A/N
The boys are back! I am really sorry for taking this long but between travelling and catching the flu, I didn't get much time to write. I really want to thank all of you who read, liked and reviewed this story and wanted to see more of it .This is for you guys!
Enjoy!(This one might be a bit long to make up for the delay)
"Watson, you have been awfully fidgety about something since morning. What's going on?"
"Unh. Nothing. Bad headache." John lied.
Well sort of. Thing is, John was giddily happy. Like run-through-the-fields-barefeet happy. So John, being John, felt compelled to hide his happiness from the commoners opting instead to sport a grimace and rub his forehead incessantly. Try as hard as he may, he could not concentrate on his work because, well, his mind was running through his umpteenth replay of last night, pausing at certain moments, rewinding and replaying others and fast forwarding through the awkward bits. It had been one day, or to be precise, 17 hours since the Spectacular Snog in the Alleyway and John was getting antsy for more.
Was that even real?
Hell yes it was.
And, John thinks, no John knows, that the way they did it, almost clandestinely, like a secret to be kept from Victor, was what made it even more fun. And boy would he have loved to see Victor's expression when he beheld the Most Prominent of Hickeys since the start of time.
Sherlock had texted him twice that morning, something about using riding crops on corpses(John suspected there was some innuendo involved) and when John had finally resigned himself to his crippling boredom which involve faking smiles and lending a concerned ear that came with his profession, his phone pinged.
Come to Baker Street at once, if convenient .SH
He grinned at his phone for a full minute.
Wait, did the great Sherlock Holmes proposition me through a text? J
Do be more attentive John. I spent two hours last night propositioning you. Now I intend on following through with my wicked intentions. SH
What about le boyfriend? J
Le boyfriend should make his way to my bedroom at the earliest. SH
John was positively blushing.
I meant Victor. J.
Don't have the time to think of hateful flatmates. SH.
He might make things a bit inconvenient. J
If inconvenient, come anyway. SH
And then there was a photo attachment. John was literally salivating when he opened it. And, no, don't avert your eyes. It was a photo of Sherlock's pale neck. With John's lovebite showing prominently.
Bugger it all.
Not sparing a second thought to all the humanitarian services he would be rendering in the afternoon were it not for Sherlock, John stabbed his hands into his coat and made his way to Sarah's office.
Sarah had, once upon a million years, been a love interest. They still met up for an occasional lunch or dinner but the relationship dynamic had settled comfortable into "friends" and once every blue moon, shag buddies.
Which is to say John could ask Sarah for a humongous favor and get away with it. And now was the ripe time.
"Sarah, I really have to be elsewhere this afternoon. Would you mind?"
John crossed his fingers. He expected an expression akin to horror, the kind of horror you would feel if someone asked you to boil live puppies, dawn on her face.
Today was to be a day of endless surprises.
"You do? Oh, ok, off you go then." she gave him tired smile.
"Really? Are you sure?'
"Yeah. Absolutely. I owe you for that evening with the French stockbroker anyway."
"Er…oh, that one? You're right. Well, I best be off." And then John did something that was as much of a surprise to Sarah as it was to him-kissed her on the cheek.
*fistpump*
Behold the return of John's Inner Voice of Clarity, aka his libido,
As he made his way to the exit, World War Three began in his head.
John, this is severely irresponsible of you. What if one of your patients dies of, oh I don't know, tetanus from some gardening wound or, or a previously unheard of tropical disease or, or…Before his conscience could get any more creative, his libido sprung into action.
Relax; Sarah is taking care of them. And what did I tell you about grabbing opportunities?
But what about dereliction of duty? What about the Hippocratic Oath? You are a doctor first John.
John is a man first. A man with needs.
I still feel this is woefully wrong on your part.
No one asked you for an opinion.
John Watson was a silent witness to this feisty debate. The baser part of him overcame his rational side; and John suspected that whenever a certain Sherlock Holmes was involved, it wouldn't be the last time this happened.
John stood outside 221B Baker Street and stared at the door for a whole five minutes.
Press the doorbell John.
The hand to the doorknob stopped its journey midway. Not for a lack of courage or manliness (certainly not that, his trousers were uncomfortably tight) but because of a different kind of worry. Frankly, John could not believe that this was happening to him. He was so smitten with someone he had known for just a few hours, and that someone was such a catch. Sherlock was heartbreakingly gorgeous; a genius in his own right, consulting detective and so damn interesting that
John kept waiting for God to smite him. Or for something to go horribly wrong.
