A/N: so, I have this great love of dark humor...and horrible awkwardness. In this chapter, the role of Dark Humor will be played by James Bond, and as for Horrible Awkwardness, well... that's obvious. heh heh heh...
Chapter 4: Personal Viewing Pleasure
"Right," Sherlock said tersely, tucking his laptop under his arm. "Wouldn't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"
"Hah," John said loudly, and held out his hand in the universal signal for stop. "No. No you would not. This is not happening."
Sherlock looked at him fondly. "Sorry to say, John, but it probably is."
"What are you talking about?" John protested. "Have you gone completely mad? Time out. Just, time out, Sherlock. You do realize what's going on here? That man," he pointed at Bond accusingly, "is going to sex you up, right now, for Irene Adler's personal viewing pleasure." John held up Irene's laptop and shook it a bit for emphasis, while the woman herself beamed from the screen and gave a dainty little wave. "I admit, it took me until now to actually grasp the whole concept, but that's what this is. And you cannot convince me that you are okay with it."
Sherlock sighed and used his best it's-really-quite-simple-John voice. "Our source of information, there," Sherlock pointed to Irene, "wants this to happen, and her lethally capable piece of equipment, here," he pointed at Bond, "is going to carry it out. The less resistance from us, the better."
Bond took advantage of that moment to wrap his hand around Sherlock's arm and squeeze. "Actually, a decent amount of resistance from you would be preferable to none at all. From my perspective, at least," Bond said to Sherlock, sounding polite and amused, and nodded towards the bedroom. "Shall we?"
Irene breathed loudly from the computer, the thrill of anticipation evident even in that simple sound. John felt annoyed; any second now she was probably going to start moaning and sighing even worse than that stupid text-alert noise she'd added to Sherlock's phone. Here he was, John thought to himself, stuck as the audience once again for the Irene vs. Sherlock sexual tension showdown; why did he have to be in the middle of it, and how was he going to get Sherlock out of this mess?
"Let's," Sherlock replied, leading the way. From his first few steps John identified that he was walking a little bit on his toes, doing one of those unconscious things he sometimes did that would earn a child a serious neurological evaluation if it were a persistent habit. John had long suspected that Sherlock might have some form of Asperger's, and was therefore hypervigilant for any traits he might display from the Autism spectrum. Maybe it was nothing, but in that instant, that little bit of tip-toeing seemed to fall in that realm.
"Nope," John decided aloud, taking Irene's laptop with him and following Sherlock and Bond down the hall. As he went, he turned the screen around to glare at Irene. She looked surprised to see him. "This is not happening," he told her. "You've got to put a stop to it."
"I want to see Sherlock," Irene pouted, ignoring his demand.
By now they were all in Sherlock's room. Exasperated, John turned the computer around again. "There he is," John narrated, in a tone that could easily turn into a yell.
"Take your clothes off," Bond whispered to the back of Sherlock's head, just loud enough for Irene to hear.
"And look at me while you do it," Irene added.
His shoulders locked up a bit at that, but his face was sneering as he turned it towards the screen. "Making John record this, on a laptop, really," Sherlock scoffed. "How amateurish. Wouldn't you rather have him use a real camera? I think we have one." As he spoke he dismissed the buttons on his jacket and shrugged out of it.
"Mmm. I like this set-up just fine," Irene replied.
"Well I don't like it at all," John complained, quite urgently. "You're all three of you insane if you think I'm going to stand by—"
"James?" Irene prompted.
Bond looked up at John. "Oh, you'll stand by, Watson," he growled, cutting John off. "Or you'll be unconscious on the floor. Your choice."
John was filled with the sudden urge to chuck the laptop at Bond's head and make a dash for the nearest weapon. "Don't make things worse John," Sherlock was saying, sounding as if this was one of the most tedious days of his entire life. "Just stand there and do as Miss Adler says."
"But you can't seriously-" John began to protest, until Sherlock interrupted him with the kind of sigh that meant John was being exceptionally boring.
"I'll be fine. My little brother was good enough to provide me with an adequately interesting puzzle and my mind is already preoccupied with solving it. I'm sure I'll scarcely notice whatever Mr. Bond wishes to do to the rest of me."
For some reason Bond thought that was a good cue to catch John's eye, and sent him a distinct 'we'll see about that', without saying a word.
Sherlock finished undressing himself, and sat naked on the bed, all while gazing dispassionately at Irene's face on the screen. "Very nice," the woman purred at him. "Your turn, James. Clothes off."
Bond gave some grunt of agreement and began to strip, clearly not in a hurry about it. As Irene seemed to be appreciating that little sideshow, Sherlock went ahead and settled his computer on his lap, opening the screen and immediately tapping a few keys.
