Chapter 10 – Not Enough
"So is that it?" John asked with a frown. "That's not much, is it?"
Lestrade shrugged and cocked his head to the side. "It's all I could gather. Let's hope Sherlock has better luck with his brother. I'm really sorry," he said taking another sip from his pint.
John noticed the slight pink tone in Lestrade's cheeks when mentioning Mycroft, but he politely didn't pick him about it. As far as he knew, Gregory Lestrade was a happily married man for several years now. Maybe the sudden blushing was due to the humiliation of being kidnapped by the elder Holmes. God knew how Mycroft could seem intimidating at times.
"That's alright," John said with a sigh. "I'm sorry to be so insistent, but this was the first good clue we got. We couldn't just let it slip away, could we?"
"Believe me, John, I want to see that creature behind bars just as much as you do," Lestrade stated, looking dully out of the window.
Well, I would rather see him dead, John thought to himself. "How's… I'm sorry. I don't even know her name…" John hesitated. Well, since they were already there, he might as well make some sort of small talk.
"Olivia," Lestrade clarified. "She's… fine, I guess."
John was aware that something was wrong. "Greg," he started, "You know that if you need to talk, well, although we don't know each other that well, you can come to me, right?" he could see in the DI's eyes that he was dying to get something off of his chest.
John really liked him, he was an honest man who worked hard and had a fairly impressive tolerance towards Sherlock. He could somehow see himself in Lestrade's own countenance.
Lestrade turned his eyes away from the busy street outside the window and buried it in the amber coloured liquid in his pint. John watched carefully as he hesitated, wondering if he should speak or not. He was about to make a comment about the weather or something just to break the uncomfortable silence when Lestrade decided to start talking.
"She's leaving me," he said quietly.
John pursed his lips, and shifted in his seat. "I'm sorry, Greg. I really am," he said.
"No, it's alright," he said with a shrug. "She's right. I did value my job far more than I valued her," he said. "It's funny, though."
"What is?"
"Well, for several years, I've heard that we made a perfect couple, that we were meant for each other… cheesy stuff like that," he lifted his eyes and locked his gaze with John's. "For the past several months, every time I've heard those words I'd chuckle and think; 'Clearly you haven't met Holmes and Watson'. And now… there you go," he paused and gestured vaguely at the doctor.
John scowled. "Look, Sherlock and I… we can be many things… but we are definitely not a couple. Come on, you know him. He's not 'relationship' material. He's Sherlock for God's sake."
Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. "Exactly."
"What do you mean?"
"You were the only one who ever got that close to Sherlock, John. I'm still not sure what to expect from your… partnership, but he's changed," he hesitated, "a bit," he added with a smirk. "And I really, thoroughly think that you're turning him into a good man."
"It's not that simple. Sherlock gets bored easily," he took a sip from his pint and put the glass down again. "We've been working on this new lead for what, one week, now? Tomorrow is his birthday. And we're going to spend it in silence while Sherlock murders the violin and shoots the wall," he recoiled at his last words. He should not have said that. As far as he knew, Lestrade didn't know John had a gun. "Anyway, what I mean is that for the past few days he hasn't even glanced at me, so wild are those thoughts, partying in his brilliant brain."
"You cracked the ice, though," Lestrade said smiling widely. "And I know it's none of my business, but it's splattered all over your eyes that you love the man," he dared to say. "Frankly, the only one who doesn't know your feelings for Sherlock is… well, Sherlock. I mean, come on! You're not fooling anyone. And it's not like you put a lot of effort in hiding it."
John hid his face behind the glass as he poured the content down his throat in one shot. Then he waved at the waitress and asked for one more.
"He's been consuming, Greg," John said after a while.
"Come again?"
"Cocaine," John clarified, his eyes not quite meeting the DI's. "He doesn't know I know, though."
"I thought he was keeping clean. It was part of our bargain," Lestrade murmured. "He was holding on so well."
"What bargain?"
"A few years ago, I was stuck in a particularly difficult case. I had just been promoted to my actual position and had no bloody idea of what I was doing. The case involved a series of murders and a very well known drug smuggling organisation. They called themselves the Black Dahlia organisation."
The waitress came and deposited another full pint in front of John. "Thank you," he muttered before turning his attention back to Lestrade. He's always had this tiny itchy curiosity to know how the two of them had met.
"I think I've heard about the Black Dahlia before. It was about five or six years ago, right?"
Lestrade nodded. "Still to this day I don't know why my chief gave me that case, I was clearly the most inexperienced DI in the Yard, I had only been on the job for three weeks! I think it was just meant to be. Destiny wanted me to meet Sherlock," he laughed. "If one believes in such a thing."
"One never knows."
"One never does," he agreed. "At the time, we'd had a lead, a very important and quite scandalous lead. We heard that one of the members of the government had a family member that was partially involved with the Black Dahlia. Of course, as you can imagine, that just served to spike the investigation up a few knots. We had to work hard and fast."
"That member of the government… can it be… by any chance…"
"It can. And it was. Although we never knew the kinship between that member of the government and the poor sod who had fallen in to the smuggler's hands."
"After months searching, we finally found him. Just a twenty-seven year old man, lost and brilliant. The first time I laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, John, he looked like a rough, rusty, uninteresting piece of junk, but those eyes… I will never forget the lost look in those piercing grey eyes."
John closed his eyes momentarily, trying not to picture the image of Sherlock under the heavy influence of the drug.
"I was ready to beat the shit out of him until we got some answers," Lestrade recoiled slightly. "I'm not that proud of myself. I was desperate by then, all that time, and Sherlock was the closest we had gotten to catching the big fish. I didn't know what to expect from him, but I was surely not prepared for what came next."
John felt his mobile buzz in his pocket. He excused himself for a moment and pressed read.
I hate Mycroft. Can I sever his head and experiment on it?
–SH
And a second later.
Never mind that. I don't want him contaminating our appliances. I'll be home in 30 minutes. Hope to find you there. No clothes allowed.
–SH
John giggled softly and shook his head before typing a quick reply.