Don't worry John. He already smote you when he gave you a Victor Trevor to deal with.
That was true. But they would cross that bridge when they came to it. Instead his surgeon's brain ran through a pre-op checklist.
Raging erection. Check.
A heart beating a tattoo. Check.
Reddening ears. Check.
Slick, sweat-coated palms. Check.
An urgent need to drop your pants. For all the right reasons. Check.
Lube and other sundry items. Check.
The door to 221B Baker was opened by a small, mousy lady with kind eyes who was dressed entirely in purple.
"Yes?"
"I, umm, am here to see Sherlock Holmes."
"You must be Dr. John Watson. My, my. He was right when he said you have a je ne sais quoi."
"Sherlock hasn't shut up about you since last night." she added conspiratorially.
The violin music issuing from somewhere above stopped abruptly when John turned an uncomfortable shade of red and let himself in.
"Come along then. He's right upstairs. Must be anxious to see you." John could have sworn on his dog tags that Mrs. Hudson (landlady, Sherlock had told him about her last night) meant that last part in a nudge nudge wink wink manner.
Oh lord.
Then he remembered to actually go upstairs and see Sherlock. Also possibly flail like a sixteen year old girl.
Into the breach.
As he reached the landing, the door opened of its own accord and a long hand clothed in blue silk yanked him in. He found himself being kissed by Sherlock Holmes before he could so much as mutter a word.
"Mmm, Sherlock. Wait. Let me…." John gave up all futile attempts to resist Sherlock and threw himself wholeheartedly into the snog. While the Alleyway Snog would forever go down in history as the Hottest Thing That Ever Happened to John(after Sherlock), John had to admit there was something nice about snogging Sherlock in a proper flat without the fear of being caught out by the police or Victor, and without the aroma of garbage wafting up his nostrils.
Sherlock pulled away abruptly and huffed a contented sigh.
"I just absolutely had to do that. Now, you were saying?"
John stared dumbstruck at Sherlock. Cicadas chirped in the background.
"Problem?"
John regained his composure at the speed of light. Something told him that being dim and demanding was not going to earn him many favors from this detective.
"Erm. No, nothing. Umm, hi."
"What?"
"Never mind. I didn't peg you for the platitude type."
John cast an eye around the flat. Every available surface was covered with papers, there was a test tube rack on the table, the two couches had worn upholstery, what looked like a stack of correspondence was affixed with a jackknife onto the mantelpiece, two bullet pocks graced the wall opposite and a beaker full of a garish pink liquid bubbled merrily on the stove. The flat was screamed Sherlock through every available surface.
"Your flat is very nice."
"My thoughts exactly."
"And where might Victor be?"
"Oh god John. The sheer number of times you ask about that sticky sod is worrying. Are you sure you aren't interested in him?"
"Not fair." John pouted.
"Well, he is off finishing some boring paperwork with Lestrade. He won't be around for a while."
"I see. And why aren't you out solving cases?"
"Waiting for an interesting one to come my way."
"So I am just distraction?"
"Of course you are. Cheap entertainment."
"Tease."
"Now shut up and get over here."
Sherlock had relocated himself on the sofa, looking entirely too delicious than he had any business being.
Jump at it, John. Go, go, and go.
And who would blame poor John for giving in to his instincts?
Five minutes later found the pair snogging on the couch and this time they both meant business. Clothes were shed, sometimes even shred, in their urgency and the shagging plans were far beyond their contemplative stage.
Which was when the pair of them heard someone coughing politely.
John, there is someone STANDING right there and watching you come undone just by kissing Sherlock Holmes.
John, in his passionate fervor, completely ignored this Voice of Rationality (aka Not his libido) coming from inside his head.
The coughing now changed tone to a loud hacking.
Simultaneously, consulting detective and ex-army doctor held up a finger each, Signal for Mr. Holmes and Dr Watson are otherwise occupied at this moment. Please try again later.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock squirmed in his position, indicating his displeasure at being distracted. His lips remained glued to John's and eyes firmly shut. Emboldened by his response, John pushed his hands further into Sherlock's messy curls and clung tighter.
"Sherlock, we have a case for you." The disembodied voice was a low gravelly baritone, and it had rich undertones of irritation and amusement, as if saying, yeah, yeah you've had your fun now, and John was pleased to note, it did not belong to Victor.
