II.
From the moment John began questioning his sexual preference for women, he knew that falling in love with Sherlock Holmes was a Bad Alternative.
After all, considering the fact that, for the sake of not being bored, Sherlock would go to such lengths as beating corpses with riding crops, delighting over particularly gruesome murders, and swordfighting with not-particularly-amiable martial arts masters in their living room - well, considering that he did these things because his life was otherwise mundane and dull, John feared what sex would be like with a Sherlock who found the usual kissing, shagging, licking, et al. in which normal people engaged to be mundane and dull.
Well, if he had to admit it, John's fear was more akin to a kid who liked carnival rides looking at a really, really, really terrifying roller coaster. Namely, perhaps one part fear and one part awe to two parts exhilerated anticipation.
It was a dangerous cocktail, and liable to get him killed if he wasn't careful.
Then again, that's what life was like with Sherlock en generale, wasn't it?
Of course with the first whispers of sex with Sherlock in his head, that first night back in Baker Street, Irene Adler emerged back into the picture.
It was a startling moment to see Sherlock languidly chatting with her over Skype in just his pyjamas, her in...well, as far as John could tell, not much more than a blood-red Navajo blanket.
Not that he was looking.
But neither Sherlock nor Irene reacted with any shame when John emerged from the shower, wrapped in a terrycloth robe, his hair mussed, all the crevices in his ears wet.
"Hi there, John," called Irene from the computer as she saw him close the bathroom door. "It's been awhile."
John walked out of the range of the webcam, trying to decide if Sherlock's bouncing left foot was an expression of libido waiting to be unleashed once John was safely tucked away in his room, or if it was more innocuous, like a dog's wagging tail.
"Hullo yourself," John said, trying not to sound as savage as he felt, heading towards the kitchen instead of looking at her face balanced expertly on Sherlock's right thigh.
"Are you making tea?" asked Sherlock, not glancing up, "If you are, bring me some."
"I wasn't," said John, but he was just being contrary, because it had been his intention. "But if you want it..."
Sherlock was silent, which was his way of assenting, but John heard Irene whisper something indefinite, after which Sherlock actually managed to scrape out the words "Yes, please. I'd like that."
Whatever spell Irene had over Sherlock, the great detective was badly taken if she was capable of making him utter such banalthings as polite niceties, so long scorned by him.
The pair was talking about tea when John returned, rather too conversationally than he preferred.
"Do you remember how the Raj would serve it?" Irene was saying with delightful giggles of reminiscence - not overbearing or horsey or trying-too-hard-to-be masculine, like Harry's laughs were - Irene's laughter was simply ladylike, charming, and truly elegant. Though cruel.
"He really was asking for his own murder," Sherlock agreed with a snigger. "Pomp and circumstance to rival Her Majesty's."
"You know Sherlock, you're absolutelyright about that comparison - and I know that for a fact."
She laughed, Sherlock didn't, but there was something in his eyes that showed he was enjoying the conversation.
John, with fortitude, prevented himself from plunking down Sherlock's teacup in such a way that it would splatter all over Sherlock's laptop.
"It was almost a shame to catch the villain," said Sherlock, lazily extending his hand to take the cup from the table, nodding to John in a silent thank-you and sipping. "It just goes to show how people get caught in their own patterns. What does the Raj do to thank us saving him but hold another tea ceremony?"
Irene laughed, merry and bright as jingle bells. "I noticed that too. He didn't seem to catch the irony, himself."
"I don't know that he could catch much of anything unless he had some exercise," noted Sherlock with deadpan brevity, to which Irene just laughed and laughed. "Oh, shut up, Irene, John's sitting here looking scandalized."
John was sitting quietly, drinking his tea, looking at the back of Sherlock's computer and at Sherlock's face, which was lit both by the backlight of the computer and the more subtle brightness of humor.
"I'm getting married, you know, John," said Irene, even though she couldn't see him. "To a very nice Catholic man. He used to be a Cardinal."