Still with Lestrade. Meet you back at Baker St. Oh, and it's your turn to get the milk. I'll even let you buy that whipped cream. I'm feeling creative today.
– John
He slid the phone back to his pocket and took another sip. "I'm sorry about that. So, what happened next? How did you hold yourself back enough not to punch him in the face?"
"With all my self control," Lestrade laughed again. "You know Sherlock. What were the first words he said to you?"
John thought back. He didn't have to think much, though. He could recall that meeting at Bart's with the same clarity as if it had happened yesterday. "Thank you," he said with a smirk. "He was quite polite. I lent him my mobile," then his smile grew wider. "And after that he asked me 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'" he paused. "I think I know where you're getting at."
"Exactly. Just as soon as he sat his lost, smug butt in the inquiry room chair, he started vomiting my life with the precision of a crack shot."
John cringed at Lestrade's choice of words. His recently wounded arm seemed to protest too, twitching in pain. Once more, he hid his reaction behind the half-empty pint. "What did he get wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"He says that there's always something that he misses. For instance, he thought Harry was my brother," he put the glass down again, turning it between his palms. "She's my sister."
"Oh! He called me Lieutenant, but he quickly rectified it and eventually he got my title right."
"Eventually, you say?"
"Yes, he called me Lieutenant, then Sergeant and then Detective Inspector. I didn't correct him in any of the times, nor did I confirm when he got it right. As you might suspect, I was a bit too overwhelmed by all the things he had said about my personal life in the three minutes we had been alone in that room," Lestrade took a deep breath before resuming the story.
"He didn't fight my attempts of getting the information we needed, or at least, that we thought we needed. Not only did he talk, but he also offered his help on the investigation. When I asked him why was he helping us, he just shrugged and said he was tired of his life, and—" his voice broke.
John sat back and narrowed his eyes. "And…?"
"And that he would like to do at least one good thing before it ended," Lestrade concluded. He looked down and started playing with his wedding ring. "What's the point of being brilliant if I can't use my brain? I prefer to die then to let it rot inside my skull. Everything is so grey Detective Inspector. The world is so lifeless. What's the point?" Lestrade quoted, his voice was barely above a whisper.
John felt his insides twinge. The thought of seeing Sherlock that desperate… he didn't even want to imagine it.
"In the end he ended up helping more than we could ever expect. A month later we had captured more than half of the Black Dahlia members, including the big bad shark."
"Oh he was brilliant, alright, and that brilliance we observed was under the influence of cocaine. I knew I could help him. I knew I could do something to save him from sinking completely," Lestrade said, a smile crawling back to his lips. "So I made a deal with him. If he stayed clean, I would bring cases for him to solve."
"Six years later, I think I could barely move a straw without asking for Sherlock's opinion on the matter first—" he frowned. "Don't tell him that, though. We don't want him go grow a big head, now, do we?"
"God, no. He would be even more insufferable," John joked.
Both of them laughed and finished their drinks. They sat in silence for a while, John letting Lestrade's words sink in as the other man, still playing with his wedding ring, thought about that first meeting with the world's only consulting detective.
"John," Lestrade said, breaking the silence. "If there is anyone who can keep him from falling in the same web, that someone is you. Take care of him, John. You've saved him from himself many times before. Hell, you've been saving his life since the very first night you met," Lestrade gave him a knowing smile.
John froze for an instant, trying to keep his face as blank as possible. "Wha— What are you talking about?"
"Don't worry. It's our dirty little secret. I'm not going to tell anyone about it," he smirked. "Besides, he wasn't a nice man."
John nodded and smiled back. "No, he wasn't."
"You should get home now. I bet Sherlock must be anxious to see you," Lestrade said grabbing his wallet from the table and fishing for a pair of bills.
John rested one hand in his and shook his head. "My treat, Greg. You go home to your wife. I bet you could use a long talk with her. You should probably tell her what you told me."
Lestrade nodded and got up. John deposited a couple of bills on top of the table and followed Lestrade out of the pub. The air was slicing cold and he had to button up his coat completely before he turned into a thick block of ice.
"Need a ride home?" the DI asked pointing at a silver car just a few metres away.
"Nope, thank you. I'll walk, Baker Street is not far."
"Alright," Lestrade hesitated before wrapping the smaller man in a quick hug, "Thank you John. You're a good friend," he said before making way to his car.
John waved as Lestrade passed by him, disappearing around the corner after a short while.
He made his way down the footpath, slowly. He let Lestrade's words fill in his mind as he walked. The thought of Sherlock desperate to the point of wanting to end own life was painful. He had more to thank Lestrade for than he would ever imagine.
But now, Sherlock was falling again, and John tried to hold him, but he was feeling like he was holding on to air. He just hoped his friendship would be enough for Sherlock to quit.
Lestrade was right. He was bloody right about John's feelings for Sherlock. But John knew better than to feed his hopes. Too late for that, though. You started feeding them the very day you decided to kiss him. And then you fed it some more by having sex with him. Don't you think it's a little too late to worry about not getting involved? The voice in his thoughts was harsh and taunting.
A cool breeze brushed through him, almost slicing his skin with the sharp cold. He turned up the collar of his coat in an attempt to protect his neck and buried his hands deep in his pockets and quickened his stride a bit.
He couldn't help but feel like he was being followed, or maybe just observed. What actually did make some sense, since Mycroft was in fact, known for his efficiency on spying on people. And it was more than natural that he would keep a tight surveillance on John and Sherlock, at least while Moriarty wasn't caught.
He was clearly becoming paranoid. He just wanted to get home and slouch himself in the first comfy piece of furniture available. The sofa would most probably be occupied the big lump of Sherlock, so he had to content himself with one of the armchairs. Or maybe he would just freefall on top of Sherlock and hear him protest in that childish way of his.
The familiar buildings of Baker Street started to make their appearance and John smiled inwardly. He still had that uncomfortable sensation in his gut, but he decided to ignore it. It was probably all that pressure about Moriarty and the constant risk of threat towards Sherlock's life.
