John sat in his room with his portable writing desk in his lap, answering correspondence and organizing case notes from the week before. The mahogany desk had been his father's and had served them both long and well. It bore its scratches and scuffs with dignity. The steady rain had turned the sky dark which made it seem later than it was.
He glanced up as the door opened and smiled when Sherlock slipped in, but he was startled by Sherlock's reaction.
"Oh, Doctor…John," Sherlock exclaimed. "I didn't expect to find you here."
Setting the desk aside, John rose and crossed the room. "Where should I be?"
Sherlock smiled, surprised again at John's ignorance of what was expected in the great houses. "I just thought you were still downstairs in the drawing room with the other guests."
"Oh," John looked worried. "Will I be missed? Have I committed some terrible faux pas? Dame Agatha went to rest in her room and Lady Caroline was conscripted to make up the foursome. I don't play."
Sherlock moved to meet John in the middle of the room. "Not missed per se, but the men usually don't return to their rooms. I'm sure you will be forgiven." He reached out to stroke John's cheek tenderly.
John returned the favor, running his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbones and slipping his fingers into Sherlock's curls. "Then why are you here? If not to see me?"
Sherlock shut his eyes and leant into John's caress. "Doing my duty, John. The housemaids check the rooms, but I usually make sure that nothing has been missed."
"Room's still here. What do you need to check?"
"Stir the fire, turn up the gas and draw the curtains if necessary. Check that the beds have been changed and fresh towels supplied."
"My God, all that. Well, as you can see, I am perfectly capable of stirring the fire, turning up the light and drawing my own curtains. Perhaps we can find some other use for your time…"
"John, I told you—," Sherlock protested, but he didn't move away from John's hand.
"How long could you take…how long would you usually take? Before you'd be missed?"
"Fifteen minutes, perhaps thirty if I thought the room needed something or if I said that I'd checked the other rooms… But I told you, I can't muss my clothes. It will be noticed."
"Well," returned John, "perhaps, if we do this—." He pushed Sherlock's coat from his shoulders, took it and hung it in the wardrobe. "And this—," he whispered as he unbuttoned the striped waistcoat, slipped it off and hung it with the coat. "Then your clothes won't be mussed and no one will know that I've done this…" He pulled Sherlock's mouth to his and slid his hand along the front of Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock was already achingly hard just from John's voice, and when John touched him he whimpered.
"In fact," John was continuing, voice low and soothing, "I think we should take off your trousers, too, so that they won't become wrinkled when I kneel and take your prick in my mouth. What do you think?"
"Oh," was all that Sherlock could manage, his extensive vocabulary gone. He suspected that every bell in the house could ring at that moment, including the one signaling fire, and he'd be unable to recall his duty, let alone respond.
John chuckled and pushed Sherlock's braces down, unfastened Sherlock's trouser buttons, slipped them down with the drawers and worked them over the patent leather slippers. Standing back up he reached for Sherlock's tie, but Sherlock stopped him.
"No, I lost a stud last night. I've only got one more." Already the collar felt tight against his Adam's apple, but he knew he'd lose all reason if John kissed his neck.
John nodded, but smiled sadly as if reading Sherlock's mind. He led the half-naked younger man to the bed and sat him down before going to hang the trousers over the butler stand.
Sherlock's excitement hadn't waned. If anything, it was more pronounced, jutting up flushed dark between his pale legs.
As he knelt, John made an appreciative noise as though he were gazing on a work of art. He pushed Sherlock's thighs open and settled himself between them.
"John…John…I thought you wanted it to be mutual. I'm not sure if we'll have time for…"
"Shh…" John whispered as he stroked along Sherlock's calves. "You have to wait on me. I'm just returning the favor in the only way that I have." With that he gripped Sherlock's prick at the base and wrapped his mouth around it, working his lips down to take most of the length down his throat.
Sherlock's breath came in short, hard gasps as John worked him, tongue at the tip, around the head, all heat and suction along the shaft. John cupped his testicles and stroked along his perineum until he was thrusting his hips forward to meet John movements. He slipped his fingers through John's short hair, trying not to push greedily.
It didn't take long until his climax took him, leaving his legs shaking, the tension in his muscles releasing all at once so that he fell back onto the bed with a groan.
He wasn't even aware that John had risen until the other man was back with a glass of water and a flannel. As John gently wiped the sweat from his face, he thought to himself sadly, 'John Watson, you have ruined my life with your kindness more thoroughly than Peter ever did with his callousness because what will I do when you are gone?'
After reluctantly parting from John, Sherlock went to his room and splashed his face and hair. He still looked flushed and his eyes had a glassy sheen. He hoped it wouldn't be too obvious.
The maids were hoovering in the great hall and Anderson and Dimmock were moving the furniture. Sherlock tried to join the work without being noticed. He was shifting a table with Dimmock when Anderson strode over, a smirk on his unpleasant face.
"Glad you decided to join us, Holmes."
"I was checking the rooms, Anderson. Ensuring that everything is at its best. Something you wouldn't understand. Doctor Watson had me brush out his evening clothes."
Anderson sneered, "Ah yes, Doctor Watson. Did you know he's only from some forgotten little branch of the family? It shows in his manners—leaving the drawing room early, sitting in his room, taking Lady Caroline for a walk in the rain, of all things. Mind you, she was always a wretched trouble-maker, sneaking about and spying on everyone. So unladylike."
Sherlock tried to bite his tongue even though he wanted to defend John. At least he could defend Lady Caroline. "Anderson—"
"That's Mister Anderson to you."
"That's the second time you've insulted Lady Caroline in my presence. Lady Caroline is a member of Lord Lestrade's family. I'll not have you besmirching her name. When you do, you insult Lord and Lady Lestrade."
Anderson snorted. By this point they had both stopped working and were facing one another in the middle of the room. Dimmock and the maids were frozen, watching the confrontation. It had been coming for months, probably years.
"Lady Lestrade," Anderson snarled. "That whole family is a disgrace. Not Sir Neville, mind you. He's of the old school and knows how to carry himself."
The parlour maids glanced at one another. It was well known that no maid would tend to Sir Neville's room without a footmen present. Even Sally, one of Anderson's only friends, looked uncomfortable.
Sherlock shut his eyes, wondering how far he should take it. The rational part of his mind told him to back down. Challenging Anderson could only lead to trouble. But John's confidence in him made him bold. "I should have known, Mister Anderson, that you admire the worst traits in people. Lady Lestrade, Lady Caroline, Doctor Watson—you shouldn't even be allowed to say their names. Shut your mouth before I have to shut it for you."
"I'd like to see you try, Holmes."
He and Sherlock started to circle one another.
Suddenly Mr. Gregson's voice rang out in the hall. "Mister Anderson, Mister Holmes! You will stop this this instant." Beth Ann, one of the housemaids, was cowering behind him and Mrs. Turner was following. Beth Ann must have gone to fetch them.
Gregson strode between them. "Anderson, Holmes, I've spoken to both of you about your issues with one another. If you cannot reconcile your differences, then one of you must go. Mr. Anderson, continue your work here. Mister Holmes, you will help Violet with the mangle downstairs."
Anderson narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and smirked. Tending the mangle with the kitchen maids was a demeaning task and they both knew it.