howdy followers! one more chapter to go! be forewarned of rimming and just general sexy sex going on here, but no til the third break in the chapter, so skip it if you no likey. also be forewarned of disaster and pain and grisly harm in the next chapter. the only one after that will be an epilogue, so the main plot will be taken care of.
enjoy!
CHAPTER 7:
Two days later, the trio made a trip to Angelo's for dinner, not having any pressing casework to delve into. Sherlock and Darcy were entertaining themselves by having a deduce-off, much to John's ire and secret enjoyment.
"I don't believe that you have a real eidetic memory, Darcy," John complained. Sherlock looked between them, nibbling a tiny piece off the end of a breadstick, eyes settling on the girl. Only she caught Sherlock's wink. A crooked smile brightened her face.
"John, you never cease to ask the stupid questions," she giggled, closing her eyes and pressing her fingertips to each temple, chin resting on her thumbs.
"Describe it to me," Sherlock asked, leaning forward across the plastic-topped table. She smirked, maintaining her present stature. "What does your mind palace look like?"
"Don't have one. Mine, if you could call it that— which you wouldn't— is more like a shop where you'd rent movies, filled to the ceiling with reels of old film. My memories aren't in picture form, like so many who call eidetic memories a 'photographic memory.' It doesn't work like that. I film the time that I find useful or interesting, and edit or crop it how it needs to be done and then store it. When I need to recall it's like hooking the tape back through the projector and hitting play. But my memory is more flawless on the environment of the thing, such as faces, positioning, structure, you know, the way things look than actual perfection of what was said and done."
"Do you do random deletes?" he asked after a while of silence. John was still skeptical, but that question made him look back over at them.
She smirked, finally opening her eyes but still not really focusing on either one of them. Her eyes were focused on something else, flickering as if actually watching a film play behind her eyes. Remarkable. "That girl coming in for an interview at the surgery yesterday was nice, wasn't she?" Darcy aimed at John, smiling. Both Sherlock and John looked outraged, but for very different reasons. The younger man half-turned his body to glare at John, silently demanding an answer.
"I…what?" the doctor asked, spluttering.
"The girl? We passed a young nurse it looked like on the walk in. You said hello, even called her by name, but avoided her hand shake, pretending not to see it. Didn't hire her, did you?" Sherlock's mouth was hanging open ever so slightly. He must learn to do this! Recall perfect stop-motion memory and deduce from it! Amazing!
"Erm, no we didn't actually. Wow," he commented, sinking back into the cushion of his seat. She really did have a good memory. Eidetic? Still doubtful.
"Ah, you still don't believe me. Hmm," she frowned, reaching into her bag for a slip of note paper and a pen. She started drawing as the men watched. Well, Sherlock was watching people on the street now, having much to think about. He needed to get Mycroft off their tails about her. He'd been calling lately.
Just then his phone buzzed.
Mycroft. Hang up.
John's phone buzzed. Sherlock smacked it out of his hand, effectively hanging up and nearly getting hit in the jaw for his trouble. He looked back at the girl; she was handing her picture to John.
It was a perfect drawing of John, what he was wearing down to the leather shoes and the plaid shirt, mobile up to his ear, on the day that Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's. The look of terror and pain was blatant on the rough sketch, the image's jaw half-slack with disbelief. His throat constricted.
She'd been there.
a few minutes of silence later their food was delivered by the large Italian, laughing heartily and clapping "Yeah, I was there," Darcy admitted through bites of lasagna. "Who do you think your brother is, some foolhardy idiot who cares nothing for you? He knew that you'd run to Moriarty, and that it wouldn't end prettily. My gun was trained on the sniper that was aimed at you, on top of the hospital. I watched the whole thing. After that I was asked to keep an eye out, to see if you had managed to escape. Mycroft didn't want to believe it more than anyone else did. When I found you, like I said, I kept quiet. I knew that you knew what you were doing." John was staring at her, half mad at the both of them. "Really, John would you have believed me, if I'd just shown up and said, 'Oh, hi, I work for Mycroft and I found Sherlock, he's alive and well two streets down?' No. you'd have blown me off and continued your sobbing like every other idiot one of you. So don't you bloody look at me like that."
Sherlock snorted into his food, or rather the plate he was picking off of. It was actually John's plate. The doctor sat back, full, letting Sherlock do as he pleased. It was good to see him eating for a change.
