Undercover
Sherlock spent much of the afternoon examining the brown paper and the twine which had bound it. He discerned both the likely cost of both ("Really, John, there is a surprising difference between two-penny twine and three-penny twine") and the multitude of shops that might frequently sell items of that quality. The postmark from Hampstead Village, he ignored almost to the end.
John listened most attentively to Sherlock's monologue, sometimes asking questions. When he asked about the postmarks, Sherlock remarked on the uselessness of such things.
"A personage who truly wanted to be anonymous might spend a day driving from one location to another simply to falsify the postmark. Thus it may be a bluff. Or the person might have stupidly thought no one would notice the postmark and sent it from their own locality. Thirdly, the clever criminal may have considered the first, thought the second, and there we end with a double bluff. Given this, one must nearly disregard the origin stamp unless the location is far afield, or the style or condition of the stamp is questionable.
"For instance, a letter with a dated postmark arrives from Paris. The details one would examine would be the wear on the paper from the length of journey, the date on both the stamp and the letter, the color of the ink, and whether the ink of the stamp is laid atop the ink of the letter. Then one must take into account the ships arriving at port and the current political situation to determine the authenticity of its speed of arrival."
"But what does that have to do with this letter from Hampstead?"
"Well, it indicates several things, all lies. Several letters bound together in paper would have been sent as a parcel, likely special delivery, but the postmarks indicate it was franked as a simple letter. The charge indicated also defies what we know of the contents, as several bound letters would have tallied up a much higher cost, and there are no penciled indications of mileage. The appearance of standard mail was forged to obscure the identity of the man who delivered the blackmailer's diabolical dispatch."
"Amazing." John could not control his astonished articulation. "You gathered all of this from the markings on a piece of paper?"
"Hardly, John. The evidence is all there, yes, but I simply spoke to the butler while you were upstairs with your sister. He told me the regular postman had been replaced that day, and while he thought nothing of it at the time, in light of recent events, he'd become suspicious."
"So does this mean we track down this irregular postman?"
"Only if we run out of other options. We shall simply keep an eye out in our investigation for a man with a scar along his jaw, as the butler described, for if he does turn up, we shall know we are on the right trail."
The afternoon turned to evening, and they supped together before slipping back out into the night to discover the location of the tavern known as Three Sheep. It wasn't terribly far from the small theater where they'd met with Howell's lover, and only one passerby had to be questioned before they received the proper direction.
The pub wasn't as squalid as John imagined, but he was glad Sherlock had a set of clothing that was of lower quality and simpler style, and had requested John wear the items he owned closest to being tossed in the rag bin. Sherlock handed him one of his collection of old hats as well, before scrubbing his hair with his fingertips to frizz his curls a bit and flattening them with a battered wool felt hat.
"Even the incongruity of a fine muslin shirt beneath a tattered coat, or the shine of a new boot under deliberate mud splashes could invalidate a disguise, John," Sherlock lectured. Thus they had dressed very carefully and now they took facing seats at a long table lined with benches and held a pint of ale each.
Sherlock took to telling tall tales that had the table laughing uproariously, John included. In the back of his mind, he wondered where the stories came from, but it was something he could ask later. John recounted a story or two from his time in the army, carefully not mentioning he'd been a surgeon and certainly not that he'd been expensively schooled as a physician.
Few women entered the building, and those that did proved not to be Rhetta. They didn't dare ask about her, since anyone informing the woman she was being searched for might scare her away for good. As much as possible, then, when they were not regaling the populace with ridiculous tales, they listened to the conversations around them and behaved congenially.
It wasn't until they were walking to a more trafficked street much later that night in the attempt to hail a hack that John allowed himself to speak openly to Sherlock.
"So are we going to return every night until she shows up? Or will that seem awfully suspicious? We are lucky the regulars chose to accept our company tonight."
"We shall try again tomorrow night," was all Sherlock said in reply. He flung his arm up before John even realized a hack was driving past, though upon ascending, the driver demanded pay in advance if he was to traverse all the way to Marylebone at this time of night. Sherlock's coin appeased the man.
Once they had climbed into the back and the carriage was underway, Sherlock leaned over to whisper in John's ear.
"It's dark. No one will see." The whisper was accompanied by a hand curling around John's thigh. The gaslights were far between in this part of the city, and their light certainly did not penetrate a moving carriage.
John's heart leapt and he couldn't speak for a moment. Sherlock had been incredibly proper since breakfast, without a shade of the tantalizing, magnetic personality that had propositioned and seduced John. John had almost managed to forget Sherlock's effect on his body, so different had he behaved all day.
"If you're quiet, no one will hear," that silky voice continued. The hand crept upwards.
"Sher…"
"Shhhh, no talking," Sherlock breathed against John's lips. His hand deftly made its way into the falls of John's trousers and found his cock already beginning to stiffen. John grabbed Sherlock's forearm, but did nothing to force the man's hand away from his exposed prick.
"Mhm, yes," Sherlock murmured before capturing John's lips in his. John made tiny, quickly arrested noises through his nose as Sherlock's lips and tongue shattered his ability and desire to protest.
Gentle teasing became firm strokes with a saliva-slick fist and John sprawled his body in the seat, his back against Sherlock's chest, to give Sherlock an easier angle. From here, Sherlock could mouth and lick John's neck while his free hand covered John's mouth in anticipation of uncontrolled vocalizations.
"I love feeling your cries of pleasure stifled against my palm." Sherlock's voice hummed straight into John's ear, blocking out the sounds of life on London streets, the carriage wheels and hooves on the cobbles. "I believe I shall collect them and put them in my pocket to keep for later."
"I'm looking forward to watching your face as you spend. That should have been the first item on my list of 'What to do with John Watson.' I know exactly how I'll make that happen, as well. I'll have you on my bed, on your back, legs spread wide. One hand will be just as it is now, stroking your beautiful cock until it spills, but my other hand won't be covering your mouth. Oh, no, I'll want to hear every sound you make as you beg for more. My other hand, my long fingers, will be thrusting inside you as I prepare you to take me."
John jerked and groaned near the end of this erotic soliloquy, spurting his seed somewhere into the darkness of the cab.
"So good, so perfect, John." The hand slid from his mouth, allowing him to pant quietly.
John relaxed against Sherlock a moment, not realizing how much he'd tensed up as he anticipated release. The man's hard cock pressed against John's backside.
"Do you want me to…?"
"Not yet. I have other plans for that. You may sit up and clean yourself off." They rearranged themselves and John was glad of the dark for Sherlock could not see him blush. He felt so unworldly with this man, which was completely ridiculous. He hadn't blushed this much since he was a callow youth of sixteen. John took the proffered handkerchief and cleaned himself off enough to tuck away his spent member. He had no idea where his semen had shot, but a quick pat-down reassured him that it mostly hadn't landed on his clothing. John tucked the handkerchief into his jacket pocket.
The drive to Baker Street was long enough that John felt almost composed when they arrived. They climbed from the carriage, John grabbing his hat from the floor where it had been lost at some early point. Sherlock guided them around to Baker Street's servants' entrance, where they startled one of the footmen taking tea in the kitchen. He didn't look overly surprised to see his employer in worn clothes and coming in the back, just nodded and asked if they needed anything before he extinguished the lamps for the night.
The footman was discreet as promised in that he said and thought nothing about Sherlock tugging John once again into the master suite, and certainly heard nothing as Sherlock gave John copious instruction on the uses of his mouth.
