Chapter 10

Author's note: M/M sexytimes herein. At this point saying that isn't so much a forewarning as a teaser, is it?

Everyone please pelt strangegibbon with cheese straws and praise. This would be an entirely different story without her. You have no idea, truly. As always, all blunders are my own.

"I swear to God, he hasn't had any amphetamines. He's just like that this morning."

"Jesus." Greg watched him swing up onto the low balcony and bounce along the top of the railing on his toes. "He's like a three-year-old on a sugar high."

To tell the truth, he'd been a bit hesitant to call Sherlock out for this one. He was pretty sure it was a case Sherlock would consider dull, dull, dull, but they needed him and Greg'd been owed three more cases of his choosing after the ASBO deal. Sure, Sherlock had bitched and moaned about it but here he was, so everything was all right in the end. Wasn't it?

Greg hadn't made Detective Inspector by ignoring his instincts for danger, and something about Sherlock's smile when Greg had pressed the point about how exchange of favours meant it was Sherlock's turn to put out worried him.

Now Sherlock was perched on the railing like some mutant raven, complete with gimlet eye and cocked head. "John, fetch my magnifying glass."

John didn't even bother sighing anymore. "Where?"

"Trouser pocket."

"You're not serious," he said, but it was halfhearted at best, and Greg shut his eyes but could still hear the rustle of cloth that accompanied one grown man's shoving his hand into another grown man's front pocket.

"Lestrade, come here." Sherlock pointed to a spot on the ground below the railing that looked like every other spot beneath the railing. "John, take a look."

John crouched and bent his head to peer at the soil, giving Greg an unimpeded view of the deep purple bitemarks that covered the back of his neck from hairline to neckline. He lifted his eyes hastily and intercepted Sherlock's smirk just before the git dropped off the railing, stepping up close behind John to lean down along his back and point to the ground.

Greg felt his neck flush. God damn the insufferable shit.

"Mmmm, right there." He poked his finger at a small stone whilst resting his hand on John's hip for balance and shot his eyes sideways at Greg. "See it?"

"Yes, yes, I've got it," John said. "Scuff marks."

"Congratulations, John, you've not attended a single forensics course in your life and you've just surpassed Anderson's observational skills, although really that's faint praise as the same could be said of a hydrocephalic lemur. Now you know how he got out, Lestrade; even you can take it from here. And Lestrade?" Sherlock openly raked his eyes over John's arse behind the doctor's back. "Don't call me out for the dull ones; you'll regret it, I assure you."

Oh, I already do.

# # #

"Morning, Mycroft. Sherlock's in the shower. I'd say he'll be just a minute, but with him you never know, do you? Have a seat."

Mycroft settled himself. "Actually, I've come to see you, John. I'd like to offer you a job."

John rubbed gritty eyes and wished he'd had a cup of coffee before his shower. He was sure he wasn't up to this yet, whatever it was going to be. He opened his mouth to refuse.

Mycroft held up a hand. "Hear me out, please. You can't practice within any conventional institution of medicine and still be available to accompany Sherlock on his very unconventional escapades. The position I have in mind offers a flexibility of schedule you'll not be able to find elsewhere, and it will challenge you as locum work in a clinic couldn't possibly do."

Damn it. Damn the Holmeses and their ability to dangle just the right bait. "What is it?" he asked, almost against his will.

"Certain employees of mine work in extremely hazardous conditions. On occasion, we have need of a trained medical professional with a high security clearance and proven discretion. Someone with field experience and familiarity with the kinds of injuries that might be obtained in combat conditions is ideal."

"You don't have a stable of your own doctors?"

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly. "Yes, we do," he said patiently, "and I am proposing to make you one of them."

Sherlock wandered into the room in his dressing gown, hair wet from his own shower. He saw Mycroft, grunted sourly, and continued on to the refrigerator, where he extracted one of Mrs Hudson's currant buns and began pulling off bites with his fingers, noisily popping them into his mouth and spitting out the fruit.

Mycroft ignored him. "You'll find the compensation and other terms of employment quite gener—"

"NO." Sherlock scrambled across the rooms, dressing gown untied and flapping around him, and interposed himself between John and Mycroft, bun forgotten and dangling in one sticky hand. "Remember the coda, John," he said, staring down Mycroft, who looked understandably puzzled at this cryptic statement. Bitterly he went on, "Oh no you don't. This is Victor all over again. Not this time, Mycroft. You're not the only one with influence anymore."

Mycroft rose and stood nose to nose with his brother. "John is not Victor, and because he is not, I am making him a different kind of offer. And for your sake I kept that young reprobate out of prison, if you recall. For sentiment," he added maliciously, and Sherlock flinched.

Who's Victor? And what the hell is going on here, because this is old and I'm feeling like I ought to be diving for cover right about now—

"What will you have him do, Sherlock? Will you keep him entirely dependent on you, with no chance to make his own way, no opportunity for pride in his work, all his notable accomplishments in the past? Is that any fit way for a man to live?"

"Standing right here," said John, "and able to speak for myself, thanks."