John looked at his flatmate, saw a troublingly vacant expression settling on his face. "Sherlock," said John, and was relieved when Sherlock responded by looking up at him. "Listen to me, please. This is beyond the pale. What are you doing?"
"Cryptanalysis," Sherlock explained. "Usually not my favorite, but Sherri was clever enough to dig up some ciphertexts that a group of elite hackers are using which are clearly asymmetric yet non-mathematic, so we are attempting-"
"No!" John exploded. "Jesus, Sherlock, I don't care about your stupid puzzle!"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed, reflecting the blue-white of his screen. "Whereas I do not care about-"
"Sex, John," Irene smirked on the laptop. "That's your answer. That's what he's doing, or about to be doing."
John was suddenly aware that he was the only person in the room wearing any clothes. He gave the now-nude James Bond a once-over; it was impossible not to. All the physical perfection promised by that suit he'd been wearing was there, and then some. And Sherlock was just sitting on the bed, typing on his computer. It was all so ridiculous, somehow, seeing Sherlock act so impassive.
John shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said, feeling himself start to give up on the idea of intervening. "This is unbelievable."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend. "I once told Mycroft that sex doesn't alarm me; it also doesn't concern me in the slightest. I can think of nothing so mundane and so simple to decode as human sexuality."
John had a revelatory thought then; Sherlock was as bored and unimpressed with Bond's sex appeal as Bond had been bored and unimpressed by Sherlock's intellect earlier.
Bond was looking to Irene for direction, and Irene made a little 'scoot over' motion with her hand. Bond moved towards Sherlock, and John had to resist the urge once again to throw himself in between them, shielding Sherlock from mortal danger.
"I think a little sex might do you good," Bond muttered, reaching one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck to slide it up through his hair. He pulled his face close to Sherlock's, leaning in with one of his knees on the bed, between Sherlock's thighs. "I am going to fuck you until you can't form a coherent thought. Until you are unable to utter a single beautiful word with this mouth." He dragged his thumb across Sherlock's lips, and followed that up with a quick nip of a kiss, pushing his face into Sherlock's face and leaving it there. "I will fuck you until the only thing you know is what I make you feel," he promised, his lips brushing against Sherlock's with every syllable.
Irene clapped her hands, applauding. Bond glanced back at her, and then over at John, who gave him his best murderous glare. For whatever reason, Bond sent him a wink in reply. John chewed his lower lip.
"Please proceed," Irene urged.
Bond pushed Sherlock backwards and climbed on top of him. Sherlock seemed very obviously annoyed that he had to move his laptop out of the way.
"Over to the side, John, I want to see their faces," Irene directed, and John carried the computer over, reminded afresh of how ludicrous his role in this insane little porno really was. He started to feel just a little bit detached, almost the way it happened in combat sometimes, like what was happening around him wasn't even real and he wasn't really a part of it.
Snap out of it, John ordered himself.
Calloused hands were tracing Sherlock's outline now, bearing down in approval wherever they found muscle under all that smooth white skin. If Sherlock was particularly averse to being touched, at least he had enough control not to show it. He did look annoyed when Bond kissed his throat, and seemed ticklish about pressure on his navel on down, although that was hardly strange.
Watching Bond go through the motions now, watching Sherlock caught somewhere between not knowing how to react or willfully not wanting to, John felt suddenly sad. You idiot, he thought at Sherlock as much as at himself. I know you could think up a way to get out of this. Why are you letting this happen?
"Do you mind if I turn over?" Sherlock asked abruptly, after a few minutes of being fondled and teased into an uncomfortable state of arousal. He'd been trying to focus on his computer, but was having trouble typing anything with Bond crouching over him like some huge bird of prey.
"I'd prefer it," Bond replied, leaving a final kiss on Sherlock's collarbone.
Sherlock propped himself on one elbow and awkwardly twisted onto his stomach, while Bond smirked at him, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and one hand on himself.
Setting his computer out in front of him where he could easily type on it, Sherlock looked briefly pleased to be in a better position to continue his ciphertext decryption. But then those rough hands were on his back, exploring, thumbs counting ribs where they joined his spine, and there were warm lips pressed between his shoulder blades traveling up to suck the back of his neck.
John watched it happen with excruciating clarity: that exact moment when Sherlock's train of thought derailed and sent its precious cargo tumbling over a cliff. It happened rarely enough, working on cases. It had happened at Baskerville, John remembered all too well: Sherlock's mind had been overpowered by something else, some foreign, forbidden function performed by his brain without authorization from its operator.
