i.

It takes some arguing (John keeps repeating the word "hypothetical", as though I ever deal in hypotheticals that don't relate back to something real and important) and some hurried groping (it's amazing what I can convince John to do so long as I request it while making use of a well-placed hand or mouth) but I finally convince the man to follow me upstairs to wait for Lestrade. John keeps muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this," in honest disbelief, but that's all the better because his shock will keep him from over-thinking things and changing his mind. I settle him on the bed, not suggestively but just lightly perched with his hands in his lap, and then quickly dash over to the small board in the corner that lets into the storage area and ply it away. With a wink towards John, I slip into the storage section and pull the board back into place behind me, quickly padding over to my waiting chair and sinking down, my heart beating a quick rhythm in my chest. Quieting my breath, I press my eye to the disguised opening and wait.

I don't have to wait long; John's theatrics take up enough time that I'm barely settled before I hear Lestrade's heavy footfalls downstairs. The steps creak as he climbs them quickly and John throws me one quick look (his eyes dark and his mouth small, his shoulders straight, his eyebrows pulled together) before turning back to the door just as it bursts open.

An odd thing happens, then. Lestrade stands in the open doorway, his mouth agape and his silver hair mussed, and he rakes over John with the most troubled gaze I've ever seen him wear. John's hands leave his lap slowly and settle on either side of him, clutching (unconsciously, I suspect) at the bedsheets, but aside from that neither of them move or speak for several long moments. I examine John's face in one of the mirrors and feel mostly unsurprised by its contents (discomfort; anxiety; overwhelming resignation; a touch of self-loathing) but the undisguised and authentic want I see takes me aback. It's mirrored in Lestrade's face, in the long look they share that stretches until the air is taut with it. Finally, after what could have been hours or only seconds, Lestrade says: "John." I've never heard so many inflections in one word. It's a question and it's praise and it's a warning and it's a plea; it's just one small syllable but every emotion Lestrade has ever felt is hanging in it and I realize all at once that John was right, that doing this to Lestrade was incalculably cruel (after all, I have no intentions of letting him this close to John again).

I expect John to glance at the mirrors quite frequently in an attempt to meet my eyes- I've even warned him against exactly that, before Lestrade arrived- but I can plainly see the impulse never takes hold of him. To my intense irritation, he only has eyes for Lestrade. Without breaking eye contact, John licks his lips (that nervous motion, nothing calculated about it) and whispers, "Please."

After all the hesitation and build-up I assume Lestrade will take things slowly, but again this encounter surprises me. At John's whispered plea he crosses the room in only a few strides and presses John to the bed, pulling him into his arms and kissing him so thoroughly that even I'm breathless with it. John groans, low and deep, and drags his legs up, wrapping them around Lestrade immediately. Amazingly, they're already bucking against each other like desperate teenagers, Lestrade working his mouth down John's neck as John tips his head back and arches his back, his hands tightening and tugging at Lestrade's shirt.

Unbelievable.

John's eyes are closed and he's gasping; Lestrade is unbuttoning his own shirt with an expert's ease. Tugging it down his shoulders, he tosses it to the floor and helps John out of his jumper with only minor fumbling. They kiss again, greedily, but when John's hands fall to Lestrade's belt he pulls his mouth away and sets his forehead against John's, panting, "God, I wanted this," and John whispers, "Me too, me too."

My eyes widen. This isn't news, this revelation, but it still bothers me immensely. When it's framed that way, as a heated confession in a moment of lust, it sounds much more…intense. My observations haven't prepared me for this.

Lestrade makes a hungry noise that draws my attention back to the bed. Stupid, stupid! I made sure to angle each mirror just so, but I never considered that their actual bodies might get in the way; I can't see what John's doing with his hands, not with Lestrade pressed against him so closely- but I can guess. Lestrade is making small, choked-off noises against John's mouth and thrusting weakly, his hands searching John's body impatiently as though he can't feel enough at once to satisfy him. Then John pushes him away (why?) and commands, "Take those off," (oh) and Lestrade obeys at once, shimmying out of his trousers so quickly I don't even get to see his prick before he's pressed against John again.

I don't huff out a breath, but I'd like to. I put so much work into seeing this moment and Lestrade won't even let me see anything. It's not really his fault, I suppose, since he doesn't know I'm watching, but still. I wish he'd stop covering John so completely and put a little bit of space between them, but it seems like Lestrade can't bear to not touch him with as much of his own skin as possible. How frustrating.