"My apologies." Mycroft tipped his head but his eyes never shifted from the angry pale ones in front of him. "If you agree, we could use you today, as soon as you can be ready to travel. A rather delicate situation involving reconstruction in a dominant hand; an excellent candidate for experimental surgery, I am assured."

"Travel where?"

"Dublin." Mycroft broke eye contact to collect his coat and umbrella. "We'll need an answer in short order, please; we'll arrange a cover story if you decide to accept the offer—attending medical conferences and the like, I suppose. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."

"Mycroft." Sherlock floundered momentarily and then straightened with a sly expression. (He's not even trying to hide that, John thought. What the hell is going on? Who's Victor and what did he do and what has it got to do with me?) "John's to be your brother-in-law. Family." His feet were planted triumphantly, and John had the distinct impression he might actually have been saying, "Checkmate, arsehole."

John firmly bit back an I haven't given you an answer, you presumptuous git, but he clearly might as well have saved himself the trouble.

"Is he?" Mycroft said brightly and pleasantly with a perfectly neutral smile on his face. "Well, that is happy news. Felicitations, Brother. John," he gave a shallow bow in John's direction, and his mouth twisted with something approaching real pain. "I'd welcome you to the family, but I wouldn't wish us Holmeses on anyone I like," he said, and tapped down the stairwell.

"Hah." Sherlock flung himself into his chair and began picking at the bun again. "See him get around that," he muttered around a mouthful of yeasty sugar, and delicately spat out another currant.

"You know," John said, even though the smarter part of his brain was urgently waving its metaphorical arms stop, stop, for the love of God, horrible wreck ahead if you keep going, "I might have preferred that particular announcement to have been something more than a point in that bloody game of yours. And for you to have waited until I'd actually said yes."

"No, no, it was perfect. Now he can't—"

"I would also," he said, voice rising even though the smarter part of his brain was now jumping frantically up and down and waving warning flags,"like it quite a lot if you could manage to trust me not to conspire with your brother to screw you somehow."

Now Sherlock did look at him, faintly puzzled. "John?"

"Right." He nodded to himself. "Right, then."

Sherlock sprang to his feet, alarmed. "What? What are you thinking? It's not anything good—"

"I've a patient waiting in Dublin."

"John, no! We have an agreement! JOHN!"

# # #

Three days later, John returned to the flat in the small hours of the morning to find that Sherlock had neither eaten nor slept since he'd left, and had apparently spent the entire time pacing, licking nicotine patches, snapping at Mrs Hudson, and blowing up all their tea. John changed his long-standing opinion that night and decided that yes, rage sex did have a place in a relationship, and if stolen Yard handcuffs were involved, so much the better.

# # #

John'd thought things would be better the next day, but despite sex that left them both shaking, sweaty, boneless, and nonverbal, they were still on edge with each other.

Sherlock had never known him as a practicing surgeon. Since he'd returned to England he'd treated colds at the clinic and stitched Sherlock's split lip after an encounter with the butt of a fish knife, but the practice he'd trained for had been in hibernation since he was shot. Now he had work again, real work, the kind of work that meant there was a man who would be able to use his hand again because of John, and he had something to be proud of. Sherlock could understand that. Sherlock would know what that was like, to have work that meant something.

Pleased with himself, he'd started to describe the technique to him over lunch, the first meal of their day because they'd slept until early afternoon. Before he'd even explained the injury, Sherlock had abruptly declared "Boring" and pushed away from the table. John'd sat until his soup was cold, then had left his food on the table, taken his coat, and gone walking.

He went east, away from the big parks and their bloody swans, and watched his breath puff in the cold air with each stride. You shit. You utter shit. You can't even let me have that much, can you? Can't even be glad for me.

He hadn't realized until Sherlock had flounced off just how much he'd looked forward to his approval, how much he'd counted on being able to share this with him, how hopefully he'd waited to see that mouth curve into a slow smile and silver eyes shift towards green at a lazy "Good, John, very good." Because who else could he tell? Stamford would understand the challenge, but John couldn't talk about it with him or anyone else who didn't have proper clearance, and "anyone without clearance" was everyone John knew bar the Holmes brothers.

He briefly imagined Mycroft's face if he were to show up at his office with curry and beer. It didn't bear thinking about.

Three hours later his knee was aching, which reminded him of a time not long ago when he was limping and useless and hopeless and he'd rather not remember that time. It was late enough by then that he could meet somebody at the pub without it seeming like he had nothing better to do and nobody to talk to, so he texted Greg, and when that was a no he texted Terrence for darts and a couple of rounds.

# # #

John had gone away. He had agreed to the arrangement and then he had let Mycroft send him away, away from the flat and from Sherlock, who liked being able to find him at the flat, making it smell like home and warmth and touch and John, all the things he'd never had until John had come.

John had been gone for days, light and dark following light and dark, and he wasn't sure how many it was because he'd lost count after the second morning when he'd decided to start licking the nicotine patches because it was a more efficient delivery method. If John couldn't be in his blood then something needed to fill that emptiness and nicotine was the least terrible thing that might do it.

Then John had come back and that was better, except that it wasn't because he looked tired but very satisfied and so he might leave again to do things for Mycroft. Things that made him a part of a different world, one Sherlock couldn't follow him into because he could never follow those rules even if he cared what all of them were.

