A/N: Hello, everybody! I have come to wrap up that little cliffhanger from last time. And give a little of Seb/Jim tease for people.
Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, who just makes everything better. If you know who I am, then you know who she is.
Just one more chapter go and it is mostly fluff and smut. So...yeah, good stuff.
Greg shook his head, "Christ, Sherlock. If there is anyone who would have a crazed fan, it'd be you." He ran his hands over his face as Mycroft rubbed his hand in circles on Greg's back, where they sat together on the sofa.
"Are you seriously blaming Sherlock for this?" John asked from a nearby chair. Sherlock was curled up on his lap, barely aware of his surroundings.
Mycroft and Greg had taken the other two back to their flat after the police finished getting their testimonies about what had happened.
"God no!" Greg said, holding up his hands in defense. "I was just doing a shit job of trying to make a joke."
John glared at the director until he was sure of the man's sincerity.
Mycroft sneered. "Of course it's not Sherlock's fault. It's clearly John's."
"What!" John and Greg yelped. Greg moved away from Mycroft to look him the eye.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What I mean is that were John not in the picture, Miss Ricoletti would have remained only a devoted fan of Sherlock's and president of his fan club."
"Would you have remain single and lonely all my life, Mycroft?" Sherlock mumbled, at last joining the discussion.
"Not at all, I was merely noting that it was timing," he looked sidelong at John, "and perhaps your choice in partner, that caused Emilia Ricoletti to have the breakdown which resulted in her assault of your home, the attempted murder of yourself and John, and her eventual suicide."
"That's complete bullocks and you know it, Mycroft," John hissed.
"Do I?" Mycroft said archly.
"Yes, you do," John growled. "You were there when the police were telling us about her psychopathology. How they described her descent from being a fan to a stalker and if circumstances had been different, his murderer. As long he continued to not recognize her as his true love and just as the president of his fan club, the further she would descend. This is no one's fault but hers."
"You seem to know quite a lot about the matter," Mycroft's voice oozed disdain, "Personal experience?"
"As in, am I or someone I know insane?" John snapped. "No, but I am far more qualified to speak on the subject than anyone else here."
That made Greg sit up and take further interest in the proceedings. Sherlock rubbed his nose along John's jawline, trying to comfort him.
"What makes you more qualified?" Greg asked, when the silence stretched on for too long.
"When I took medical courses, I had to do one year of a psych rotation, which considering I was still playing, took closer to two years. So, yes. I am far better qualified than a ballet director and his politician husband."
Mycroft and Greg shared a glance, but it was Mycroft who spoke. "My apologies, Dr Watson. I believe I let my prejudices against sport get the better of me."
"Thank you," John murmured. He stroked Sherlock's back, soothing the tense muscles he felt there. Sherlock slowly began to relax now that the air had been cleared, and calm descended.
"Have you thought about where you are going to stay until you find a new place, love?" John asked Sherlock.
Sherlock buried his head further into John's shoulder. "I want to stay with you, but you live too far from the Royal Opera House. And I can't go home."
John's heart ached for his lover. There was nothing John wanted more than to have Sherlock living with him, but it just wasn't feasible. While John didn't live on the other side of the city, neither was it an easy trip from his flat to the Opera House.
"Stay here," Greg piped up. "I could take you to work with me; after all, we'd be going to the same place."
Sherlock straightened up on John's lap and looked to his brother.
"Of course you can stay with us, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "I would feel so much better if you were someplace safe."
Sherlock nodded.
"I'll have someone send for your things," Mycroft said softly. "You won't have to go back if you don't want to."
Again the dancer nodded.
"What if it was my fault?" he asked quietly. There was a huge uproar from the other men.
"Of course it wasn't!" Mycroft hissed. "I was wrong to imply such things."
"But maybe if I hadn't been gay, I might have fallen in love her," Sherlock continued. "Maybe all this could have been avoided. Maybe I could have tried harder to understand my fans, to be more respectful of them, maybe she wouldn't have had to take such extremes to get my notice."
"Emilia Ricoletti was deranged before she had heard of you, Sherlock," John argued. "She was always going to fixate on someone. It could have been a sports figure like me or even an actor or musician. We don't know enough about her past to speculate about how, when, or why she decided on you. But it. Does. NOT. Matter."
"I'm with John on this one, Sherlock," Greg agreed. "You do not control the actions of others. And if you feel that you've done wrong, fix it. But she chose to do what she did. Not you."
Sherlock nodded, still not quite believing, but willing to bask in the comfort of their indignation at his thought that he could have done something differently to avoid this.
Sherlock stood at the top of the landing in his new home watching John, Bill, Mike, and a couple more of the rugby lads bring in box after box, directing them to various parts of the house.
John smiled at how happy Sherlock was with the new place. It was an Edwardian brownstone and was as cozy as it was secure.
"Oi!" Bill complained as he set the large box he was carrying down next to a couple of mismatched chairs. One a red, floral, upholstered monstrosity and the other a green leather and steel modern thing that somehow fit in with the rest of the décor, even with the awful wallpaper and threadbare rug.
"Why don't I see any of your ballet friends helping out? Why is it only us?" Bill groused.
Sherlock chuckled at the chorus of agreement from Mike and the others. "You don't have to try and lift someone over your head tomorrow."
The lads looked at each other with wide-eyed looks. "Oh."