He reached his pocket to grab the house keys, but instead his hand bumped against the cigarette pack he had kept there, untouched, since the day in the warehouse. John sighed, a cloud of steam coming out with his warm breath. He twirled the pack around inside his pocket, Lestrade's words still swimming in his head.
"Screw it," he murmured as he slid one cigarette from inside the pack and put it between his lips, flickering his Zippo to light the fag.
He took one deep breath and sat on the step by the door, running a hand through his flaxen hair.
A cab stopped in front of 221b, the unmistakable lean figure of one Sherlock Holmes, gracefully getting out and turning around to hand a bill to the driver. There's something you don't get to see every day, John thought to himself, liberating the smoke from his lungs. Sherlock paying his own fee? I should've taken a picture of that.
Sherlock came to a halt at the sight of the doctor. He scowled and tipped his head to a side. Then he closed the space between them in three long strides and sat beside him. John moved closer, thanking for the new source of heat.
Sherlock leant his head against the door and grabbed John's fag. Then he closed his eyes, taking a long, deep drag.
John watched as those long fingers led the cigarette to his Cupid's bow lips. The way he sucked in the smoke seemed almost obscene. Why is everything about this man so sinfully attractive? He could be dressed as a burger and dancing the Macarena, and he would still look like a fucking God! John smiled at the image before being distracted with the way the smoke was leaving that immoral mouth of his. He felt suddenly aroused, but was not surprised by it. What the hell does he see in me?
John snatched his cigarette back. "What happened to the nicotine patches?" he asked.
"What happened to the good, healthy doctor?"
"Do you know when you get annoyed with me because I answer with questions?
"What about it?"
"It works both ways," John grumbled.
Sherlock snorted. "I apologise, then," he said, opening his eyes and looking at John. "You do know that cigarettes are harmful to your health, don't you, doctor?"
John frowned. "Cocaine is too, and you don't hear me complaining," he said bitterly. He only noticed his words after they were already out. And once they're out… they're out.
John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. He should've kept quiet about it. Stupid git! Stupid, stupid, stupid, Watson!
"What the—"
"It took me a bit. I mean, I've known for a while, now. But I was refusing to believe in what I saw," John said quietly.
"For a while?"
"Do you remember the day when you pinned me against the door? When you solved the Gonzaga's case?" John asked, but he proceeded without waiting for an answer. "Your pupils were way too dilated to be a light effect, and your pulse was racing far too much to be just adrenaline. Also the fly in your trousers was undone, just like the belt, it was too loose, so you had put it on in a hurry. Femoral artery, Sherlock? Seriously?" John turned his head to face his flatmate.
"Brilliant plan. Almost perfect, I must say, if I hadn't happened to have sucked your dick the other day and noticed the marks. Then there was the day when I got to the hospital. You didn't want to meet my eyes, and whenever it happened you looked away in panic," John kept on going, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had just reclaimed his cigarette back.
"And of course, I couldn't help but notice that the sterilised syringes kept on going missing. As a doctor I like to have my stock full, we never know when we might experience an emergency. At first I thought I had forgotten to refill the stash, but then I remembered that it had been over a week since I had my last dose of antibiotics, and I knew I had everything in place right after that. And then we have your brother. You can't just ignore when Mycroft Holmes praises your lucidity."
"Finally, there's all that verbal diarrhoea you splattered all over me the day I was shot. You would never be so straightforward about what you were feeling if you were in your clear state of mind. That just confirmed what I already knew," John finished talking just as Sherlock had finished his fag.
Sherlock quickly got up and opened the door. His hands were shaking, but it was impossible for him to even think straight at the moment, let alone trying to keep his hands steady. What was that hot burning sensation building up inside him?
"Get up," he muttered to John just as soon as he was able to open the door.
John did as told, looking questioningly at the taller man, but maintaining the silence. As soon as they got inside, John felt Sherlock tackling him against the wall, pressing his lips roughly against his own.
Sherlock's hands hastily ran down John's athletic torso and he pushed him further against the flowered wallpaper of Mrs Hudson's corridor wall. One hand started working on John's coat as the other pressed the doctor's hands above his head.
"Sherl—mm"
"Shut up."
John tried to struggle against Sherlock's sudden attack, he really did! But his body wasn't obeying his commands. It was as if the cable that allowed his brain to give the orders to the rest of his body had been cut. There was only Sherlock at the moment, and there was no force on earth that was going to be able to stop that hurricane.
Sherlock disposed of John's coat and let his own slide down his shoulders and pool at their feet, momentarily letting go of the good doctor. He unceremoniously slipped his knee between John's thighs, and bent down again so he could claim John's mouth once more.
"Fuck," he roared in frustration, his hand halfway down to cup John's groin.
"What?"
"The lube is in my room," Sherlock whined.
"Can't you handle one flight of stairs?"
"I can try," his voice was steady, but his eyes were definitely telling a different story.
John took the opportunity and ducked under the cage of Sherlock's arms and put some distance between them, allowing himself a chance to regain his self-control. "Sherlock, we should talk about—"
"John, don't," Sherlock said turning his dark blue eyes to him. "Not now."
John sighed and rested his hand on his hip, as the other pressed the bridge of his nose. "Not now…" he repeated in a murmur. "When, then? Sherlock, you can't just keep avoiding these kinds of issues!" John said, keeping his voice low and steady. "Tell me why. At least tell me why."
Sherlock stayed there, watching John's face closely, trying to read him. He bent down to pick up his coat and started to climb the stairs.
"Oy! Where do you think you're going?" John called after him. "Don't you turn your back on me!"
He followed Sherlock, climbing two steps at a time. John was going to get his answers. This time, there was no way Sherlock would keep his words to himself.
The doctor burst into the living room and slammed the door behind him, looking at Sherlock with narrow eyes. The latter tossed his long coat to the back of John's chair and started pacing around the sitting room, hands inside his pockets. John leant back against the door and kept gazing at his flatmate, his lips pursed in a straight line.
And so it began - the silent battle of power. The last time it happened, it almost caused John to move out. But this time it was going to be different. The silence in the room was becoming unbearably crushing, and if not for that feeling coiling in his gut, John had arranged a silly excuse to talk again.