"Mmpmmh."
"Some business magnate died mysteriously."
John reluctantly pulled away from Sherlock, with a noise similar to a drainpipe being unplugged.
"You both look such a sight. Lucky I didn't bring the other Yarders. Now, get a move on, someone has personally requested for your assistance."
Please tell me this isn't actually happening.
I did warn you. This must be Lestrade. He is rather handsome.
So there they were, John in his undershirt and jeans, Sherlock in his pajamas and no T shirt on. They both looked utterly debauched, lips red and swollen, sporting Mohawks and stubble burns.
Sherlock regained his semblance of normality in a millisecond as if Lestrade had caught them doing nothing more scandalous than shaking hands or drinking tea.
"I'll be right behind."
Lestrade gave a curt nod and glanced in John's direction, smirked, turned on his heel and left.
John caught Sherlock's eye and they both burst out laughing.
"Wow. There go our spectacular plans of shagging. Second time lucky, do you think?"
"Hardly, John. Of course I intend on shagging you today. We'll just have to postpone it for a few hours." Sherlock pressed one hard kiss onto John's mouth and danced around the flat dressing himself.
John Watson had seriously no clue on what to do next. What was the protocol for times like this? Was there even a protocol for a time when you are caught making out like a teenager with a man you have known for only eighteen hours by a complete stranger?
So in a situation where most others would have ceded control, John did what John does best-Act completely in control.
He started by gathering his wits about him, clutching at Sherlock's silky blue dressing gown to cover himself up in all his modesty; he couldn't help but note how the robe smelled delightfully of Sherlock and he may have licked the collar while hunting for his socks. As he set about dressing himself, Sherlock appeared at the doorway, Great Big Coat et al.
"You are a doctor. In fact, you are an army doctor."
"Deduction of the century."
"Any good?"
John puffed his chest up and stood tall. "Very good."
Sherlock moved closer.
"Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"
"Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh God, yes."
And just like that, they were off.
John, come to North Greenwich immediately. SH
Much as I would love to run around with you, I have a job to keep. J
John, but it is absolutely necessary that you come. SH
Sherlock, if I skip a shift again, I will not have a job to come back to. J
Your job is boring. SH
I couldn't agree more. But I need the money. J
Money is boring. SH
For us mere mortals, it is what runs life. Can't come. Sorry. J
You're no fun. SH
Frankly, how was John supposed to respond? They had been dating(hopelessly primitive euphemism for what I and Sherlock are doing, but what the hell) for all of two weeks now and John had had more fun, sex and running around than he had in thirty eight years of existence. Sherlock was the one thing that made the world go from black and white to Technicolor in a flash. He was the one beacon of hope and redemption in John's life. Being a bore was a surefire way to lose Sherlock's attention. And if Sherlock's attention wavered, it could have disastrous consequences for John. He would have to go back to his previous life, where he asked out old, desperate ladies who dropped their knickers all too easily and bored him.
But John did not want to lose himself completely. He was a doctor; he had saved people's lives all his life. It was his identity. Having a whirlwind romance with a man he had not laid eyes on till two weeks ago did not mean he could shirk his duty. His responsibility. So, no matter how much he was otherwise occupied, his pretty arse would stay parked right there. Sherlock could come get it if he wanted to.
Uh oh.
Thinking of Sherlock and "pretty arse" in the same sentence was not a wise thing to do in the middle of your shift. Now John started imagining himself doing the dirty with Sherlock on his examination table. Mrs. Darcy was not distracting him one bit with her ear infection melodrama.
Come on John. You fired rifles in the bloody warzone. Stop acting like a teenage girl. Man up now.
Well, technically, that was what John's body was doing. Manning up. His pants started getting too snug and the room suddenly felt hotter by a few degrees.
John tried to squelch all feelings of arousal by crossing his legs and imagining doing it with Mrs. Darcy. Who was an eighty two year old lady with more wrinkles than a bullpup. And who may or may not have developed a bald patch.
You're a brave man, John Watson. Not everyone can take on Mrs. Darcy. Sorry, I meant Sherlock Holmes.
Not HELPING.
One thing every person who has met John for even five minutes can tell is that the man is blessed with truckloads of patience and stoicism. If the world ever ran out of fortitude, it could borrow some from one John Hamish Watson. So conditioning his mind to think I have to be here; I can't cavort around with Sherlock on the streets of London, was easy peasy.