Some frantic movements; John is struggling with his jeans, yanking at them even as Lestrade is pressing him down into the mattress. A gasp as he finally gets his jeans down from his hips and around his knees; a groan as they slide together, one of John's hands between them (and Lestrade so infuriatingly close to him that I can't see anything worthwhile) and the other digging sharply into Lestrade's back.

"I don't have any condoms," John rasps, his mouth on Lestrade's neck, and Lestrade growls, "Shit. Shit- no, I do, hang on." And finally (finally!) he pulls away from John (revealing a penis that's got a bit more girth than mine, but isn't as long) and stoops to dig around in his trouser pockets. John kicks his jeans off the rest of the way and quickly tugs off his socks, and when he lays back down I can see the deep flush that's spread all the way down his chest and to his belly. He's still propped up on his elbows, though, watching Lestrade, and it's only in the mirror that I can see how dark his eyes are and the way he's biting at his bottom lip.

Lestrade stands and there's a half-beat of awkwardness when he's not sure who should be wearing the condom, but then John takes it from him (a touch of anxiousness peppers Lestrade's features) and opens it before sliding it on Lestrade's prick (and now the anxiousness has been replaced with relief and a touch of awe) and saying, shakily, "There's lube in the drawer." He points at his bedside table, his finger trembling in the air for a second, and Lestrade plucks his hand out of the air and trails kisses down it to his wrist, his voice thick as he sighs, "God, John…"

I shift a little impatiently in my chair as Lestrade fetches the lube and applies it a touch too liberally to both himself and John. They're kissing again, deep open-mouthed kisses that seem to merge into each other one after the other, and I fidget again as Lestrade makes to finger John open-

But then John grabs his hand and pushes it away, giving a small and sloppy shake of the head, and growls, "I don't need it; just fuck me," and my eyes jump wide again.

"Christ, yes," Lestrade breathes, nodding as he presses their bodies together again. "God help me."

John laughs a little at that, a deep throaty laugh that takes me by surprise, and runs his hands along the length of Lestrade's chest as Lestrade lines up their hips and adjusts the angles. For a moment they're just breathing together, their eyes locked, and then John arches up all at once with a loud, low cry, his hands scratching their way to Lestrade's shoulders as Lestrade dips his head and settles his face into the crook of John's neck.

I've never heard John moan like this, ever. It sounds more like he's sobbing, and the look on his face says pain. I'm halfway on my feet, ready to stop Lestrade hurting him any further, when John gasps, "Yes, yes, God, yes," and I sink back down with my brow furrowed and my stomach clenched.

Fact: John has only ever been fucked by me (and I've never fucked anyone but John).

Fact: John has never had any basis for comparison (unless he had a particularly adventurous girlfriend he's never mentioned).

Fact: It might have been mediocre, our sex life, and neither of us would have ever known.

I feel a bit sick as I continue to watch them move against each other, Lestrade thrusting deeply and John sobbing out those deep, awful moans. The bed is creaking and their skin is slapping and Lestrade is panting and I don't want to hear any of this anymore. John makes a particularly heartfelt sound and Lestrade chuckles (chuckles!) before sighing breathlessly, "God, that's beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Fuck, I wanted this."

John doesn't answer and I can see why, from the way he's tossing and turning. They've barely been at it and Lestrade's yet to touch his cock once from what I've seen, but John (my John, my slutty little soldier) is already so close it doesn't matter. Lestrade's kissing his neck, his jaw, and then John bursts out: "God! God!" and shudders all over, his eyes screwed up tight.

"Christ!" Lestrade cries, gasping now. I can't believe it. Lestrade's hands haven't left the bed since they started, and John's have been too busy scratching at Lestrade for him to touch himself. Amazing. I don't know whether to be furious or astonished. John lets out a trembling "Fuu-uuuu-uuck" and then quickly, roughly pushes Lestrade away, his breath ragged and broken as he mutters, "I can't, I can't…"

Lestrade, the idiot, actually laughs and leans back over John, tugging off the condom and pulling at his own prick as he pants, "Too much for you, sweetheart?"

I fully expect John to hit him again, but instead John just drapes an arm over his eyes, still shaking all over, and hisses, "Fuck." He doesn't resist as Lestrade pushes his arm gently away and kisses him, nor does he tug his hand back when Lestrade circles it around his cock and slides it up, down, up, down. Instead John picks up the motion almost lazily, his breath still harsh and his eyes still closed, and when Lestrades comes (with a little groan and a huffed laugh) he idly brings his hand up to his mouth and licks the mess away, as though he doesn't realize what he's doing.