Sherlock suddenly turned to John, his eyes were wide and dark, running fast through John's expression once more. If the look was worrying, the supreme look was a sign to run away and preserve his life. He had only seen that look in John's eyes once – the night in the pool. It had disturbed Sherlock more than he would ever admit and the look wasn't even directed at him.
"What do you want, John?" Sherlock finally asked, signing his defeat.
"I want you to tell me why," John said calmly.
"Why should I tell you anything? You wouldn't understand. You would judge and make a fuss and patronise me or doctor me or some insufferable thing like that. And all I want is for you to get off my case!" Sherlock roared, taking two steps forward.
"Funny how little you think of me, Sherlock," John said with a humourless laugh. "You think that since I don't see things as fast and accurate as you do, that I'm as stupid as a doorknob. Honestly, you underestimate me."
Sherlock closed the gap between them, and pressed one hand on John's chest. The move was so sudden that John felt the urge to take Sherlock, pin him down against the floor, and break his neck. He was a soldier trained to respond quickly to threats, and as Sherlock's hand curled around his neck, he was considering the scene of breaking him into two more and more.
"What is it that's missing, John?" Sherlock said low and gloomily. "What else do you need? You wanted a life, I gave you one. You wanted thrill and adrenaline, and I gave you that too. You wanted sex, I gave you sex. What next? My soul?"
John's heart jolted and his pulse became quicker. Sherlock tightened his fingers on John's carotid and furrowed his eyebrow.
"No, that's not it. Is my soul not enough for you, John?
"Let go of me, Sherlock, or I swear to God that I will beat the living hell out of you," John said, his voice steady and threatening.
"Stop prying into my life. You think you're special, John? Why?" Sherlock ran his eyes up and down the doctor's frame and snorted in depreciation. "Look at you. So ordinary, so disgustingly common. What is it about you that makes you so special, eh?" he said accusingly.
John closed his eyes, trying to hide just how much Sherlock's words had hurt him. "How can you be so thick?" he whispered in a rough voice. "You are so submersed in yourself, you miss everyone else around you. Yes, I'm as common as stinging nettle. If Your Highness is feeling insulted by my presence, then I apologise. It's far from my intention to offend your paramount intellect with my miserable inferiority."
Sherlock snapped as if a bell had just rang inside his head. He roamed his eyes through John's features and noticed just how tight his grasp around the doctor's neck was. He lowered his hand, looking in panic at that silvery-blue tone in the other man's eyes.
"John I—" his words caught in his throat; guilt and fear rushing down his spine. "I think you should start packing your belongings, now."
John's head snapped up. "What? You can't be serious."
"John, please. Don't— Please just go and pack."
"Why are you being like this? What the hell Sher—"
"I want your bag downstairs in thirty minutes, John," Sherlock said with a final note. "I'll call a cab."
John couldn't believe his ears. Was Sherlock actually throwing him out? He couldn't do that, could he? He followed him with his gaze as he moved around him and disappeared through the kitchen door. Without a word, he went upstairs, not caring about shutting the door.
Kneeling beside his bed, John searched for his travelling bag, fighting the burning sensation that was rising in his eyes. If you dare cry, you fucking idiot, I'll shoot you in the face myself. He quickly rushed around the room, silently screaming at himself. What the fuck just happened? How did this get to this point? Is this even real? Is this really happening? You are such a fucking idiot, Watson! Such a bloody idiot!
As his thoughts rushed inside his head, he threw the few pieces of clothing he owned to the inside of the bag, furiously, not even bothering with folding them in that meticulous, military way. You had to go and mention it. You had to throw it all away. You had to give yourself a serious heartbreak. Well congratulations, John Watson, you just fucked up your chances with the man you— No. Don't even think about thinking it.
He quickly emptied his sock drawer, throwing its content carelessly into the opened bag on top of his bed. You need a plan. You need a plan. Fuck, I need a hot boiling cuppa! Stop being such an arse! The plan is… oh hell, I don't have a plan!He breathed in a couple of times.Okay. You can't go to Harry, because if you do, she dies. You can't go to Mike because, honestly he has more to do in his life. You could phone Sar— She would probably murder you. Maybe Lestrade? The poor sod is in trouble with his wife. A stray dog appearing at his doorstep is certainly not going to help. I should go downstairs and shout at his face that I'm not going anywhere. Who the hell does he take me for?
He stood still, a pair of socks in each hand and a scowl on his face. Why did he have to leave? He's done nothing wrong! John rolled his eyes and muttered a 'fuck it' under his breath before he started unpacking.
Although he hadn't heard Sherlock come upstairs, he somehow felt his presence in the room.
"Fuck off," he said bitterly.
"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked.
"No. Actually I am not going to pack a fucking thing," John said, tossing his blue shirt to the bag again. He turned to his flatmate, clenching his hands into fists. "You have no fucking right to kick me out. You know what, Sherlock? Screw it!" he took a couple of steps and closed the infinite space that seemed to be between them. "You are such a wanker. Hell, you are an adult man, and it's not my job to tell you what to do. You are free to do whatever you want, and if you feel that sinking in cocaine is going to make you happy, then so be it."
He grabbed Sherlock by the collar and dragged him inside the room, just so he could close the door and push him against it with more violence than required, the momentum making Sherlock hit his head against the wooden surface.
"As your doctor, I want to kick you so hard you would fly to next week! Believe me you would need a fucking team of surgeons to take Wednesday out of your arse," he tightened the grasp around the collar of Sherlock's shirt and breathed deeply. "As your friend I am majorly disappointed. Not with you, never with you. I feel like I've failed you, and it's frustrating because I don't know where. But I won't make that mistake again."
Sherlock's eyes were suddenly dark and of a whole new colour. Not grey, nor blue, but almost violet. He looked down at his friend and opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it.
