Chapter Three
"John?" John opened his eyes.
"Hmm?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"Lestrade."
"Oh." Sheer disappointment.
John laughed and pushed himself up on his arms to press a small kiss on Sherlock's lips. "You're very funny."
Sherlock grinned and pulled him closer, kissing him again. John loved that instead of only having the last word, Sherlock had now developed the need to have the last kiss as well.
"So tell me, what is so important that it will take a whole week of your time."
"Lestrade reopened a case that has troubled him for three years now. A couple of college students robbed a bank and got away with every last pound. The banknotes were all numbered and should have been reported as soon as they would have appeared anywhere, but since then not a single note has been spent or put into another account. Nobody knows where the money is, but Lestrade has received a hint that a man might have information to clear things up. That man is in Canada, somewhere in a village by Azouzetta Lake and Lestrade can't act there and he doesn't trust his colleagues there to actually get the job done either, so he's sending me on a holiday."
John decided against asking where exactly that lake was supposed to be. "How much money was stolen?"
"Thirty million pound sterling."
That earned Sherlock a wide eyed stare. "But of course you do not belong to the collective term of nobody. You have a theory?"
Sherlock smirked, and John wasn't sure whether it was because Sherlock was flattered by his comment, or by the fact that John had remembered what he had said a few sentences ago without getting sidetracked by the amount of money that he had mentioned; probably both.
"Of course I do, but apparently they need solid proof, so tedious."
"Tell me."
"They burned it."
"Bloody hell, why?"
"They knew that after stealing the money they would not be able to spend it without being caught eventually. It was a lost bet in the first place, so the money wasn't really the motif for the robbery. All parties involved were set up well enough to live off what they already owned. After the bet was lost the robbery was committed and the money was stored on a farm outside of Canterbury and then they burned it on Guy Fawkes Day three years ago in a nice little fire."
"And you obviously knew about it then and you could have just sent Lestrade to check out the ashes to see that you were right?"
"I could have. I wasn't in the mood to help him. He was being particularly annoying. Had I known that I would have to go to Canada to actually get a confession out of the person who lost that bet, I wouldn't have been so stubborn."
"So you admit it."
"Admit what?"
"That you are stubborn."
"Well, obviously. It's one of the few pleasures I allow myself."
John giggled. "You're impossible."
"But you see, there is nothing dangerous about it. I'm fairly sure of the whereabouts of the man and I won't really have to say a lot to get him to talk. I will have to fly to Vancouver and then on to Prince George and then find a ride to the middle of nowhere."
"Wait, you are going to ride on a bus or something?" The image seemed disturbingly funny to John.
"I might ask Mycroft for a helicopter, but I'd rather not."
John shook his head. "I can't believe that you would rather ride a bus than ask your brother for another favour."
"I think I've already used up all his goodwill in the cover up of my blood tests and I don't want to owe him anything."
"And I can't come along why?"
Sherlock's features softened. "Lestrade insisted. He said he would like to know that one of us is still in town just in case."
"What does he think will happen?"
"Well, it doesn't really matter. I think he's just appalled by the thought of you and me in the middle of nowhere in a log cabin…" he didn't finish that sentence and John wondered how much time Sherlock had actually spent imagining that turn of events instead of working on the case.
He pushed himself up on his arms and awkwardly climbed off the couch. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes and John wondered whether he might interpret this as a deprecatory reaction to his implication of them spending time alone in a log cabin in the endless wilderness of Canada.
"You'll take care of yourself." It was neither a question nor an order; it was a statement, and he could almost hear Sherlock's answer; you know me. John leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips.
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That night Sherlock had carefully packed a suitcase, avoiding John's eyes and the older man had wondered whether Sherlock really was so inexperienced with feelings for another person that he did not know how to behave around him as soon as it seemed appropriate to voice those feelings.
After he had finally finished packing and double checked that he had the tickets while John had patiently waited in the door all the while, yawning repeatedly, he finally looked up at him.
"Will you…sleep here?" He sounded unsure, but decidedly hopeful. John smiled at the shyness, aware that he was most likely the only person who had ever seen Sherlock in that state. "I thought you'd never ask."
Sherlock smiled and sat down on the bed. He was clearly nervous now and John wondered whether he expected to take things further. John knew that it had probably been years since Sherlock had been touched and he would not rush things. And he himself needed time to get used to feeling the way he did, and he would just wait and see where things would take them as long as they were both comfortable with it.
John still stood in the door, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Somehow the possibility of undressing in front of Sherlock seemed a lot more intimidating than it had at the hospital. Now it was just the two of them, no distractions, no excuses, pure vulnerability. "I'll leave you to change."
He turned and went to the bathroom. While he was brushing his teeth, Sherlock appeared. Again, he was only wearing the pyjama bottoms but no shirt. His skin seemed to glow in the cold bathroom light. Sherlock wordlessly took his toothbrush and the toothpaste and sat down on the rim of the bathtub, apparently lost in thought. He eventually started brushing his teeth and John had to smile at the way he stopped now and then, clearly thinking of other things that dental hygiene. He would never cease to be fascinated by the way Sherlock just disappeared in his own mind.
