A.N. : Sorry that i don't update every day. I'm pretty busy, so I forget :p. Is anyone still reading this? x
Chapter Ten
"Sherlock, are you ready?" John checked his watch again. They would be late for the train if he took a moment longer.
"Sherlock!"
A loud cracking noise made John jump, but he forced himself to stay rooted to the spot. Finally he heard Sherlock come down the stairs.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Sherlock answered with a half-hearted shrug. John tipped his head to the side, looking at him somewhat disapprovingly. "Important," added Sherlock, swinging his leather duffle bag over his shoulder. "Ready?"
John sighed and checked again if he had the tickets. "Yeah, come on, let's go."
Mycroft had insisted on a car. Sherlock had behaved abominable on the phone to his brother, which told John that he was, in fact, rather grateful for it. He was fairly sure that they would not be able to go anywhere without some sort of surveillance and he was also sure that the first thing Sherlock would do upon their arrival would be to check for any bugs.
Anthea was in the car, and Sherlock shot John a meaningful look, which John chose to ignore. "Mr Holmes says that I am to pick you up on Wednesday, six o'clock at Waterloo."
Sherlock's face didn't show any reaction, but John knew he would have to say something about that. Mycroft had sent John a text, simply stating that their holiday had been extended to a full seven days.
Anthea didn't say another word throughout the ride, but John noticed Sherlock staring at her as if he was trying to read something that she wasn't telling him. "Sherlock?" John eventually said, trying to break the tension.
Sherlock looked around, his expression calm but guarded. "Relax?" John offered, pursing his lips as to show him that he wasn't happy with the way Sherlock was behaving.
Sherlock, however, either didn't understand him or ignored John's little intervention and simply leaned over to kiss him. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it, but Anthea's presence did make John slightly uncomfortable. He tried to pull back, but Sherlock simply leaned in further until John didn't have anywhere else to go.
Just when he was finally letting himself enjoy the kiss, the car stopped. Anthea cleared her throat and opened the door. "We're here," she remarked, her voice not giving any of her thoughts away. Sherlock straightened and climbed out of the car while John sat back, sorting out his breathing for a moment before he followed him. "Sorry," he mumbled to Anthea, but she was already busily typing away at her phone.
Pulling the tickets from his coat pocket while trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock who just wandered off into the crowd, he stumbled forward, wondering not for the first time how people just parted for Sherlock while he bumped into every single person he encountered.
When they finally reached the platform, John was out of breath and a little flustered, having apologised to at least thirteen different people and having been stabbed by three different elbows, one missing his face by merely an inch.
Sherlock looked bored.
John blinked a few times and tried to find their seating reservation on the tickets. He laughed out loud when he found the numbers. "Coach 2, seat 21 for you and 22 for me," he announced, grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock displayed the hint of a smile before he grabbed his bag and walked down along the train to the second carriage.
He was already sitting when John finally found their seats. They were seated in first class, when John distinctly remembered booking second. A little unsure whether those were really their seats, he looked up and down the corridor, still holding his own bag.
"John, sit down." Sherlock looked at him, his face turned towards the window, but his eyes dancing amused across John's face.
"Fine," John sighed, pushing his bag under the seat and dropping into it. "Mycroft?"
Sherlock didn't seem to find that his question deserved an answer. He turned his face completely to the window. "This train might not actually make it back to London today," he remarked, his fingers drumming against the arm rest.
"What?" John asked, confused about this completely random comment.
"Did you see the loose cables? It will rain later today and the system will break down. Short-circuit. Good thing we'll be in our hotel by the time it starts raining." His fingers stopped drumming for a second, but then continued nonplussed.
"Okay," John said, leaning back in his seat. "Wake me up when we are there."
Sherlock's head snapped around, his eyes studying him with something like uncertainty. "You're not going to sleep."
"Sherlock, this is supposed to be a holiday and I've almost gotten myself trampled out there before we even reached the train. I am most definitely going to take a nap now while I can."
Sherlock looked almost hurt, but John knew that he only saw this as a challenge. "And don't think about touching me," he said, quietly, but the warning was audible in his voice. Sherlock looked as if he was actually insulted by that suggestion, clearly telling John that it had been precisely his plan. "And no whispering or dirty talk or ... you know, just let me sleep." With that he closed his eyes.
The train started moving and soon they left London. John had rolled his head to the side so he could now and then look at Sherlock through his eye lashes, who was looking out of the window, his body entirely still. Even his ever moving fingers were resting calmly on his thighs. John smiled. Sleep came slowly, but it came. It seemed as if he had just closed his eyes when he felt himself woken up rather violently by a jolt and a sharp screeching noise. For a moment he felt himself lifted off his seat, but then a strong arm pinned him down again. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock right in front of him, both hands now pressing against his chest as to keep him in his seat.