"Jesus," Lestrade says softly, slumping down beside him. "We should have done that ages ago." John says nothing, doesn't open his eyes, just breathes and trembles, and Lestrade turns over on his side and trails his hand over John's belly. "All right, sunshine?"

"Mmmf," John manages, and Lestrade laughs again, putting his head down on John's shoulder. When they start kissing again, slower this time, I decide it's time to send Lestrade home. I pull out my mobile and silently tap out a text. Three seconds later, John's own phone buzzes on the nightstand.

"That's you, dove," Lestrade says with a sigh. John acknowledges him with a half-nod and Lestrade, still chuckling, asks, "Want me to get it?"

"Please," John croaks. Lestrade slides off the bed (kissing John's stomach once on the way) and scoops up the mobile. He tries to hand it to John, but it slips right out of John's hand and so, with another gravelly laugh, Lestrade suggests in a teasing tone, "Shall I read it for you, sweetheart?"

John nods, and Lestrade opens the text. His eyes widen. "Oh, shit."

I know what he's just read, because I sent it: Escaped Mycroft's clutches. Be home in five. SH

"Hell," Lestrade mutters darkly. "Sherlock's on his way."

"Fuck," John mumbles half-heartedly, and Lestrade gives him a strange look before setting the phone down and hurriedly tugging on his clothes.

As he's doing up his buttons, he says, "John, I mean this in the nicest possible way, right? But you look like you've just been shagged into the ground, darlin'. You might want to pop into the loo and get yourself together."

It seems like a struggle for John to sit up, and when he does he only yawns mightily from the edge of the bed. Lestrade gives him a look so full of endearment that I make a face as he scoops John into his arms, saying, "All right, then. Come on." He kisses John's forehead and helps him to his feet and John gratefully slips his arm around his waist, sighing, "I'm starting to come to, I think," which sets Lestrade off laughing again. I've never seen the man so damn happy in all the time I've known him. They leave the bedroom and I listen to their stifled chatter as they move through the hall and down the stairs. The shower kicks on; the front door opens and closes. Footsteps on the lower stairs. Straining, I can just barely hear the outside door close with a small, muffled bang.

I realize I'm a bit shaken when I make my way out into John's bedroom and catch sight of my face, pale and peaky, in one of the mirrors. I will my features into a mask of total impassivity before I go downstairs, my feet heavy. The shower is still running, but there none of the usual noises to accompany it and it's with equal parts curiosity and dread that I open the loo door and peek inside. John is lying in the bottom of the bathtub, the water beating down on him, apparently asleep.

"How was it?" I ask, amazed at the evenness of my voice.

John cracks his eyes open just enough to glare at me, then yawns, "Shoo." He rubs his hands over his face, wiping the dampness from his eyes, and sighs, "Click the water off first, actually. Then: shoo."

I lift an eyebrow and leave the lav, water still running.

ii.

John spends the next week and a half in a daze. I spend it in a black mood. John gets two texts that make him blush, and he deletes them immediately.

What have I done?

iii.

I read one of John's hastily deleted texts over his shoulder in a cab one day, the words clear- if backwards- in the mobile's reflection in the window. Still have a bed. Still think it's pretty cozy, it says, and my hands feel suddenly restless. John deletes the text without responding, but I don't miss the little smile that plays on his lips.

"Have you spoken to Lestrade since…?" I let my question trail off naturally, nothing on my face but casual inquisitiveness.

Guiltily, John looks up from his phone and clears his throat. "Have I- uh, no. Well, he's texted me. A few times. But I've not responded."

Lie.

Is it?

I can't tell.

That doesn't make sense; I can always tell. But right now my brain is muddied with a horrifying bundle of emotion and I can't tell. I want to believe John implicitly; I want to snatch John up and shake him until he tells me the truth.

Why are all these stupid wants keeping me from getting at the facts?

I make some sort of pleasant and unremembered response in return before switching my gaze back to the window. It would be absolutely impossible for the likes of John Watson to cheat on me.

Right?

iv.