It had been fear that time. This time it appeared to be sensory overload, over-stimulation from physical contact. All his skin and muscle was singing at him now, and finally getting his attention; his circulation was affected, his heart rate too, all of it suddenly impossible to ignore.
Sherlock let go of his computer and brought his hands to his head, dug his fingers into his scalp, as if trying to prevent his mind from escaping his skull.
Bond sensed the shift in the body beneath him and murmured his approval. He was just now rubbing sensitive skin on sensitive skin, as much of it as he could reach, slowly and thoroughly back and forth with as little assistance from his hand as he could manage. The friction was hot and dangerous and close but this was still just foreplay; still just communicating his intent, over and over and over. Sherlock's athletic little shoulder muscles quivered as he tensed them, making Bond smile. "Getting the message yet?" Bond whispered to him, each word an insistent rock of his hips. "It's going to be just. like. this."
Taking his sweet time, this bastard, John criticized silently, feeling a bit of resentment towards all people who had incredible patience about such things.
"Mmm," Irene uttered appreciatively, and the sound brought John's eyes down to the laptop. And the light in the room must have been just right, because John noticed something that he hadn't before; something no one would ever notice unless they were this close to it-the tiniest little pinhole in the back of the laptop's screen, facing him. An aperture…for a second camera, so that a person typing on the laptop could record a person sitting across from them, John realized. A proper spy gadget, no doubt. And it was facing him… so that meant, if it was on…
John felt as if a spotlight had just swung onto him, and he was frozen on the stage. Was Irene watching him, in addition to watching Sherlock? Irene wasn't interested in John, as far as he knew, it didn't make sense for her to want…to want to watch John watch?
That was such a fucked-up thought that at first, John didn't know how to process it. Finally, a translation clicked. He was more than an observer here. Oh my god. I'm part of this.
A noise from Sherlock brought John's attention back up, just in time to see Sherlock jerk and bend at the waist awkwardly, trying to get his knees under him. John pitied him then. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing. A hundred 'assume the position' jokes ran through the back of John's mind, leftover from the Army, but the thought that made its way to the top and stuck was: Sherlock, this is wrong.
And then there it was-Sherlock's first whimper of complaint, first breath that was a little too distressed. "That's it," John decided, setting Irene's laptop on the dresser. "Stop this. Stop now, this has gone on long enough."
"On the contrary, this has barely gotten started," Bond smirked at him. Sherlock looked over at John, blinking distractedly, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.
John ignored Bond and focused on his friend. "Sherlock, you may not have gotten this sort of lecture as a teenager, so I'll give it to you now. You should never have sex unless you want to."
"But you should want to," Bond added, emphasizing that with a slow roll of his hips.
"Back off," John snapped. "He's never done this before and you know it."
Bond looked at him strangely, halfway between patronizing and curious. "You think he'd like something else better?" Bond asked. "Gentle little kisses, some shy girl wrapping her little fingers around his cock and inviting him home for drinks and a romantic movie?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, finally remembering how to speak. "God, no, spare me the tedium."
"So you're not objecting to this?" John demanded.
Sherlock was on the spot now, John's stormy eyes boring into Sherlock's clear ones. "I'm not objecting," Sherlock stated. John threw his hands up in frustration.
"Why? Because of her?" he pointed angrily at Irene's face in its glowing window. "You're doing this for her?"
"Not at all," Sherlock clarified. "I am consenting only because to refuse would mean that I cared, and the fact is that I do not."
"What if I care?" John protested. "I am telling you, this is wrong. It's not supposed to be this way, and I can't let you go through with it."
Sherlock might've smiled at him, for the briefest instant, before he turned his head away and deliberately leaned backwards, pressing himself snugly against the all-too-solid body behind him. "Do you worst, Mr. Bond, I have not the slightest objection. Though I would be grateful if you'd limit the amount of bodily fluids spilled on the sheets; Mrs. Hudson won't wash them for me until Saturday. Oh yes, and Ms. Adler, if you're feeling merciful, do please allow John to leave the room."
John wasn't buying Sherlock's back-in-control act. "I'm not leaving," he warned. "I'm stopping this."
Bond gave a little sigh, and got off the bed, locking eyes with John. "I told you it was your choice," he growled.
John clenched his hands into fists. "Yeah, and now I've made it."
A/N: fanfiction is a dark and dirty place, you guys, seriously. To say I got off a bit on imagining this chapter would be an understatement, but omg, just wait for the next one. John is both adorable and a BAMF and I love him so much...I really need to be nicer to him in fanfic. Soon. yeah. I will do that. TBC!