The detective had been oddly quiet all day, and John noticed that he was a bit slow-moving. Not typical at all for the usually light-footed and sharp-tongued younger man. He laid down their tip and the three piled into a cab to head back to Baker Street.
Sherlock was coughing, hard. Deep, wracking coughs that shook his thin frame. John was kneeling on the outside of the shower-bath, trying to force-feed the obnoxious man cough medicine. He had it slapped out of his hand for the third time before he gave up, throwing his hands in the air and grumbling about "see if I care," as he stomped out of their upstairs bathroom.
The detective sat in the hot water miserably, hating the feel of the vapor-rub that John had managed to smear across his chest. It tingled under the spray. He coughed a few more times before sitting there silently listening to the other two people outside the door.
John suspected some strain of flu, probably the regular old airborne kind. Sherlock wanted to draw blood and look under the microscope at it, but he wasn't allowed to leave the shower until the water ran cold, according to 'his doctor.' He rolled his eyes and leaned heavily against the back wall of the bath. He turned his head to the door as footsteps approached.
It was Darcy, brandishing the medicine. He scowled and reached up, shutting the curtain on her figure.
"Now, Sherlock don't be fresh," she chided, gently re-opening the curtain just wide enough for them to see each other and sitting down on the tile next to him outside the rim of the tub. "You need to take this, or you'll get worse. Come on, now." He pulled a face, biting his lips shut and ignoring her. Instead of getting mad she leaned in closer. "The faster you're over being sick, the faster you can get back to your naughty games with the doctor," she whispered. Sherlock scowled, hating how right she was. He reached out and took the medicine cup, knocking it back and pulling a terrible face. Darcy smiled, taking back the cup and standing to wash it out in the sink before sitting on the cool tile again.
A few minutes of comfortable silence later she caught his attention by handing a lit cigarette through the gap in the curtain. He smirked and took it, inhaling deeply and handing it back. He coughed again, not as deeply as before.
"That is not tobacco," he wheezed, laughing at her faux-shocked look. She took it back, opening the tiny window in the bathroom to let the smoke out. It was a vain attempt to avoid a confrontation with John, he knew. She took another drag and passed it back, nestling back into her spot on the floor.
"So what is your plan about Mycroft?" she asked, resting her head back against the wall. He sighed, mimicking her.
"I plan on telling him to piss off when he comes snooping. Which will probably be tomorrow," he grimaced, rubbing at the oil-based crud on his chest. She huffed out a laugh, offering the joint again. He took it. Anything to feel better, he mused, inhaling deeply. "You won't need to hide or anything. But if he asks for the drive, I suggest you hand it over. I don't fancy having to clean your blood up off the floor, and he won't hesitate if he does think that you have it." Her hand drifted toward her necklace for a second before she hesitated, changing the direction and landed her palm on her knee, drawing them into her chest.
So the drive was on her necklace? He squinted, looking at the tiny piece of metal. There was no way a whole thumb drive was hiding on that thing. It was a small crucifix, dangling on its side with a thin chain on the top and bottom of the main beam, holding it taught, that was it. She felt him looking and shifted, finishing the joint before he could stick his hand out for it again. He grumbled, but John came in a minute after that, asking how he was doing.
The good doctor pretended not to notice the faint aroma of smoke in the room as he slammed the window shut on the freezing outside weather. He saw the ground out butt on the tile next to Darcy, which reassured him. Slightly.
"Did you take it?" he asked, sitting on the toilet lid. Sherlock nodded, a new round of coughs rendering him unable to speak.
"Ugh," he groaned, reaching forward to shut off the shower spray. It had gone cold, and his chest was now freezing from the vapor-rub.
"Alright. Come on you bugger," John said, leaning down to help Sherlock to stand in the tub, and then clamber his long legs out of it. Darcy handed him a towel and slipped out, letting John take the lead again. He was grateful for it, leading Sherlock out and into their bedroom to hopefully sleep it off. He'd mixed a few crushed sleeping pills into the cough medicine, hoping that the combined effects would take hold in Sherlock's body, accustomed to drugs as it was, and would allow the younger man a few good hours of deep sleep. He so rarely gained that privilege, unless John fucked him well enough to sap his overclocked energy drive. Which by the way he was not pleased at all to be missing out on, thank you very much. Maybe tomorrow, he chided himself, letting Sherlock fall onto the bed haphazardly. The younger man didn't seem to mind, already curling up into a rough fetal position all naked and freezing. John threw the duvet over him and went to turn the light out, returning shortly to cuddle up under the blankets with his partner.