Later that evening, after a long tiring day filled with common colds, sniffles, ear infections, broken ankles, hairline fractures and other not-so-interesting diseases, in short a day where John prayed someone got fatally injured so he could have some fun; John was invited by Sarah over to some fancy place in South East London for a pint. Not your ordinary local pub mind you, this place was neck deep with the cognoscenti. As John dolled up for the night (blue shirt-check; expensive cologne, the one that Sherlock likes- check; best suit owned-check), he remembered that the bar was located in the same place where Sherlock was. Maybe they could meet up and…
Must not get hopes up too high.
Are you still in South East London? I am coming there. Want to get a pint? J
I don't get a pint John. SH
Oddly enough, John could picture Sherlock's face wrinkling with disgust at the idea of doing something so plebeian.
OK. Will rephrase that to-Want to get your tongue down my throat?
Would love to. But am on case. Will talk later. SH
And that was the end of it.
Fine, fine. I'll go out with Sarah and have a bloody good time. Fuck Sherlock. I can have a life of my own.
The evening had other plans in store.
So they went to the fancy place-which was a bit too fancy for his tastes- and tried to get themselves as sloshed as they respectably could.
"Nice place, isn't it?"
John was in half agreement, his mind abuzz because of the alcohol. As he swept his eyes across, he caught a familiar silhouette. A very familiar silhouette.
John. It's Gorgeous Thing sitting there.
(Bless the man's libido. Even two weeks later it was calling Sherlock Gorgeous Thing)
John had not thought it possible but Sherlock looked even more gorgeous than he did otherwise. His hair hung low over his brow; he wore a midnight blue suit and a pale blue shirt. But John's mind only partly registered that fact. Because it was too preoccupied dealing with the first thing he saw Sherlock doing.
Playing tonsil tennis with Victor.
Which is to say, snogging the living daylights out of him.
Victor was no passive receiver. He gave it back as good as he got it; his hand was slowly creeping up Sherlock's neck into his hair. Something John always did when he kissed Sherlock.
They broke apart, but their foreheads were still touching, cooing at each other in a manner even newlyweds found disgusting.
Needless to say, John's libido went into hue-and-cry mode.
John. JOHN! The love of your life is SNOGGING someone else.
I can see it you git.
That is some fine kissing action though. Look at how he uses his tongue. And where he places his hand. You have to give it to him; the man knows how to snog.
MISSING THE BLOODY PICTURE HERE!
Yes, yes. You are absolutely right. COME ON JOHN! Get your bum over there and show them...show them...oh…I don't know…
Which is when a third man came into the picture. Even by John's lofty standards which deemed anything other than Sherlock an ogre, this man was bloody brilliant. He had ginger hair, a shy schoolboy grin, large hands and bow lips even more prominent than Sherlock's. He clearly nursed a fascination for men eating each other's faces, (kissing, John!)because only he, apart from John, seemed conscious of the fact that two men were making out bang in the middle of the place. While John's features remained neutral and controlled (what did we tell you about stoicism and John?), Ginger's face displayed an open interest in the two mating creatures in front of him.
The proceedings moved from sensual to downright pornographic when the snogging resumed and Sherlock groped Victor's arse.
In a way he only ever touched John's arse.
At the precise moment when Victor touched Sherlock's, ahem, thing between his legs- two things happened. Ginger broke into a grin that threatened to split his face into two and jumped up and down on his seat ,while sitting on it(Not Houdini stuff, just looked like teen flailing) and the word "Control" erased itself from John Watson's dictionary.
Which is to say, John lost it.
And here is the thing about people who have mountains of tolerance and stoicism in them-when they snap, the world can just go screw itself while they deal with the object of anger. All notions of propriety can go take a long walk off a short pier. Reactions can range from anything like loud bellowing, hysterical shrieking, acts of extreme violence and even bloody murder. Their wrath simmers and then boils over.
And John's anger was teetering at the edge of apoplexy.
Remember how Victor thought he was apoplectic after he deduced that Sherlock had kissed John? Suffice to say that Victor's definition of apoplexy needs revision after comparison to John's.
"Sarah, I just need to go see a man about a man."
"What?"
Sarah received silence in answer. John set his drink down and coolly walked over to the table where the three were sitting. And no, he did not bark his head off or upturn the table like Al Pacino or slap Sherlock or anything. He calmly tapped Sherlock on his shoulder.