John rinsed his mouth and turned back to Sherlock. "Care to share your thoughts?"
Sherlock looked up at him, almost surprised to find him there. He stood up and moved to the sink, gently pressing himself against John, who still stood there. Sherlock gathered water in his hands and splashed his face, spitting out the remaining toothpaste and then splashed his face again, drawing his wet fingers through his hair.
"It's not important."
John fought against the frustration that followed Sherlock's words.
"Well, maybe you don't think it important, but I might?"
Again, a surprised look.
"I'm sorry, John. I was just thinking of another case that Lestrade won't let me work on."
"Well, maybe I could talk to him and see if my power of persuasion is any good with him?"
Sherlock smiled at him through the mirror. "I shouldn't be doing the thinking with you right here. I will have enough time to do that on the flight over the Atlantic. God, it will be so incredibly boring."
John smiled and ran a hand over Sherlock's back, nodding towards the door. "I'll get changed and then I'll join you."
Sherlock was very quick to go back to his room, and just as promised, John appeared only moments later, wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. "Have you set the alarm?"
"I have." John couldn't tell if Sherlock was still nervous; he was, in any case, anxious for John to finally come to bed.
John switched off the light and made his way over to the bed, not without upsetting a pile of files and hitting his toe on something hard that he couldn't define. With a grunt he let himself fall down on the bed. "I might just spend the week tidying up your chaos," he said, rubbing his foot.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and a second later he could feel hot breath against his neck. "Don't worry about it."
Sherlock pulled him towards him gently, but decidedly. John noted as he lay down that Sherlock would have to move to the other side again if he wanted to avoid lying on his injured side, but when Sherlock kept pulling him towards him, moving so his back was facing John, he understood that he wanted John to hold him. He felt strangely moved by that. John found it very curios to think of Sherlock as adorable, but in this moment it was the only description he could think of. He snuggled closer, wrapping his left arm around him to hold him like Sherlock did when he held onto him. He could feel Sherlock move back, trying to attach as much of his body as he could to him and John noted that his own body was reacting rather strongly to that. Sherlock did not seem to mind, he just tucked one arm under his head and moved the other to hold onto John's wrist.
Sherlock's skin was warm and John's hand was splayed across his chest, feeling his heart beat. Again, he regretted wearing a t-shirt, and again he felt too comfortable now to move to take it off. He had only spent a second considering going topless when he had changed, but it just had seemed like a good idea to have at least one layer of clothing between himself and Sherlock.
"Take it off?" Sherlock sounded very calm, slightly amused and definitely hopeful.
"Do you want me to?" John could hear his breath hitch as he said it and he could feel Sherlock shudder very lightly.
"Yes." Only a breath. He let go of John's arm to strengthen his point. With a sigh that feigned annoyance in order not to give away his arousal – which was really quite ridiculous, considering how hard he was – John moved back and immediately felt cold again. Sherlock had become his personal hot water bottle and a very cold week lay ahead of him. The thought that he might suffer from a relapse of his flu because he was missing the heat of Sherlock's body made him giggle.
Sherlock's head moved around. John was almost sure that it was anatomically impossible to lie on one side and turn your head almost one hundred and eighty degrees, but Sherlock did it, only moving his shoulders slightly, and watched wide eyed as John sat up and pulled off his t-shirt. He felt completely naked and vulnerable under Sherlock's eyes, but he told himself that there was no reason to be uncomfortable. He had been naked around other men more often than he cared to remember, and in the army they always had showered in groups, so it shouldn't make him so self conscious. And yet, he had not fancied the men he had showered with; he simply had not cared. He did care now.
And Sherlock did not only look. John even had a hard time defining it as observation. No, to be quite frank, Sherlock was staring at him, wide eyed, his lips slightly parted. John could hear him swallow.
He threw his t-shirt off the bed and then leaned forward, gently kissing Sherlock, who still looked incredibly interested in the view that was presented to him. A small moan sent a jolt of white heat through John. Never in his life had he expected Sherlock to be so sexual. It just didn't go together; but now it seemed as if it had never been different.
But John knew that he was not ready to take the next step. Cuddling with Sherlock, both of them obviously aroused, was not exactly innocent; but whatever was to come of it would have to wait. John knew that rushing into things was never a good idea when he wanted something to last. He had waited months until he had taken the next step with Sarah.
"John?" Sherlock sounded strangely out of breath. "Stop thinking, please."
John smiled and moved closer, returning to his previous position but trying not to let Sherlock feel his arousal, which had him lying at a very strange angle to Sherlock's body and the younger man obviously did not approve of the compromise. Sherlock held onto John's hip as he moved back, only stopping when John, including his erection, was pressed against him completely. Jesus Christ! John tried to think of something that might distract him, anything, really.
Nothing worked.
"Good night, John."
"Good night."