"Mmmm," Sherlock turned, nuzzling into John's throat as he began to drift off. John smiled, winding his arms around Sherlock's trunk, making space for their legs to intertwine so he could get closer to the other man. "We should," he broke off, yawning impressively, "we should go out on a nice date when I'm back to feeling better," Sherlock said, more demanding it in a pathetic tone. The good doctor smiled against his forehead, pressing a kiss there as he answered.
"Sure, Sherlock. That sounds lovely."
The younger man hummed in response, letting the sleeping meds take hold as he was dragged under for a solid fourteen hours.
John woke up late; he could feel in his bones that it was much later than he usually got up. He'd fallen asleep with Sherlock around 20:30, apparently so comfortable that he slept the whole time that Sherlock did. When he felt the older man stir, the detective rolled over to face him, smiling gently.
"Feel better?" John questioned, stretching his back and arms before settling them around his boyfriend. Sherlock nodded, pressing a chaste kiss to the good doctor's lips. "That's good," John mused. He let his eyes slide closed again, relishing the fact that it was Sunday and he didn't have to worry about the surgery. Just as that thought hit him, the realization came through that Sherlock was no longer in his arms. He watched the bump in the duvet travel south, feeling the ghosting breath over his belly and thighs before Sherlock licked a tentative and very silent stripe up the underside of John's slowly awakening cock. He shifted, rolling fully onto his back to give his partner better access.
Sherlock did love sucking a cock, he mused. Half the time it seemed that he did it just because he wanted to, not to start anything necessarily. But this was different. He was letting John take the reins, being so quiet and submissive. John fisted his hand in Sherlock's curls, pulling hard to get his point across. Sherlock opened up and took John down to the root, sucking back hard, letting his teeth graze the shaft ever so lightly before letting up and swirling his tongue over the head. John gasped. What a way to be woken up, he mused. He lifted the duvet enough to get a good look at his boyfriend, laid out on his stomach between John's legs, not even using his hands, just bobbing up and down in a lazy manner. John sighed and threw the duvet off him, needing to watch more then he needed to stay warm. They'd be warm enough soon.
Insistently, John tugged up at Sherlock as he felt himself get hard enough, demanding that the taller man get up here face-to-face with him. Sherlock let off his cock with a pop and crawled up, still not saying a word. John pulled him down for a deep kiss, rolling the two so that he was laying on top, pressing every inch that he could reach of their bodies together.
Today felt like a slow day, he thought.
Instead of taking his lover in his usual, brutal manner, John made up his mind to go slow. There was nothing on today, and Darcy was likely downstairs cleaning something out that Sherlock hid, or managing to dust to unreachable places for Mrs. Hudson in her half of the flat. Why hurry?
He surprised Sherlock by leaving his mouth, nibbling soft kisses down the man's throat and over his collar bone, hands skimming the soft skin at his sides, not pressing but tickling over his ribs and flat stomach. John gently bit the small curve of muscle at his partner's pectoral, making the younger man arch up slightly. Sherlock's breathing was loud, but he was doing his best to lay there pliantly, drinking in the sensations. He perked up a bit more as John laved a flat tongue over each nipple, blowing gently over the wet skin to raise them into hard nubs. For the moment John ignored their cocks, despite how Sherlock was trying to shimmy his hips so that they rubbed together. The good doctor simply slid further down, licking and nipping the soft skin at Sherlock's tummy all the way down until he settled between his legs on his belly.
Sherlock held his breath, wondering where John was going to go. Cock or arse? He released all his muscles, going completely slack as John hitched his hips up a bit for better access. Arse it was. He brought his hands up and grabbed a handful of hair on either side of his own head, letting his elbows drop to the pillows in ecstasy as John pressed a firm tongue to his hole, working the muscle loose without pressing in quite yet.