Sherlock pulled out of the kiss immediately. Victor seemed reluctant to let go.
"Excuse me. Is this yours?"
He'll remember this. It's the first thing he ever said to me.
John held up a set of keys. His set of keys to Baker Street. He couldn't have made himself clearer.
Noticing that Sherlock's lips were red and swollen, his pupils were screaming arousal and his hair was standing up (it made him look more handsome than ever, but John would not admit that to himself at this point), John failed to see the expression of utter dumbfounded bafflement on Sherlock's face.
*fistpump*.John-1 .Sherlock-0.
Victor was, as ever, a mute spectator. He could have been smirking; John's hand itched to throttle the pair of them, but John had better things to do than spend his life in prison for a double murder.
Ginger regarded John with an open interest, looking him up and down, as if saying, not too bad yourself.
Bingo.
Since all sanity and caution was gone with the wind, John walked up to the other side of the table were Ginger was seated and made himself comfy.
In a manner that was not at all "sexually suggestive".
(Which is the very thing it was.)
"I have been looking at you for a while. I am John. Can I buy you a drink?" John spoke in his most fruity, flirtatious tones, as if making up for the bad pick up line.
"Hi John. I am James"
John-2. Sherlock-0
To be fair to both parties, Sherlock was staring agape at John who had by now climbed into James's lap and was mouthing James's earlobe.
James seemed appreciative. Sherlock seemed thunderous. Victor seemed amused.
Someone cleared their throat loudly,
"James, do you want to", John jerked his head," go someplace else?"
"Wouldn't mind at all."
Since anyone is not clear at this point of the events, James had taken an active interest in John, looking positively feral at the idea of ravishing him.
Sherlock decided to intervene.
"John, can I talk to you for a minute?"
Bastard.
"Do you know this man?" James asked John, looking irritated at the interruption.
"I used to." John turned to Sherlock and said "Not now, I am busy."
"Please John, it is important."
John was loudly smacking James's lips by now, which was answer enough.
John-3. Sherlock-0
It is a testimony to the amount of affection Sherlock had for John that he did not walk up to the bar and stick the martini glass up James's,well,never mind. His mind started running through his index of gruesome murders and ancient torture methods that were designed for maximum longed to inflict them on James before turning him over to the police for committing the horrible crime of kissing John Watson. And touching him inappropriately. And flirting with him. And making him laugh. And breaking and entering into the cozy cocoon Sherlock had built with care.
The whole bloody while, Victor just sat there. He tried getting his hair back into place and crossed his legs and warmed the sofa.
Insufferable git of unfathomable magnitudes.
Sherlock surreptitiously stole James's whisky and drank the whole thing in one go. He just had to get rid of the taste of Victor in his mouth. Victor tasted of breath mints and coffee and stale eggs. It had taken a lot of effort on Sherlock's part to keep from throwing up into the other man's throat.
Plus, nothing about him tasted like John.
"I hope that gave you a taster of what it will be like if you and I were together."
Oh, a very good introduction indeed. Very, very accurate taster.
Sherlock bit down on his tongue and gave Victor a non committal grunt in answer.
"Sherlock, you have just seen John carelessly throw away your relationship, however farcical it was, after seeing you kiss me. He didn't even bother finding out the facts before he was all up in James's pants."
Sherlock shot Victor a smoldering look. Designed to kill.
I am not getting keyed up by this bastard and letting go of John. John has just been rendered irrational and completely senseless by envy. He just needs to get it out of his system.
"Stop being such a child Sherlock. You can't fancy yourself to be in love with a man you barely know."
Grunt.
He began playing I am not getting keyed up by this bastard and letting go of John in a loop in his head.
"I just want you to know that if it doesn't work out, I will always be there for you.'", Victor punctuated his cheesy promise with a smug smile. The kind of smile that translated what he had just said into "I hope this doesn't work out for you and you come crawling back to me with a broken heart and I inflict you with my false concern and neediness for the rest of your life."
Sherlock rarely indulged in profanity but the situation seemed to warrant let lose some of his frustration by means of some very inventive swearing which sounded a bit like this:-
Rabid cur. Brainless oaf. Fucking maggot ridden corpse that can walk about. Fucking cadaverous parasite. Arsehole!