"Until he met you," said Sherlock with a too-serious interjection, and the two of them erupted in puerile laughter.
"Congratulations," said John with a tang of bitterness in his voice, still suspicious of his friend and that woman but not because he could discern why.
"What?" Irene called to clarify.
He repeated himself, more neutrally, a little louder.
"Oh, thank you, my dear. Now Sherlock, I'm going to have to ring off. I hope everything goes well for you both there in London. May I say very frankly that I don't miss England at all?"
"You may say it," said Sherlock with a respectful nod, though it was clear he disagreed. "Indeed, Cairo suits you much better."
"I do hope you mean the weather and my sunny disposition and not the political turbulence."
"Oh, I mean it in every sense," said Sherlock evasively. "Nonetheless, have a good night, Irene."
"You too, you great sexy idiot. A bientot."
Sherlock muttered a reply in a language John didn't recognize, and with a click and a snap, the chat ended and the computer closed.
And then Sherlock was gauging John's temper, observing his flatmate so coolly that the whole thing might have been some controlled experiment.
"That was...different," said John by way of breaking the silence.
"You didn't like that," concluded Sherlock, who seemed to have been waiting for John to say something; he now was putting his fingers together, leaning back, and staring at the ceiling in a thoughtful position.
"No, not really, no," said John, grateful to be understood at least on that point.
"Do you have a reason for your disapproval?" asked Sherlock, and it seemed like his carelessness was forced.
"No," said John, though he realized at the moment he said it, it was a lie - quite simply, he was jealous of Irene, it was as plain and uncomplicated as that.
And moreover, it was pathetic because it was so clear that any jealousy on his part was futile. If Sherlock wanted to pursue a relationship with Irene - well, he had the right to, of course, though it would be morally questionable if Irene really was going to marry an ex-Cardinal (did such a person exist?), but since when did Sherlock care about doing things that were morally questionable if it suited him?
"All right then," said Sherlock, and, without looking, he aimlessly reached for his cup of tea, which he didn't seem to remember was on the table, not the floor.
His hand emerged from under the couch with a bottle of brandy, which he opened casually and poured about a shot's worth into his half-drunk tea. He then tilted his head, raised the bottle, and wiggled his eyebrows at John, who was only too glad to reangle the armchair a bit closer to grab it and utilize it for his own purposes. Two shot's worth in his nearly-gone cup of tea.
"I know you're not a great fan of change, John," said Sherlock after the doctor had sipped the cocktail appreciatively. "So I'm letting you know now...I'm a bit different than when I left three years ago."
"Yeah, well, that's obvious," said John, so snarlingly that he himself was shocked. "You've always been very close with That Woman."
"We were traveling partners. A matter of...convenience."
It was clear that Sherlock wasn't saying everything that he could say about Irene Adler, but John didn't want to know anything more about how their relationship had evolved.
After all, hadn't she been dead?
And hadn't Sherlock been devastated?
"Yeah. All right." John tried to affect nonchalance, but he felt Sherlock's hand grip his wrist, and he looked up to meet Sherlock's penetrating eyes.
"Just as webegan our long-standing relationship independent of sex, John, so did my friendship with Irene begin independent of sex."
There was a lot of conviction behind those words, and meaningfulness, too.
It was a strange way for Sherlock to act. Very disconcerting.
"Um. Fine. I don't care," said John, a little too emphatically. "Just...well, other people might take it the wrong way, you know. The way you talk to each other. And...was she even wearing anything that whole time you were talking to her?"
As fickle as the wind, Sherlock let go of John's warming wrist and breezily, dramatically said, "You know I've never given a damn about what society thinks, John, and you know I never will."
John forced himself to laugh. "That's one thing about you that'll never change, Sherlock."
"Rather," agreed the great consulting detective thoughtfully, entering upon a Brown study. "I don't change that much."
To be continued
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