had John in his line of vision. He didn't need to be close, much less acknowledged. Just knowing John was safe, going about his day, made him unwind. Fine, maybe he went a bit overboard. But he'd lost one John H. Watson, MD once already – the beloved idiot decided to volunteer in world war I despite his age and the fact that he'd fought enough wars for one lifetime, as Holmes had insisted – and he would be damned if he lost another one. Not if he could help it.
Which was how he heard John growl that there was no affair between them, there couldn't possibly be. And yes, he'd known that already, but it didn't make it sting any less. Watson – moustachioed, utterly Victorian, his Watson – hadn't been half that hard to seduce, despite all the misconceptions of their time.
He was hurt, and he couldn't express it. Not in any way that would cue John to his motivations. He might not mind a vampire packmate, but the vehemently not gay werewolf would certainly mind an openly pining flatmate.
Thank God for the breach of their home. Honestly, it was enough to make the sleuth despair for the common sense of their cousins abroad, the fact that someone would think invading the den of a vampire and a werewolf and threatening a sweet old lady was a good idea. Or even only a bloody former army Doctor and a consulting detective who'd faced and subdued a long line of murderers, if Mycroft hadn't shared their files with his CIA contacts.
Dealing with the idiots in his home was a good way to work out at least some of his hurt, though. Trasforming any other feelings into anger was a nice way of coping. Maybe he should thank whoever decided to pursue Irene's phone into 221B Baker Street. The wall would probably had taken the brunt otherwise – and both Mrs. Hudson and John objected to his concept of redecorating. (He hadn't known why back then, and he didn't understand it now. It wasn't like the wall would suffer.)
Of course, his flatmate had to have his share of the prey. The werewolf had got home before he expected – anytime someone insinuated that they might have that sort of connection, John usually took a long walk to work off some steam. Nobody shed blood in his home without the Captain's say so.
At the end, they were grinning at each other like teenagers – that felt good. And a sharp text at his handler had let him know to send someone to collect the garbage. Sherlock didn't mind being used as a tool to deal with others supernatural creatures. He did mind, very much, being sent in blind, with no knowledge of the players or the full situation. How did they expect him to be effective without the full data?
If, a short while later, he made a mess of the situation he was expected to contain, that wasn't his fault. It was entirely the responsibility of the silly humans, who thought keeping him in the dark and pointing him at people, like a gun, was the best course of action. He was wiser and older than any of them, and – certainly – had a will of his own.
Misdirecting him to believe the priority was the young royal relative made any other information Irene offered fair game. If deducing – showing off, fine, let's call it properly – got him John's delightful alpha display, why shouldn't he have done so?
'Mycroft' wasn't worth of his name, he started to believe. His actual brother would have never underestimated one's tools, nor ignored their nature. He showed off – even John realised that, even if apparently he did not see why, or whose admiration he was really seeking. Nevermind. It was better this way. If his blogger realized how badly his…packmate wanted to impress him, or exactly why, the results wouldn't be pretty, certainly. One thing was to be accepted as friend, or even family. Becoming one's lover was entirely a different story.
Maybe John wasn't exactly jealous, despite his displays. Not of him, at any rate. Perhaps he considered himself the alpha of the pack, and as such, holding every right to decide whom Sherlock got to partner with, because his mate should, by all accounts, enter the pack, if werewolves' traditions were as doglike as his sire believed. And Irene was clearly not trustworthy to his friend's satisfaction, not with her resume.
Why, possibly he even thought he was the only one with any right to mate at all, and that he should be the one getting Irene, if anyone had to. Lesser-ranked canines did not get to start a family, did they? Not that Sherlock was interested on starting a family with anyone who wasn't John, still he felt like he needed much more information on shifters' society and customs. If he showed an interest, would John be flattered or consider him nosy? Obviously, the sleuth could discover werewolves' boundaries by pushing at his friend and seeing what made him snap.
It was that reasoning – even if the idea of John truly livid at him terrified him – that made him decide to save Irene. Being only a halfbreed, she would have a hard time enthralling a crowd. That was the reason her enemies always sent whole units to deal with a single woman. The sleuth didn't offer any justification for his trip, nor offered John to come along. Whatever their relationship, if the shifter wanted to be his alpha he should press the issue…but he didn't. Nor did he comment on where his flatmate had been or what he'd done on his return. Could he have entirely mistaken the situation? Sherlock was loath to consult 'Mycroft' on werewolves' behavior, but maybe he should have.
Thankfully, it was only hours when their handler came by Baker Street – apparently, to talk with John. Had he become aware of the inclusion of Sherlock in the pack? Was he consulting his alpha? The vampire didn't know, and frankly, he didn't like it.
He was soon informed, though. "Mycroft says that Irene is in America on a protection program. He seems to be under the impression she's actually dead, though. I must say I am not impressed. You'd think that for all the eyes he has, he would employ even a nose or two."
The consulting detective couldn't help it. He grinned, fangs showing. Disparaging this Mycroft was a lovely hobby.
"As for you, mister," his blogger continued, "I don't care who you roll in the hay – or bed, or whatever – with, but would it kill you to shower before trailing all her stench home?" He scrunched his nose with evident disgust.
"You drag your own bitches here," Sherlock countered, more bitter than he really had a right to show himself. "Inside the house we share. And I never protested."
"Well, why didn't you, if it upset you?" John queried, raising an eyebrow.