"I hate you, Sherlock Holmes. I hate you so much! I hate that you're perfect. I hate that you are so fucking smart. I hate your fucking everything! And that's why I want you so. God help me I hate that I need you the way I do," he pressed his body against the taller man's and lowered his voice. "So no. I will not pack my things. I will not move out. I will not turn my back on you. And I certainly will not leave you alone to go after James Moriarty. So if you want to get rid of me, you'll have to kill me, because that's the only bloody way I'm going to leave you."
Sherlock tried to think of something to say other than "John," but that was indeed the only thing that came from his lips. His hands curled around John's waist as he bent down to kiss him. The familiarity of John's lips contrasting with the violence and need of their kiss.
John's lips started to move south and Sherlock dared a glance at the messy travelling bag on John's bed. "You have to finish packing," he managed to say in something that almost resembled a whine. "Our train leaves in less than an hour. We should be at St. Pancras already."
John stopped abruptly and looked up at Sherlock's face. His full lips were red and so deliciously swollen, his dark curls wild and messy and his eyes lazily opened, looking down to meet John's. "What the… train?"
"Yes. You didn't give me time to explain. We're going to France. AJ is going to meet us there."
John broke away and Sherlock actually whined with the lost of contact. "France? France? France?" John stammered as the stumbled back. "What?"
Sherlock threw a couple of clothing items to the messy sea of fabric inside John's bag and closed it. "This should be enough. If something is missing we can go shopping."
"What?" John said again, still trying to acknowledge the idea of going to France with Sherlock. "Why are we going to— FRANCE?"
"Try to keep up. AJ is going to meet us at our family house in Carcassonne in three days. We have to stop in Paris first, I need to see someone before we proceed on our journey to the countryside," as he spoke, John's bag was being dragged downstairs. "This could be our chance, John! This could be our only chance to reach Moriarty. AJ is risking everything with this meeting."
"Carcassonne… countryside… family house… what?" John rushed downstairs to fetch his coat.
Sherlock approached him and gave him his black jacket, along with a soft stripe of red woollen fabric. "Our taxi's here," he announced as he wrapped John's neck with the red scarf. "Please, if you have nothing of importance to declare, do try to remain silent."
John nodded and gave a quick look around before following Sherlock out of the door into the cold, dark night. Bloody hell! I'm going to France! With Sherlock! What the fuck is happening to my life?
…
Sherlock remained silent during the entire trip from Baker Street to St. Pancras International Station. His mind filled with everything and nothing at the same time.
He's not leaving me.
He knows.
I've disappointed him.
No, worst than that, I've made him doubt himself.
He waited for Mycroft's voice to answer to his internal monologue and say something particularly annoying, but accurate. Yet, the voice never came.
Are we going to catch him this time?
Are we going to survive it?
A chill ran down his spine at the thought of surviving, yet losing John.
John's life is not an option.
Am I going to survive it? For him?
He glanced at his… what were they? Colleagues? Flatmates? Friends? Best Friends? Yes, but more. Lovers? The thought alone made him want to laugh, and yet it was the closest word he found to define their current situation.
Lovers… doesn't it imply love, though? The word says it clearly. I can't be John's lover nor he mine, when there's no love involved.
Oh, isn't there? Are you sure?
There you are! I thought you had left me! And yes, I'm sure. There's physical attraction, but not love.
What is love, Sherlock?
It's… well… It's an abstract concept, though it can be explained through several chemical reactions that are shown through your body and might be observed both physically and—
Yes, yes, Einstein. And E=mc2. Leave the chemistry aside, will you? What does Love mean?
Sherlock suddenly went rigid and sat up straight. How did he not notice the change before? He decided to test it again.
I said that love is an ensemble of chemical reactions that—
Oh for God's sake. Try to think human, Sherlock! What does it feel to be in love? You know the chemical reactions and so on, but how does itfeel?
Sherlock looked at John in wonderment. The words in his head, the words of his conscience, once voiced by his insufferable brother, were now voiced by the sweetest voice he knew – John's. He glanced at the man sitting beside him, his eyes lost in the moving city around them.
Sherlock's thoughts danced around the question he had asked himself in John's voice: How does it feel to be in love?
Suddenly something clicked in his mind; if he were to find out what it meant, John was the only one who could show its true meaning to him.
The cab stopped and they quickly made their way to the platform. Sherlock's long, confident stride making John half walk-half run after him, with their bags in hand. Sherlock stopped and looked around him, obviously looking for John, who was fighting the urge to punch the detective in the face.
"You could at least lay a hand, Sherlock. My arm is killing me," John said harshly as he put both their bags down. "Care to explain what's going on he—"
Sherlock looked at the doctor with an apologetic look in his face, as his hand briefly curled around John's. "I'll explain once we're moving." He let go of John's hand and searched for something in his coat's pocket. "Here's your ticket, and your wallet. Don't lose them and don't ask anything at all before the train starts moving, are we clear?"
John nodded and made a motion to pick up the bags, but this time, Sherlock was quicker. "How in the world did you get to my wallet?" he asked as Sherlock gracefully hopped on the train and went straight to the business class area.
"I'm good at pick pocketing," he said with a grin.
"Sherlock, who is paying for this trip?"
"Your Highness, the Queen," came the impatient reply. "I believe I told you to remain quiet until we were moving."
"Gee. Sorry!"
Sherlock could almost hear John shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He did intend to explain the sudden situation to him, but he needed to be sure they wouldn't be overheard.
When they were finally sitting down in their respective seats, John allowed himself a look inside the wallet Sherlock just gave him, along with the ticket. The latter observed every quirk of an eyebrow, every twitch of John's lips, every sign of distress that he was sure was to come. He watched as John closed his eyes and bit his lips to keep from talking.
John ran his eyes through the new card on his wallet, spinning it between his hands, as if seeing it from different angles would bring him some answers. Sherlock picked up his BlackBerry and typed a quick text.
I hope you're sure about this.
–SH
Sherlock twirled the gadget in his hand, drumming his fingers on the table between him and John. Not two minutes later came the reply.
We have no other option. Are you moving yet?
–Mycroft
Sherlock glanced at John who was now looking outside the window. He could feel the mix between adrenaline and stress irradiating from him. Hell he could've felt it from the other side of London! He was starting to write a reply to Mycroft when the train finally started moving.