"Good heavens," Mycroft says mildly, picking his way through the mess in my sitting room. I've been agonizingly bored for the last three weeks and entirely unwilling to text Lestrade for a case, so I'm engaging myself somewhat heavily in research and reorganization. Hence the mess of cardboard boxes, each of them spilling an array of papers and artifacts (small fragments of rock and bone; weapons still rusty with old blood; plants, dried and pressed on wax paper; diaries and planners filled with the handwritten notes of strangers) on to every available surface in the room, floor included.

I roll my eyes and ignore him, continuing my hunt through the nearest box. (I think I can safely bin this foxtail, but taxidermy is such a fascinating trade and it might well come in handy at some point. I'm torn.)

Leaning obnoxiously on his umbrella, Mycroft sighs. "When you were a boy," he begins, and my back goes instantly rigid, "I was so often forced to chide you for the careless way you treated your belongings." I think he's still talking about the mess in the room until he adds, "I used to say 'be gentle with your playthings, Sherlock, or you'll break them'. I didn't expect I'd have need of repeating myself this far into adulthood."

My eyes meet his and we have one of the silent conversations that drives John mad. It's faster than words, and easier, this exchange we carry on with our eyes and the corners of our mouths. My narrowed eyes and tense jaw say mind your own business, and Mycroft's raised eyebrow and the quirk at one corner of his mouth say your business is my business, brother mine. Already annoyed by his presence, I concede, "I didn't realize you were so concerned with John's well-being." I've forfeited a point, both by breaking the silence and acknowledging the actual reason behind his comment, but it's a concession I'm willing to make if it means he will leave, and soon.

"Ever since Dr. Watson's well-being became so intrinsically involved in your own, Sherlock, it has been one of my greatest concerns." Smug. Irritating.

"Perhaps you should get a hobby," I yawn.

Mycroft's smirk and near-imperceptible increase in eyebrow height tells me I won't like his return volley. "A hobby? What do you suggest?" He shifts his weight, crosses his leg over the other. "Match-making, possibly? You seem quite good at it; maybe you could teach me."

Two-love. My hands are clutching the foxtail so tightly I might tear it. "What do you know?"

I hate Mycroft's laugh. It's a tinkling, dancing sort of thing, far too enunciated. You can hear every syllable of it. "Ha-ha-ha ha-ha," he laughs, before pursing his lips haughtily together. "I know that men like us, my dear brother, are far better suited towards the cold realities of politics and crime scene investigations than the frankly messy and unbecoming affairs of the heart. I also know," here Mycroft smiles, small and secret, "where your Dr. Watson is right now."

I'm on my feet before I even recognize the urge to stand. The space between Mycroft and myself is too small, much too small, and I take a step back, uncomfortably aware that I am losing this round pitifully. "Mycroft," I warn, my voice edged.

"As you know," Mycroft says as though I haven't just invaded his personal space and threatened him, "I keep a carefully vigilant eye on this little household." Euphemism; my brother is so fond of euphemisms. I know what he really means: he has us- me, John, and Mrs. Hudson- under near-constant surveillance. Mycroft inspects the tip of his umbrella with a thoughtful frown. "I noticed Dr. Watson behaving…strangely." He smiles, dark eyes catching mine meaningfully. "And you know how I worry. So I sent a…friend…to keep an eye on him. Said friend phoned me a half-hour ago, worried about some odd noises he was hearing. You see, mon frère, he initially believed Detective Inspector Lestrade was killing the poor doctor."

"Stop," I pant. I can't hear any more of this, I can't. Of course I know. I've known since the first time it happened, when John came home from doing the shopping with hardly enough groceries to last us the week and a carefully unruffled look about him. I know. But that Mycroft knows!

"Oh, so you know the noises to which I'm referring, then?" Mycroft says, feigned surprise lining his face. "Yes, it would seem so." I've been so thoroughly defeated at this point that I can't do anything but quietly resent the look of pity Mycroft gives me then, made all the worse in its authenticity. "I cannot fix this for you, Sherlock, no matter how much I may wish it were so. I have spent your entire life happily cleaning up your messes, and so long as I live I will continue to do so. But this particular mess, I fear, is yours alone."

"Get out," I spit, because as unbearable as I find the thought of John being with Lestrade, Mycroft's demonstrations of brotherly love are infinitely worse.

Mycroft looks at me for a long moment, his eyes lacking their usual gloating shine, and then he sighs, "Very well. Be gentle with your playthings, Sherlock, lest they break." He taps his umbrella once before picking his way out of the room and clipping down the stairs at a steady, leisurely pace.