Sherlock hadn't planned to use the handcuffs. He'd stood up to face the stairs when he'd heard a key in the door, and when his fierce, stubborn John had come over the threshold and dropped his bag against the wall Sherlock had just stood there, breathing more rapidly than usual because he'd been sucking on the latest patch to soothe his anxiety but instead it had only been getting worse.

"John," he'd said, and he'd replied, "Are you over your sulk n—"

Sherlock had kissed him hard and John had pulled back, gagging and spitting. "Jesus, what the hell have you had in your mouth?"

Sherlock had said, "You left."

John had said, "I'm back now."

"But you left. For Mycroft. Don't do that, John. Don't. Don't." And the hands gripping John's hateful jacket had pushed him against the wall, dragging his body upward, and this time it wasn't for the sake of John's fantasy but because Sherlock wasn't frightened anymore, he was angry.

Then they'd been tearing at each other's clothes and Sherlock had wrestled a naked, aroused John into his room and thrown—thrown—him facedown onto the bed. "You could have let me piss first," John panted. "It's been a long trip and I had coffee."

"Shut up." The handcuffs had been right there on the nightstand, where Sherlock had been practicing picking them before John had left, and Sherlock had straddled him, clamped his heated, struggling body between his thighs, and cuffed both of John's hands to the headboard.

"God damn it, Sherlock, these things can do nerve damage. Not my hands."

"Then don't pull." And Sherlock had thoroughly buggered him. It was the only word that fit. He'd been careful not to hurt him but the buggery definitely had been going to happen that night. His body had told John's how lonely and worried and above all angry he'd been, and he'd made John understand when his words were inadequate.

When he had poured himself into John, his lust and rage and desire and fear, he'd felt him shaking beneath him and heard him, muffled by the duvet, gasping, "Please, Sherlock, God, please, I need you to touch me, please." So he had; he'd rolled John onto his side and taken him into his mouth and demanded everything. He hadn't stopped until John was spent and begging, "No more, too—too much, please, love, can't take more, I'm done, I can't."

By the time their bodies had dried he'd stopped being angry. He'd unlocked John, who had immediately gone to the toilet and then insisted Sherlock brush his teeth and tongue and yelled at him for the patches when he'd found out. Then they'd gone back to bed, and John had put his hands on his face and kissed him, saying sleepily, "Missed you."

Everything had been all right after that, until they'd been eating and John's eyes lit up as he talked about the Thing of Mycroft's that he had clearly enjoyed very much and wanted to do again, and all Sherlock could think just then was Why am I not enough for you?

# # #

John might have had a little too much to drink. He might actually have had a little too much to drink two or maybe three glasses ago. He wasn't sure just when he'd crossed the line between you don't get to play with darts anymore, mate and too drunk to do anything truly stupid but at least he was safe now. Something didn't seem quite right about that bit but it was fine because he had fresh chips in front of him and that made everything all right.

"—and the geckos are hanging right there at eye level, just staring at me,and I absolutely cannot get rid of the beer whilst I'm being watched but I'm going to cramp in the worst places if I don't—"

John made a heartfelt sound of solidarity and washed down his deliciously salty chip with another mouthful. He became aware Terrence had fallen silent and he glanced up from his plate to see him, slightly open-mouthed, looking over John's shoulder. He twisted his head around, which made the walls of the pub do interesting but not entirely pleasant things.

"Dr Watson, Sir," said the man behind him. Retired SAS, dressed to blend with the crowd, which made him look exactly like an ex-military bodyguard trying to blend with the crowd. "Mr Holmes sends his regards, and says that in the interest of avoiding further Audi-related accidents, I'm to be your escort, Sir." John was slowly working through that when the man realized simplicity was key. "I'm to take you home, Sir."

"Pull up a chair, then, and have some chips. I'm not ready to go."

"No, Sir. Mr Holmes says to remind you that you don't want your new mobile to end up in the same condition as your old one and you are therefore to leave with me now, Sir."

Drowned? he puzzled, but then it clicked: scratches on the power connection, "From Clara"—oh, Mycroft, you bastard.

"Is he talking about your flatmate?" Terrence asked, shooting sideways glances at the very fit minder by John's shoulder.

"No." John sighed and stuffed a few last chips into his mouth. "Well, yes, but not the way you mean. It's complicated." He wiped his fingers and put on his coat. "See you later."

In the car, he switched on his mobile and ignored the 113 text messages from Sherlock. They would all come down to "Get your arse home and entertain me" and "We're out of milk" and were pointless since he was on his way home without any sodding milk.

# # #

John's unsteady footsteps paused on the stair and then continued on to his bedroom. Sherlock perched on the back of the sofa and watched the fire burn down to embers.

John would apologize soon and then everything would be better. He had a great deal to apologize for but Sherlock was prepared to be generous.

Author's postscript: Giddy thanks to everyone who favourited and alerted. The encouragement really makes a difference. Every single person whose reviews helped me become a better writer has my everlasting devotion and gratitude. Also a lifetime supply of Humbugs.