He didn't let Victor hear his string of invectives lest he swoon. Thankfully for him, Victor excused himself to get another drink.
Sherlock could now pay his full and undivided attention to John who, by the looks of it, was now actively participating in some very, very imaginative propositioning.
Two vodka shots and a lot of flirting later, Sherlock saw James and John leave the place; undoubtedly to go to James's flat.
Now one must know that Sherlock Holmes is not good at many things. Like doing his own laundry, like knowing the planets in the solar system, like knowing the resident of 10 Downing Street and like knowing who Madonna was sleeping with. But the one thing he was really, appallingly, atrociously bad at was impulse control.
So he could completely be forgiven for grabbing John's elbow and placing a well deserved right hook on James's cheek.
Needless to say, he got a shiner for his pains and John remained without a date for the rest of the evening.
Which was not to John's liking at all. (John-3. Sherlock-1)
(And is there a stage of anger beyond apoplexy? If anyone ever finds out about one, please let John Watson know. He will find it vastly helpful in describing his mental condition at this point when narrating the episode to his grandkids a few decades later.)
So when Sherlock found himself being dragged by his collar scruff to the gents', he knew he was in deep, deep shit.
John calmly shut the door behind him, checked all the stalls and turned to face Sherlock.
Being on the receiving end of John's murderous stare can result in one of two things- you may end up vaporized or vandalized.
Sherlock picked option two.
"John, what were you doing out there?" ever the one to plant his foot firmly in his mouth.
John punched Sherlock on his cheek, then grabbed his neck and rammed him against the nearest wall. Mind you, dear reader, he did all this to a man who is self-proclaimed bare-knuckle boxing champion. If that is not the ultimate evidence to a certain ex-army doctor's badasstitude, we don't know what is.
"ME? YOU HAVE THE GALL TO ASK WHAT I WAS DOING? YOU WERE THE ONE WHO STARTED IT!"
"John...Joh...uhhn", Sherlock was struggling to get words out
My windpipe is being constricted by the very man I love.
Desperate times breed desperate men.
So, Sherlock, in a maneuver worthy of his hubris as a boxing champion, tried to put John on backfoot.
By kissing John.
This should blow his brains out, the clever, clever detective thought.
And the six foot tall, heartbreakingly gorgeous detective we had been talking about? The one who never ever is wrong?
Well, he was wrong. Like you-didn't-miss-the-mark-by-an-inch-but-by-a-yard wrong.
Because, it was he who ended up with blown out brains. Figuratively, of course.
All due to the fact that John Watson outdid his kissing technique that day.
Anyone who has ever kissed John, even his ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends who regret ever having let such a fine thing get away, will tell you that John is damned good kisser. They'll tell you that his kisses are like the man himself-careful, considerate and loving; sometimes passionate and a bit handsy. He'll never try to eat your face and invade your tonsils; he'll never, ever make it about himself. He believes that kissing is a two-person activity so the emotions it entails must take the parties involved into consideration.
This time John broke all the rules.
Because, goddamnit, John Watson was angry and vengeful. He was demanding, possessive and invasive; he kissed Sherlock's mouth in places the man never knew he had. He yanked a handful of Sherlock's hair up and bit his lower lip, kneaded with his mouth and grabbed Sherlock's arse. As Sherlock moaned into John's mouth and began letting his hands wander south, John pulled away abruptly. Keeping his face two inches from Sherlock, he asked," What the fuck were you doing, Sherlock sodding Holmes?"
Sherlock whimpered at the rough, gravelly voice John had employed (he got that voice every time he was aroused beyond imagination) and made a desperate ploy to have at John's mouth.
John pulled just out of reach and held Sherlock at arm's length; he suddenly went eerily quite in spite of the very obvious fact that one consulting detective was thoroughly cataloguing the territories of his tush. With his large hands.
Tilting his head and looking at Sherlock as if he were something found in the sewage, he said,
"Go on."
Sherlock set about gathering his wits about him. Took his hand off John's arse (Bad Sherlock! Now is not the time for inventive groping), huffed a deep breath, jumped onboard his train of thought and explained,
"That man, James, is a serial killer. Lestrade found a rash of killings were two young men or a young man and woman were found dead right after copulation. My deductions told me there was a third person in the room, right before they were killed who would watch them and sometimes participate. After a week of hunting him, I found the man. Since there was absolutely now way to pin it on him unless we caught him in the act…we had to bait him. Hence I acted like I wanted a threesome with him and Victor and he could watch and participate as he liked. I really wanted you to be my pretend-partner, since you are my partner otherwise, but you refused me your cooperation and I had to work with the best I got."