"Jesus, what happened?" John asked, searching Sherlock's face for any clues. Sherlock seemed worried, but he shook his head. "Sheep," he simply said, finally letting go of John. Other passengers had not been so lucky as to have had someone hold them down in their seats. Several people rose from the floor, muttering as they straightened their clothes to sit back down.
John stood and walked towards a lady who had trouble rising. "Is everyone okay?" he asked, calm but loud enough to be heard. A few heads turned, but nobody seemed to actually be hurt. John helped the lady back into her seat and was rewarded with a grateful smile. "That is very decent of you, young man," she said, petting his hand for a few seconds before letting him go. "This happens all the time and I am never quite prepared for this."
"It does?" John asked amused.
"Yes, bloody sheep everywhere. They constantly stand around on the tracks. It's been the third time this month, and you would think that the sheep would be kept somewhere inside for the cold months, but no..."
John suppressed a giggle and nodded at her. "You should go and see a doctor, just in case your back is hurt, alright?"
"Thank you, love," she said with another smile.
John returned to his seat where Sherlock was looking at him with a strange expression.
"What?" John asked, feeling a light blush rising in his cheeks.
"It's just interesting to see how you take care of someone else."
"Someone else as in not you?" John asked, sitting down, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Yes, it's quite ... interesting," he finished, obviously unwilling to say whatever other adjective he really wanted to use.
John laughed. "What's with the bloody sheep, then?"
"It's been on the news. I did not think that this would happen again."
"The lady was going on about that, too."
"Did you know that the Chunnel had to close for several weeks because of a flock of sheep that just happened to stand around inside?"
"Yeah, I read about it somewhere."
"They must have no self-preservation instinct whatsoever. Maybe they have suicidal tendencies which nobody ever tried to explore. They are also communicating over long distances. Sheep are quite interesting creatures. Collectively suicidal, but interesting."
John looked at Sherlock, holding his breath. If this was what Sherlock would be like during their holiday he wouldn't be able to take him seriously again.
"What?" Sherlock asked, his lower lip pushing out into an almost pout.
John inhaled shakily. "That thing we were talking about? That needing to kiss and hug you thing?" he nodded to himself as if to underline the significance of his words, "it's happening right now." He bit his lip, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't be too offended.
"John, I'm just telling you about the tendency of an entire species to put themselves in danger and you find that..."
"Adorable, yes."
"This is not good," Sherlock said, sitting up straighter.
John let go of the breath he had been holding. "Can I kiss you?"
"What? John!" Sherlock seemed rather confused, and John instinctively licked his lips. "You said yourself I would have to hold myself back in public and in case you haven't noticed, we're on a train. With other people. I'll go and see if there is any chance of us getting out of here before it starts to rain." He stood up and stalked away.
John grinned and dropped back into his seat. Was Sherlock seriously upset about this? He couldn't be. Could he?
When Sherlock didn't return for ten minutes, he felt the strongest urge to go and find him. But then again, someone had to watch the luggage, not that he believed that anyone would actually steal anything, but he had no idea what Sherlock had packed, so he did not want to leave his bag unattended.
Finally he came back, looking smug. "We'll get cabs," he announced with a smile to the general public. When he let himself fall into his seat not unlike he would onto the couch, John leaned in closer, watching his face intently.
"What?" he asked, flashing a smile at John.
"Did you jerk off?" John asked quietly, knowing that Sherlock would figure out his thoughts if he wasn't faster and spoke them before he could deduce it.
"I might have," Sherlock answered, winking at John, who started blushing furiously.
"You're joking!"
"I also got the conductor to call us all cabs. We'll be in Winchester in half an hour."
"Great, that's ... great." John felt tension building in his stomach. It was a mixture of arousal, exasperation and complete disbelief. He leaned back and tried to think of dead sheep on the track.
After a few moments, the conductor appeared and asked everyone to follow him and to bring their luggage. Sherlock remained sitting in his seat, eyes closed, a content smile on his lips. John wanted to hit him, or snog him senseless, he couldn't quite say which sentiment was stronger at the moment.
"Mr Holmes, are you ready to leave?"
Sherlock stood up and grabbed his bag. "Yes, thank you. Come on, John."
John followed Sherlock and the conductor outside, wondering what the hell was going on. When they left the train he could see storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The small road close to the track was crowded with cabs, but most of them were leaving as they made their way towards them. Only one remained, and the conductor shook Sherlock's hand. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. We appreciate it." John avoided looking at the source of the problem which had caused the train to stop.