A few minutes in, a finger worked its way between his cheeks and Sherlock gasped as it sank into him, John's lips sucking at the puckered rim as it stretched around the small intrusion. He was trying to be quiet, perfectly silent for John. The picture of submission. John worked another finger in, curling them just right as he pulled out. The drag over Sherlock's prostate was almost painful, he needed it so badly. He arched up, driving the back of John's hand into the mattress and the fingers deeper into him, losing the connection of John's perfect mouth as he did so.
"So—sorry" he mouthed, not quite able to make the sound. He'd lost his voice in the swirl of emotions and physical feelings washing over his body. His cock ached for wanting attention, but he ignored it. John would get there when he wanted to.
As if hearing the thought, John sat back on his heels, withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth across Sherlock's belly as he crawled back up, planting a wet kiss on the head of the taller man's cock. Sherlock trembled, not quite meting John's eye as his legs were pulled apart and hooked around the doctor's hips. John sank in to the hilt without much resistance or preamble, though he did go very slowly. He watched diligently as Sherlock opened his mouth in a silent shout, eyes squeezed shut as the pang of being stretched burned through his muscles. It passed in the next few breaths, and he lay there, completely slack for John as the older man began to thrust, ducking down for a swift but thorough kiss.
His thrusts were slow, deliberate, just like his rimming had been. Every motion had a direct consequence, and right now that purpose was to destroy Sherlock's ability to think and walk. He was doing a damn good job; the younger man only moved his hands all over John's back and sides, not quite sure where to put them as quiet whimpers and gasps escaped his bitten-red lips. John pulled back a bit, looking down on Sherlock as he thrust a bit harder, dragging his hips up to hit the man's prostate brutally.
Sherlock's back arched up like a bow, nails scraping into John's back as a desperate wail was released. John gave up on gentle, getting his knees up under him for leverage. He held the skinny man's hips tightly, sinking his thumbs in the pockets made by the prominent bones, sure to leave bruises. Sherlock loved them; he often caught the younger man pressing his own fingers to those bruises days later just to feel the dull ache. He dragged out at an upward angle, making Sherlock gasp his name before he hit home as hard as he could, wrapping a firm fist around the man's cock at the same time. Before he could pull back out Sherlock was coming, eyes rolled back in his head and mouth hanging open slightly. John smiled, driving deep and keeping his thrusts small and centered until he was coming too, driving as deep as he could go to bury his seed. It would burn for hours and keep Sherlock slightly uncomfortable for the rest of the day.
John collapsed against Sherlock's chest, head bobbing as the man's breathing went from heaving to normal before he slid out and rolled to his side, taking Sherlock with him.
After several minutes, the detective propped his head up on his elbow, looking down at John with those amazing eyes. He trailed a finger down the older man's chest, biting his lip.
"What?" John asked, smiling slightly. He caught Sherlock's tickling fingers.
"Do you want to get ready and go on that date tonight?" he asked, looking back at the doc through plush lashes, eyes burning. John laughed, looking away. He snuggled his back into the broad chest, feeling those lanky arms wrap around him and smiled.
"That would be amazing. But tonight, sir, you do the honors," he added, wiggling his arse into Sherlock's crotch. He felt a smile against his hair and laughed, getting out of the bed and dragging Sherlock with him to their bathroom. Cleaning up would require a shower, beginning with slipping fingers back into Sherlock to work his semen back out.
Sherlock got up, wincing slightly as he wobbled into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. He let John start the water and leaned his head back for a kiss as the water heated. John turned on the spray and they stepped in.
Sherlock immediately got under the spray and wetted his hair, pouting at John's laugh at what he called his 'drowned poodle look' before assuming the usual position of hands on the wall, one leg on the side of the tub, one leg planted on the bottom as he let John work the come back out of his sore arse.
"Gah," he winced, clenching unintentionally as John opened him back up. "This date better be worth this," he fussed, forcing his body to relax. John bit his shoulder gently.
"It will be, love," he sighed.
"I love you," Sherlock whispered the barely-mentioned sentiment. John smiled against his shoulder-blade.
"I love you, too."
just in case some of you havent read Living in His Shadow, and therefore dont know, i changed my name because i am so completely in love with a new character i wrote out, and i wanted to have her name to advertise and also because i'm just so taken by her. i hope you all like her; i'll be releasing a non-johnlock in the next few months, but i hope that you all find George to be a perfect match for our favorite consulting detective!