They went back to work hauling in boxes and furniture without further comment. Once they had finished this load, Mike looked around with a frown.
"Not to bash the new place, Sherlock," he began, "but I've seen the other place a time or two dropping John off for the weekend, and this house doesn't even compare. What made you want to move here?"
John and Sherlock shared a panicked glance.
Bill held up his hands, "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, what the hell happened that made you give that look?"
"Go ahead and tell them," Sherlock murmured.
John heaved a sigh. "Sherlock had a fan break into his home and shoot the place up."
There was a chorus of exclamations of surprise and concern.
"Shit!" Mike muttered. "Did they catch the bastard?"
Sherlock shook his head, "No need." He mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
"Fuck," Bill hissed. The others nodded.
"This is out of the way, and my brother has seen to it that this residence is outfitted with the best in security," Sherlock said.
They soon filed out to go get the next load, with John staying behind to help Sherlock unpack.
He looked around, happy that Sherlock had found a place so close to the Royal Opera House. During the two weeks Sherlock had been looking, John was on edge. Worried that Sherlock wouldn't be able to find something he liked that John could be close by for. But at this new place, the stadium was nearby and John could crash here after long practices.
"Don't listen to Mike, Sherlock," he said, as he unpacked some books, "this is a lovely house. It's perfect."
Sherlock smiled up at him. "Good." He chewed on his lip for a minute before he blurted, "Iwantyoutomoveinwithme!"
John blinked a moment or two trying to figure out what Sherlock had just said. His face lit up.
"You mean it? You want me to move in with you?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded shyly. John launched himself at his lover and kissed him hard.
"Yes! Oh, yes, Sherlock!" John said as he came up for breath.
John was enjoying the party for a change. He didn't use to enjoy these things before Sherlock came along. Even the dates he brought were only ever there for their own agenda. But Sherlock was only there for him. It was quite refreshing, really. But even when he didn't have a date, the sheer amount of posturing and flaunting of wealth was appalling.
John supposed it was where he came from. Most of the people in this room had been born to money. But he still remembered what it was like to be poor. It's why he loved his and Sherlock's new home. It was quiet and respectable, it didn't scream money or affluence, and that made it perfect. Yes, his lover came from money, but Sherlock didn't enjoy these kinds of parties, either. The only reason he had come to the last one was that Victor had dragged him.
The dancer had gone to get them more drinks. Not that John was finished with his, but it gave Sherlock something to do besides stand there next to John, fidgeting.
Bill had stopped by briefly to ask after Sherlock and the new digs, but had since wandered off to speak to their coach. So John was alone when he heard someone say, "Watson? Oh, it is you."
John turned to see the star full back for the Manchester rugby team, Sebastian Moran.
"Seb," John greeted.
"I wasn't sure it was you, You're just so short, but then scrum halves usually are."
John lifted his chin up. "The game's changing, mate. The scrum players are getting bigger, but what do I care, I'll be out before the coach decides to go with the times."
He looked up and down the other man's frame. "I see that you're still as indolent as ever. Put on at least a stone since the last time I saw you. Shouldn't you, I don't know, be actually working out instead of being here? With the suspension and all? Or are you just riding it out, like everything else you do?" John drained the last of his drink.
"I'm here to make the bigwigs look good," Seb said, running a hand through his hair.
"So a washed-up full back on his way out is supposed to make them look good? Damn, I'm glad I passed on Manchester."
"I'm good for business on and off field, Watson," Seb snarled. "Though I hear your escapades off the field now involve taking it up the arse, or is it you who does the taking? A little shrimp like you, I bet you take it." Seb leaned forward and hissed every word.
John took a step back. "What the hell do you care for, Seb? This is rugby, mate. Most of us are gay, bi, pan or whatever. And it's not like I haven't had male lovers in the past, what's got your knickers in twist over this one?"
"Oh come on, Watson, you just need to add a bit more glitter and he's practically a faerie."
"What does it matter?" John asked again.
"Because he wants to know how much backlash he's going to get when he comes out with his very flamboyantly gay boyfriend," a voice drawled. John turned to see Sherlock standing there with two tumblers in his hands.
John took the glass from Sherlock, placing the empty one on a nearby table.
"So, you're Watson's little poofter, eh?" Seb said with a sneer.
Sherlock looked him up and down. "You know, for someone who got thrown out the Royal Opera Theatre because he had his hands down his boyfriend's trousers during intermission, you sure are homophobic. I guess what they say is true, the more closeted a gay man is, the more homophobic he becomes."
Seb took a swing at Sherlock, but his fist never got there. John stopped him by grabbing his wrist and twisting it. Seb struggled and security came running.
After security sorted everything out, Seb had been hauled away while the Manchester owners looked on in worry. John and Sherlock were nestled on one of the sofas nursing their drinks.
"Did Seb really get thrown out of the Opera House?" John asked.
"Oh yes, his boyfriend was a real piece of work, too," Sherlock replied.
"Oh? Not like it surprises me, but wow."
Sherlock nodded. "In addition to his proclivities toward public sex, the slimy little weasel was caught trying to break into the men's dressing rooms."
"Why wasn't he thrown out then?" John asked, snuggling closer to Sherlock.
"Because he claimed that he had merely gotten lost and because he was the son of one of the members of the board."
"Money buys all sorts of liberties that wouldn't be afforded to those without it," John said, shaking his head.
"Indeed."