If your plan fails, I will kill you with my bare hands. We're leaving, now. I hope to see everything organised upon our arrival. We can't afford to lose time in Paris.
–SH
Sherlock put his mobile back in his coat, deciding to ignore whatever answer he got from his brother. He was waiting for John to start bombarding him with questions as soon as the train started to move, but he kept surprisingly quiet, obviously waiting for Sherlock to break the silence.
"It's currently five minutes past ten, which should place our arrival at the Gare du Nord at half past midnight, plus the one hour difference, which makes it half past one in the morning. We should get to Avenue de Suffren before two o'clock, if everything goes according to plan," Sherlock informed as he turned to face John.
"And what exactly is the plan?" John asked softly, looking at the darkness on the other side of the window. "We were supposed to be shagging right now. Wild, hot make-up sex. What the hell happened?"
Sherlock tried to suppress a chuckle. "I had a meeting with Mycroft today," he said.
"I know."
"Atandra's cover was exposed, John," Sherlock's voice broke. "I know what your opinion about my relationship with my siblings is, but I was very close to her as a child. Mycroft was the perfect son, I was the freak, and AJ was the rebel. We were the outcasts of the family, and we had a very tight bond, until Mother sent her away," he looked down at his hands.
John reached out and held Sherlock's hand. "Why are you telling me this?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Because I need to. I need someone to know things about me," he looked up, baring his eyes from any emotional barrier, letting John see right through him. "I need you to know things about me."
The doctor nodded and squeezed his hand, encouraging him to speak. "You can trust me," he said.
"I know. It's me who I don't trust."
"Don't say that, please," John started circling his thumb on Sherlock's hand, knowing that it helped him calm down. "Why did your mother send her away?"
"My family is bigger than you'd think. True, my father passed a long time ago, but still, I have AJ, and Mycroft and Mother, and a couple of nasty aunts and large amount of unendurable cousins… and a sister-in-law and a niece and nephew."
Sherlock waited for reactions but all he saw was a tender smile in John's lips. "Really? How come you never tell me any of this?"
"You never asked. And I never saw the significance of sharing certain aspects of my life. It wouldn't make any difference. I'd still be Sherlock Holmes, and you'd still be John Watson and nothing would change," Sherlock was keeping his voice low, clearly trying to control it and keep from breaking.
He decided to use this short time in France to let John inside his world. A decision that came to him out of the blue and for no reason at all, but he wanted John to be the one person who knew him like no one else, and if that meant stepping outside of his comfort zone to let him in, then so be it.
"At the age of sixteen, AJ decided to come out. She was already known as the black sheep, even more so than me, so Mother sent her away to a correction home in Scotland, hoping to somehow 'fix her'. The only one who actually tried to maintain contact with her was I, and as soon as Mother found out about our correspondence exchange, she threatened to cut my University funds."
John smiled. "As if…"
"Obviously. We kept in contact, but not with the same frequency. Sometime later I receive her letter telling me that she had met someone and as soon as she got free from that house, she was going to marry the woman, which she did, two years ago. And I believe you have met said woman in the past."
"Have I?" John asked, curiosity rising in his stomach.
"Hmm, remember my brother's first PA?"
"Anthea?"
"Who?"
"The one who kidnapped me, the night we met," John clarified with a smile.
"Oh she was calling herself Anthea that day?"
"What's her name?"
"Evangeline," Sherlock said. "Evangeline Holmes, née O'Malley."
"It could be worse…"
"What do you mean?"
John tipped his head to a side and furrowed his eyebrows in a surely-you-can't-be-serious fashion. "That odd name magnet you Holmes people have. Do you even know what your names mean?" John was chuckling now. "Mycroft means 'Little Farm'. Little. Farm. Might as well name him Pavlova, God knows how much he likes a good dessert."
"I think that was Mother's second option, right after Vanilla Frosting. But unfortunately Father didn't approve at the time," Sherlock said with a laugh.
John laughed along and looked straight in Sherlock's eyes. "Then there's you."
"What about me?"
"Sherlock. In a way it's perfect, but it isn't."
"What do you mean?"
"Sherlock is surrounded by a mist of mysteriousness and frankly, it suits you perfectly. But it means 'Fair Haired'. Take a good look at you! You were seriously misnamed. If anyone is Sherlock in here, I am Sherlock. You are… Darklock or something. God that sounds like a very cheesy villain from one of those Marvel films—"
"You're babbling, John."
"Right, sorry."
Sherlock chuckled again. He was starting to like the decision of sharing this part of his life with his silly, beautiful doctor. "Anyway, long story short, after that period, we stopped talking to each other, not because we didn't want to, but because life wasn't making things easy for us, so our communication was reduced to some sporadic cards and short letters. After that I went to Uni and everything got even harder. Then I had my very first experience with drugs, and shut my links to the world, even more if you can imagine so."
John recalled Lestrade's story and felt the sudden urge to get up and hug Sherlock, comfort him, let him know that he was no longer alone and that he would be there for him, no matter how dark the waters he was swimming in were.
As if sensing John's anxiety, Sherlock intertwined their fingers and shot him a knowing look, to which John replied with an almost-smile.
"I don't know what happened meanwhile, but as soon as I was brought back to the world, AJ was working for Mycroft as his very own top agent, his personal puppet. She was in a solid relationship with Evangeline and adopted one kid. Pascal, he's seven, now. Four years ago they decided they wanted a kid of their own and the result was Shamine."
"God."
"I know," Sherlock noticed a new kind of glow in John's eyes and knew that he was about to burst out laughing. "What?"
"Sorry love, but I just can't imagine you as an uncle! Uncle Sherlock! Oh, no, better yet, Uncle Sherly. Bloody hell it's too good!" John said between laughs. "Dear Lord! Those kids must be traumatised to have your brother as an uncle too! Uncle Pavlova and Uncle Sherly. Oh dear me. What is air?"