"Wait, did I just snog a serial killer?"
"Yes. I didn't intervene till later because he wouldn't have harmed you- he only ever kills people in pairs. However, I deemed it necessary to intercede when you were leaving because, well, I love you and unless you have fallen out of love with me, which is clearly not the case here, I don't want to see you have sex with anyone but me."
Sherlock's Caribbean blue eyes came to rest on John's as if trying to divine John's thought processes.
John's declaration of his forgiveness and undying love was punctuated by the sound of the loo door being opened and Victor's irritating tenor speaking.
"Sherlock, are you alright?"
Since his livid rage had not abated properly yet, he just looked over his shoulder at Victor and said,
"Hi, Victor. Good to see you. Now if you don't mind, my boyfriend and I have a few things to sort out and would like some privacy. Feel to free to leave anytime soon."
Wow, Johnny boy, didn't know you had it.
Fine. Fine. FINE. I have been rehearsing that one for ages.
"I don't care about whatever lover's tiffs you two are having! Sherlock just got punched in the eye and he needs some medical attention."
"And who better to give it than a doctor? Shut the door behind you when you leave. Cheers."
"But, bu…"Victor lost his voice.
So Victor tucked his tail firmly between his legs and mercifully left them alone.
Sherlock had been shut all this time, his hands on John's waist, pressed against the wall with both of John's hands on his arms.
The minute Victor was out of earshot; Sherlock turned his glazed eyes to John and said "Oh God John. That was so bloody hot!"
John cocked an eyebrow, "It was?"
"Stop doing it, will you?"
"Doing what?"
"THAT VOICE! Your Mr. Army Captain I-am-in-command voice."
"My what?"
'Never mind. Get over here."
Peace was restored in paradise the only way John and Sherlock knew how.
Snogging. Of a very thorough kind.
I love you and you love me and that is all that matters.
So when they emerged fifteen minutes later looking so obviously debauched(quick impromptu shag in the loo)that it could spotted from a mile afar, they both had huge, self-satisfied grins and mussed up hair.
Their faces fell in comically identical fashion when they saw Victor waiting outside.
"Sherlock. What took you so long?"
"Were you born without a brain or did it fall out when you shampooed your hair this morning?"
"Excuse me?"
"I was in the gents' for fifteen minutes with another man. We were obviously shagging. See, even the bartender can tell." Sherlock pointed to the bartender who stopped all his drink-mixing activities to stare at John and Sherlock, looking properly scandalized.
Victor blinked, turned red and turned on his heel. In that order.
"Don't wait up for me Victor. Am spending the night, possibly the weekend, at John's", Sherlock called out.
"What about the killer, Sherlock? James or whoever he was?" John asked.
"Lestrade is waiting for him at his hideout. I texted Lestrade the address as soon as James got interested and blurted it out."
"So, no case for now?"
"Nope,"
"Good. I finally get to shag you on a proper bed without having your text alert punctuating your moans. What is the disgusting noise your phone makes anyway?"
"A man sighing erotically."
"Huh." But wait. "Man? Which man?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his sub textual duh drowning out all noise.
"You, John."
"Me? I do NOT make such noises in the bedroom."
"Of course you do."
"I do NOT."
"Well, it's your word against my recording of the Legendary Noises Made by John Watson When Otherwise Occupied."
"You have a recording?"
"It was for science, John."
So, here endeth the episode of How John Found Out About Sherlock's Favorite Text Alert Noise. Albeit, told in a roundabout, old-fashioned way.
Thanks for reading. All your reviews are thoroughly appreciated. I'll also utilize this opportunity to ask for some help-Firstly, someone needs to teach me to play strip poker because, well, the boys might or might not play it in the next one. Secondly, if there is a certain scenario you want written about, let me know and I'll try my best to write it well. Thirdly, I couldn't think of a suitable song for this chapter and I find that irritating because I neurotically associate every story/chapter with a song. Any suggestions?
Also, James looks like Benedict Cumberbatch(in case that isn't obvious)
And more chapters will appearing with the aid of my unicorn army(which is you guys)
Please review and let me know what you think! You can also find me on tumblr at incurableidealist dot tumblr dot com.