His frown seemed to amuse Sherlock, but he didn't offer an explanation. In the cab, John decided to just let Sherlock do his thing. He was slightly irritated, but he also knew that this was almost the old Sherlock again, so he wouldn't complain. Behind closed doors he would have his new Sherlock back, and that Sherlock would be rendered speechless very soon, he was sure of that.
"Stop grinning. John," Sherlock remarked with a sigh, which could have been annoyed, or amused.
"I will bloody well do as I please," John remarked, looking out of the window, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was quiet after this, but John could feel the tension. Despite the fact that Sherlock was probably behaving much more like his old self now, he could feel that he had changed, and that his nonchalant attitude towards everyone around him didn't quite fit him so smoothly anymore.
It seemed like hours until the cab finally stopped in front of their hotel in the centre of Winchester. John was fairly sure that the rather pompous country house was not the hotel he had booked a room in. He would have to talk to Mycroft about this.
They were greeted by name, and nobody raised so much as an eyebrow as they were shown to their room. When the door opened, John couldn't quite keep himself from cursing, much to the amusement of the concierge, who handed them a folder with information concerning the hotel and left them, wishing them a pleasant stay.
John had planned to close the door and show Sherlock what exactly his rude behaviour had done to him, but he was momentarily too shocked to move anything other than his jaw, gaping at the room in front of them.
It was a perfect Victorian master bedroom. The bed was huge, big curtains draped around the pillars which reached almost to the ceiling. The windows were large, letting in the last sunlight as the clouds slowly took over the sky, framed by dark heavy curtains. The window panes served as pillowed benches and between the two windows, a bookshelf stretched from one bench to the other. Across the room, a large wardrobe was adjacent to a door which probably led into the bathroom. Next to the door, a mahogany table with fitting chairs presented them with a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne with two glasses, already full, waiting to be enjoyed.
John dropped his bag on the floor and took a careful step into the room. Sherlock closed the door behind him and walked to the windows. Just as he stood there, the first rain drops started tapping against the glass, making him smile his 'I was right'-smile.
"Sherlock," John started, unsure of what to say to this. One night in this hotel would probably cost them as much as the entire four nights in the one he had originally booked. "What is this?"
Sherlock turned around and grinned, unbuttoning his coat and throwing it carelessly on the bed. "It's the honeymoon suite," he announced, turning around himself once, "or so I've been told."
John walked the few paces to the table and let himself fall into the nearest chair. "Honeymoon?" he asked, slightly unsure whether this was a joke or whether Sherlock really was serious.
"Well, you can call it non-honeymoon suite, because we're on non-honeymoon." Sherlock's grin was almost splitting his face in half.
"You knew about this?" John asked, slightly in awe, because he had not for a moment thought that Sherlock would be even remotely interested in their holiday plans other than possibly making John see the importance of bringing his phone along.
"Surprise," he said, looking ridiculously proud of himself.
"You ... you did this?"
Sherlock nodded, once, and John was out of his chair and in his arms in a flash. His body suddenly remembered the pent up frustration and want and it now mixed with utter disbelief and so much love that he wasn't sure how to handle it other than kissing Sherlock until he forgot how to breathe.
Sherlock seemed to have expected John's reaction, as he opened his arms just in the right moment and met his lips half way. What he hadn't expected was the force with which John threw himself at him, so he stumbled back a bit until his legs pressed against the bed.
"On the bed," John growled, pushing Sherlock harder. They did have to break the kiss, because the bed was not only very wide, but also very high. John watched with hooded eyes as Sherlock crawled up on it, kicking off his shoes.
John didn't give him time to remove anything else. Leaping on the bed, he pinned Sherlock down on the soft surface, coming to lie between his knees, bringing his face very close to that of his friend. The room had gone dark and the wind had taken up, pressing the rain harder against the windows. John's breath was ghosting over Sherlock's face, his eyes fixed to Sherlock's. "So," he pushed his hips down, causing Sherlock to spread his legs wider. For a moment he watched Sherlock's minute reaction. Nothing in his face gave his arousal away, but his pupils dilated and his breath hitched. "This is our non-wedding night then?"
Sherlock started grinning and blushing at the same time. "Are you going to take my virginity?" Sherlock asked, his voice deep and steady.
It took John a few seconds to get over the fact that Sherlock had just perfectly undermined his dominance, but then he dipped down and started kissing Sherlock furiously. "Fuck yeah, I will," he grunted as he pushed his hips down once again, watching as Sherlock's eyes closed and he gave himself up to John.