He couldn't say it. If he admitted his own…confused, yeah, confused and misdirected… feelings for the other man, anything could happen. True, they didn't jail inverts anymore, still – John laughing at him, or moving out, would be a nightmare he wasn't ready to face. So, of course, he sniffed, "It doesn't upset me. I'm just impressed by your lack of standards."
"Of course. Standards. I'm not saying Irene was ugly, but God, Moriarty's accomplice, really? Why don't you just ring Jim up, at this point? He gave you his number," his friend rebuked, glaring. When no answer was forthcoming after a few seconds – the sleuth apparently shocked into horrified speechlessness, if his nose wasn't wrong, he added sternly, "Shower, Sherlock. Now. I mean it."
"Make me," the detective challenged, finding his voice back. He wasn't sure what he expected.
Not John marching up to him and swatting his ass while grumbling, "Toddler, I swear," at any rate.
The vampire let out an undignified yelp and scrambled for the bathroom. He was blushing! He didn't even know he could blush without it being a purposeful act anymore. John had said 'toddler'. It wasn't sexual, it was discipline – as if he was a pup. But God, if his friend didn't want to claim him as a lover – as he kept insisting oh so loudly – he would do better to keep his hands in check before Sherlock couldn't control his own.
The sleuth lingered under the shower, with the double aim to thoroughly wash the woman's scent out and try to unwind. He could not follow his flatmate's example and pleasure himself. He should not need to – he was fucking dead, but apparently all of himself hadn't got the memo. The brain was the biggest sexual organ, and now his brain was on fire. Damn. If John – with his bloody sharp senses – heard or smelled him in the act, though, that would be a disaster of biblical proportions. Sherlock would not be able to deny longing for him, then.
It took a good long while, but finally the consulting detective felt better and ready to face his flatmate. He used an old bedsheet as bathrobe and braved the sitting room. "For the record, I didn't shag Irene Adler."
John snorted. "You are free to bed whomever you want, Sherlock. But I would appreciate if you didn't lie so brazenly. It is insulting that you think I would not realize that."
"No, I really didn't. She was trapped by a terror cell of jihadists in Karachi. I managed to help her run away. Once we escaped the more immediate threat, she said that going around dressed as a woman there would have exposed her to all manners of risks, and I couldn't argue with that. My own attire was concealing enough, so she demanded us to switch our clothes. I couldn't find a sensible objection to that," the detective explained softly.
"I bet you wouldn't. Damned siren. So you wore Irene's clothes and went around in drag, did you? For hours?" his flatmate growled.
"Yes. Of course, given the local weather, she had sweated a bit in there already. I suspect that's why I absorbed so much of her scent. And no, before you ask, I didn't enjoy it at all. But if anyone tried to harass me, I would be much more able to defend myself. I wouldn't need to help her at all, if
Mycroft had agreed to jail her," the vampire pointed out, his mouth thinning in annoyance.
"Why did you need to defend her at all? If it wasn't to get into her pants, or because you were enthralled by her? She manipulated you, used you. She hit you. She fucking injected you with something that put you down for hours! She must have had a rather diverse clientele to have that handy, now that I think about it. So why not let her be killed?" John growled. Oh God, but that sound was sexy.
"Because she wanted to be free. Why do you think she played against Mycroft, against the CIA, against whomever tried to put her on a leash? She's half human, meaning that she probably isn't much older than she appears. I had decades to be free, and accepted my handler – however grudgingly – because, rationally, the benefits overwhelmed the disadvantages. I had the chance to be back to Baker Street, and I couldn't possibly be happy anywhere else. Killing Irene because she wanted freedom would be despicable," the sleuth expounded hotly. John himself did not easily yeld to Mycroft, and however crushed he'd be, Sherlock wouldn't blame him if he left Britain to search for some less regulated land. Wasn't what he just explained obvious?
Of all his tirade, apparently his flatmate had retained only one word. "Back to Baker Street?" the blogger echoed.
"Yes, I lived here before even turning," the sleuth admitted. "Mrs. Hudson's ancestor was a more tolerant housekeeper than I probably deserved."
John grinned. "Oh. So that's why our Mrs. Hudson is so insistent on that point. Does she look like her gran?"
"There's certainly a family resemblance, though obviously they aren't perfect lookalikes. That would be creepy," Sherlock acknowledged.
"Said the vampire," his blogger quipped, with a crooked grin. A shared look, and both were giggling like loonies.
Bless him, John didn't push the matter of people he knew in his past life, and their relations or resemblance to people he frequented now. If he did, Sherlock had no idea how he would fare, caught between omitting Watson's existence altogether – with the risk that the wolf would smell his lie – or mentioning him, and explaining what the man had meant to him, and how very much his flatmate was a little facial hair from being a doppelganger.
Curiously, mentioning Watson and covering up their relationship – demoting him to a dear friend – hadn't entered the detective's mind at all. He had enough decades of that. Now, it was all fine – no way he would be shamed or punished for it – and Watson deserved better from him than to be cheapened this way without imminent danger. Potential awkwardness wasn't an excuse.
Whether he was really uninterested, or afraid of what he could find, John let the matter drop. Both Sherlock's ancient and recent past were ignored. The blogger had finally believed him when he said that he didn't want the siren in his bed. Besides, John was entirely mistaken.
Whatever allure the halfbreed could have exercised on him, it was not by offering her own body, but by asking after puzzles. Interrogate the consulting detective after a case or two, allow him to show off (especially in front of John) and that was everything a female could entice him with. He really wasn't interested in the sexual part, though Irene was certainly used to that nuance being her best weapon and falling into it by default.