Sherlock didn't know if he were to be shocked with the fact that John had called him 'love' again, or angry because John had called him Sherly, or endeared to hear that honey-sweet laughter. "I'm glad my life amuses you."
"You joking? You are too good, Sherlock."
He decided on the latter. With a quick glance at his wrist watch, he decided to start talking business. "John, this is very important, so I need you to focus, yes?" he gave time to John to stop giggling and concentrate on him again.
"What is going on?" John asked after a while.
"AJ was discovered by the man who Mycroft calls 'Moriarty's first officer'."
"And who might that be?"
"Sebastian Moran. He has a history of military service, almost as remarkable as yours. Mycroft said that he was the one holding the riffle the day you got shot at Baker Street—" Sherlock broke his words and tried to count to ten not to punch his fist against the table. "He was the principal responsible for the deaths in the Warehouse."
Sherlock felt John's hand tighten around his. "What?"
"Apparently, I've led the police to his accomplice, but the man behind bars didn't do it alone. Recent activity places Moran in Paris, and that's why we're heading—"
"Oh Jesus. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" John muttered. "How could I be so motherfucking stupid?"
Sherlock widened his eyes at John's words. "Pardon?"
"That night, Sherlock! I'm so sorry! I missed it! How could I have missed it?"
"John you are not making any sense at all. Please try to concentrate."
"When I came home after we came back from the warehouse. The cabbie started to open up to me and he was very nice indeed, I asked him his name, he said he wasn't going to be able to be with his daughter, just the usual stuff," John said.
"I still fail to see where your stupidity fits in that scenario."
"When I arrived home I had this feeling that something was terribly wrong, but I thought that it was because we'd had a fight and, well, you weren't there with me. So I ignored it," John took a deep breath. "The way he talked clearly showed signs of military training. He ended almost every sentence with 'sir', which is how a soldier would address a superior. It's a rank thing, he wouldn't do it if he was in a superior rank than my own, therefore he knew my position in the Army. When we arrived I said my farewell and then he called me doctor. I didn't care at the time and I hadn't fished that thought out until you said his name."
"You said you asked the cabbie's name."
John hesitated. "Sebastian."
"You mean that it was Sebastian Moran who drove you to Baker Street?"
"Most definitely. Only someone extremely observant, like you, or very well informed, would call one a doctor without any reference whatsoever towards professional careers. I am absolutely positive I didn't say anything about being a doctor, and as someone that has been in the Army, I was used to the way he was addressing me— Oh shit."
"Oh John. Please tell me that you didn't confess anything personal during your bonding time with the cabbie."
John froze. Well, if it serves of any consolation, I think I fell in love with a sociopath. He felt like all the blood had just rushed out of his body. He gulped dryly.
"I might have slipped one tiny microscopic little thing that is not important at all…"
"Oh God, what did you say?"
"I can't recall," John said a tad too quickly.
Sherlock looked at him with furrowed eyebrows. "What was it?"
"I can't— I don't… Please, it was nothing."
"It was enough to make them come after us and hurt you, John! How could you be so reckless?"
"I know. I'm sorry! But hey! What were the chances of hailing yet another Psycho Cabbie of Doom?" John met Sherlock's eyes. "I fucked up badly, didn't I?"
Sherlock didn't say anything, his hand holding tight around John's as he looked outside the window. "What's done is done. All we can do now is try to catch Moran before Moriarty reaches AJ and the kids or even Harriet. He knows that our sisters are our weakness. And worse than that, he knows my greatest weakness is you and vice versa," he breathed deeply. "The smoke thickens and there are no windows in this concrete room. We have to get to the door, John, or it will be the end of us."
"Sherlock, what is this?" John asked motioning to the new card in his wallet. "It says here that I'm some sort of special agent."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John. This card gives you Government privileges, for some reason, Mycroft thinks we will need it."
"You have one too?"
Sherlock slid his hand inside his pocket and showed his own card. John just stared at it, his mouth gaping as he watched the little photograph.
"How do you manage?" John asked quietly.
"What?"
"You must be the one person in the whole motherfucking world who looks like a bloody film star in an ID card mug shot. No, seriously, how can you even live with yourself?"
"So those pints you had with Lestrade, did it, by any chance, reach pint number three?"
"Four, actually," John said.
"Yes, I thought so."
Sherlock looked outside the window once more. The night quiet and dark around them, as the train softly snaked through its tracks. He could feel the intense look John was giving him. "What?"
"We didn't even check-in. We just arrived like we owned the place and entered the train. No security checks whatsoever."
"We were expected. That little card you now own is your VIP pass. Lose it and you die."
"God, you're serious about this."
"I can't risk losing the people I—" he hesitated, shutting his eyes for a brief moment before opening them to the moving landscape once more. "I can't risk losing the people I care about."
"I thought you didn't care," John murmured.
The detective looked at him and sighed. "And I didn't. But then I met you."
Sherlock marvelled at the way the doctor's cheeks turned pink and then a brighter shade of red.
"I suppose you have a plan. If you don't then Mycroft will certainly have one."
"He's keeping Moran under tight surveillance. He will lead us to Moriarty eventually. Until then, I'm keeping you— keeping us safe in Carcassonne. It's the safest place I know for a time like this."
John nodded and Sherlock noticed that their hands were still entwined. A wave of warmth rushed down his body and his pulse became a tad quicker. He glanced at John from the corner of his eye and saw the smirk on his lips. God that smirk meant trouble.
"So," John said shifting in his seat, "we have two hours to kill and we're stuck in a carriage full of nobody. Any ideas?"
Sherlock turned to face him. "About five, so far. Keep talking and maybe the numbers will turn in your favour," he said dropping his voice at least an octave.
John turned very serious. He disentangled his fingers and looked gloomily at Sherlock. "You hurt me a great deal today, Sherlock," he said, lowering the table between them.
"John. I don't know what came through—"
"It would help you a lot if you remained silent," John said as he got up and bent over the detective. "The things you said were cruel and unnecessary," he continued, bowing down over Sherlock until their noses were touching. "You said I was 'disgustingly common'."
Sherlock closed his eyes, mentally punching his face. Once again, he didn't know if he were to be cross with himself, or aroused with the way John was purring at him. He felt the doctor nibbling at his earlobe and an involuntary groan escaped his lips.
"God, John," he turned his face so he could kiss John's lips, but the doctor pulled away. "John!" he whined.
"No, Sherlock. You keep insulting my intelligence and my capacities. I think it's time for you to learn what this army doctor is made of," John brushed his tongue in his ear and sneaked a hand to Sherlock's groin, circling his thumb over his forming bulge. "Because, I can be many things, but I am not 'disgustingly common', Sherlock."
"No, John. No you aren't," he breathed, turning once more to kiss John, and again his mission was unsuccessful. "Please!"
"I said no, Sherlock. And when I say no, it's no, are we clear on that?" John squeezed the lump on Sherlock's trousers.
"Transparent! Oh Christ!" Sherlock took a sharp breath and bit his lower lip to avoid an embarrassing moan to escape.
"Christ has nothing to do with this. It's Sir, is that understood?" John said slipping his hand under Sherlock's underwear.
"Yes, John, yes!" John squeezed again in a way that was painfully delicious. "Yes, Sir!" Sherlock quickly rectified.
"That's better," John breathed as his hand stroked Sherlock's cock. "That's much better."
Sherlock whined at the arousing feeling of John's hand along with the roaming of his lips so impossibly close to his own, and yet not touching at all. "Oh hell, John. Please let me touch you."
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" John's mouth was softly sucking at the curve of Sherlock's exposed neck. "Because I thought I heard someone say that they wished to touch me, but I believe that they forgot who they were talking to. Was it you, Sherlock?"
"Yes. Me. It was me, Sir. Please, Sir, let me touch you, Sir."
John took his hand back from the inside of Sherlock's trousers and straightened his posture in front of him. Sherlock looked up at John and balanced forwards, so he was kneeling on the floor, his eyes conveniently levelled with John's hips.
"What are you waiting for?" John said harshly, tangling his hand on Sherlock's ebony curls. "You wanted to touch, so touch!"
Sherlock's hands flew to John's jeans, undoing the fly and lowering the zipper with an urgency he had never experienced before. This was novel to him. He wanted to do it, he wanted to take John in his mouth and suck him until his doctor was screaming his name, but he had never done it before. Making that step in the middle of an empty train carriage while on their way to Paris, with the risk of being found at any time was just a factor that contributed for everything to be even more arousing.
As soon as Sherlock freed John's erection he started pressing kisses throughout the length of his prick. Then his tongue seemed to gain free will and started to brush up and down, wetting the big lump of flesh.
"God, that's good," he heard John murmur from above. He risked a glance at his face and almost came with the sight.
John was looking down at him, pupils blown wide as his parted lips breathed out Sherlock's name. His cheeks were flushed and his expression screamed lust and tenderness for him.
Without a second thought, he took John's cock into his mouth and started sucking gently at the head but quickly gaining his rhythm and he swallowed him further down. Their eyes met again, John's hand clenching in Sherlock's hair and his hips rocked gently in rhythm with the detective's mouth.
"Jesus… Sherlock. Yes, harder!" John whispered, never taking his eyes away from Sherlock's.
Obediently, Sherlock started sucking harder, travelling one hand up to John's arse and the other one down to grasp on his own cock.
"What do you think you're doing?" John said harshly. "I don't believe I told you to do that, did I?"
Sherlock pulled away with one hard suck and looked desperately at John. "Please, Sir. Permission to touch myself, Sir," he pleaded in that deep baritone.
"Granted," John said, pulling Sherlock's mouth to his shaft again. He lolled his head down as a cavernous moan rose from the depths of his being; an inhuman sound that just served to quicken Sherlock's moves around him. "There's my good boy."
Sherlock's hand worked frantically on his own erection, so different from the steady, deliberate pulls his lips and tongue were making on John. John's breaths started to become sharp and uneven, and Sherlock knew what was to come… literally.
"God, Sherlock, yes. Like that. Ohhhh! Gah! Don't stop!"
Sherlock's tongue flicked around the head and he thrust again, Looking pleadingly at John. And that was it. John's hand clenched and unclenched in Sherlock's hair as he emptied himself inside that beautiful, obscene mouth of his. Sherlock swallowed up as his own orgasm rushed down his frame, making him spill on his hand and pants.
John let himself fall backwards onto the seat he once occupied, and looked at Sherlock as he tried to catch his breath. The latter looked back at him, adulation swimming in those stormy-blue eyes. He quickly pulled his pants and jeans up again and kneeled on the floor in front of Sherlock.
"You are brilliant," he said, brushing his knuckles on the detective's sharp cheekbones. "You are amazing and brilliant and beautiful."
Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled, leaning against the warmth of John's touch. "My John," he whispered.
"Yes, Sherlock," John said leaning forwards and kissing his lips tenderly. "Always."
A/N: So, here's the thing. Real life keeps getting in the way of me and my lovely AlfaBeta (I love you so much my precious AlfaBetaChel!) and health issues keep getting in the way of me and my Mind Palace... Writer's block is a bitch.
Warnings: I have never been to England... nor France...actually I've only been in Portugal, Spain and Germany... So pardon me if my London/Paris/Carcassonne references seem to be misplaced or inaccurate or whatever is is (seriously, I'm too tired to think in Portuguese... let alone English)... let's just focus on the fact that...well... this is a fic after all, right? Right? BEAR WITH ME DAMMIT!
I decided to put some musical/visual refs on my profile page... but FF apparently didn't like the idea... links aren't working. LINKZ? Y U NO WORK? ME WANTZ TO GIVE TREAT TO ME READERZ!...Excuse me while I sulk in a corner, yes?
Special thanks to my dearest Viv...because she has the patience of an angel and helped me get through my writer's block...
And...JAWN? This chappy is 4 you! Becuz you luvz it...and I wantz a review!
(I should shut up naow...)
NEVER EAT YELLOW SNOW! (kudos if you get the ref)
*Bloo*
P.S. Review. No seriously. Review. That's an order, Corporal!