Never Change a Running System
Part 11 – the return of the banana costume
Breakfast with Sherlock the next morning was unspectacular, and John, who had the day off, made his way directly to the Yard to return Lestrade's keys.
When he entered the office, he saw right away that Lestrade had a massive hangover, so he lowered his voice to a stage whisper before wishing him a good morning.
Lestrade favoured him with a grateful look before he let his head fall back down onto the desk and hid it in the crook of his arm.
"Too bright," he groaned, causing John to smile in commiseration. Lestrade blinked up at John from under his elbow. "And what brings you here this morning? And all alone?" he asked, his voice slightly thick.
"Your car keys, Greg," John said, and laid them on the desk in front of the Detective Inspector. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he took a seat, since Lestrade was obviously not in any state to abide by the rules of politeness.
"So it was you I was at the pub with," Lestrade stated, then shrugged his shoulders. "It could have been worse."
"Don't remember?" John asked sympathetically.
"Vaguely..." Lestrade replied shortly, then thought hard. "Hey, where's my car?"
John had to muster all of his self-control in order not to smirk.
"Can't tell you that, Greg. We ran into each other in front of the pub."
"Fantastic," Lestrade said tiredly. "Fan-bloody-tastic." He straightened up with some effort, and leaned back in his chair. "Still too bright," he moaned in a pained voice and rubbed his temples.
"Coffee, aspirin, and at least two pints of water," John recommended. "Sorry I can't help you with the car." He made to get up.
"Hold on, wait a minute," Lestrade cried, wincing painfully at the sound of his own voice. When he'd gathered himself again, he leaned forward and crossed his arms on the desk. "Did I talk a lot of shite yesterday?" he asked in a confidential tone. "I can get pretty gabby after the third beer." He made a broad gesture with his hand.
John decided to keep the secret to himself.
"No, you don't have to worry, Greg," he assured him, not entirely truthfully.
Lestrade rested his chin on his right hand and regarded John sceptically through narrowed eyes.
"Why do I not believe you?" he muttered quietly. "But fine." He shrugged. "Thanks for forgetting my gibberish. Whatever it was."
"No problem," John replied with a smile, and this time he really did get up.
"Oh, before I forget," Lestrade called him back once more. "Here." He handed John a photocopied page. "Invitation. Christmas do. Here at the Yard. Could be fun. And bring Sherlock. He's always refused. We can get him wasted and take pictures."
John ran his eye down the sheet, then looked up in surprise.
"Why would we do that?"
"You know..." Lestrade tapped his nose. "Revenge for the banana costume?"
John's cheeks flared alternately hot and cold.
"You know about that?" he hissed between gritted teeth. Oh, Sherlock was going to pay!
"'Know' is saying too much," Lestrade qualified it by saying. "He was messing about with his phone recently and kept giggling. I happened to catch a glimpse over his shoulder... I saw him looking at these pictures. Of you, in a banana get-up." The memory caused a grin to flicker over Lestrade's face.
"I am going to kill him for that," John cursed softly, and went to the door.
"How about it?" Lestrade wanted to know. "Are you two coming to the Christmas party?"
"You can bet your life on it. Even if it means I have to drag him here by his ears!" John cried, furious, causing Lestrade to wince in pain again.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
As soon as he got home, he shouted for Sherlock, still upset.
"You are going to delete those banana pictures immediately!"
"Why should I?" Sherlock called back. John followed his voice, only to find Sherlock sitting on the couch in the living room with his own laptop in front of him for once.
"Why?!" John fumed. "Lestrade happened to see them! He said you were giggling. Giggling! Delete them right now! Who knows who else happens to have seen them. Is that what you call keeping a secret for me?"
"I never giggle," Sherlock snipped, without looking up from his laptop.
John threw his arms angrily in the air.
"Is that all you have to say?!"
"Yes. I don't know why you're getting so upset." He patted the empty space to the right of him. "Sit. I need your advice."
John blinked in surprise, momentarily distracted and rather flattered.
"My advice? Really?"
"You say that as if I never ask for your advice," Sherlock responded, somewhat insulted.
"You don't," John replied dryly. "Fine, what's it about? New case?"
Sherlock looked up at John mischievously.
"Not exactly, but it is something I've been working on for a few days. Now come here."
Defeated, John let himself sink down next to Sherlock on the couch and looked at the laptop screen. "Oh no," he groaned. "Not again..." His eyes narrowed and he bent closer to the screen. "Are those studs?"
Sherlock had logged into an online shop for sex toys on the internet. At the moment, the screen was almost entirely filled with a picture of a strangely bent (and hot pink) vibrator.
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked coolly. "According to the description, the angle is especially designed for prostate..."
"Sherlock!" John cut in. "Why the fixation with your prostate?"
Sherlock gave him an uncomprehending look.
"Because I still haven't managed to successfully..."
"Yes, all right! Leave it," John interrupted him quickly. "Forget I asked." He leaned back on the couch and took a deep breath. "You're not going to leave me alone until you've figured it out, are you?" He looked up at the ceiling, avoiding Sherlock's eye.
"John, confirming things one already knows is boring."
"If you say so," John muttered quietly, strenuously trying to avoid imagining Sherlock in action with that vibrator. He still felt a familiar warmth in his groin. John hadn't counted on putting the strength of his resolution to the test quite so soon. He concentrated on his breathing and felt himself calming down. Good. He had himself under control again.
"Right. Sherlock, you want my advice?" He waited for his friend to nod briefly. "Then you're going to get it. You may not like it, but that's entirely your problem." He paused to make sure Sherlock was listening, because he didn't want to have to repeat this little lecture. "I know you're a technology freak. No, let me finish. It's true and you know it too. And that's okay. But in this area, you should give up your fixation on all this plastic stuff. Buy an enema set and a couple of pairs of latex gloves at the druggist's, and use your fingers. They're long enough. And flexible enough. All that violin playing is going to finally pay off."
Sherlock sat there silently, apparently seriously considering and analysing what he'd said.
"Your argument makes a certain amount of sense. The plug I've been using hasn't lived up to my expectations, and is a far cry from the manufacturer's claims. You know which one I mean."
And how John knew. He recalled the sight vividly, as well as the feelings it had set off in him. With a certain degree of horror, he realised that his brain wasn't the only part of his body that remembered it well. It took all of his concentration to suppress the budding feelings of arousal.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," John lied – fortunately without turning red.
Sherlock gave him a quick, calculating, and slightly bewildered look.
"Yes, you do, John... the plug I was wearing recently when you were standing outside my door. You must have seen it."
The words hit John like a bolt of lightning. A ball of ice formed in his stomach, while his cheeks burned with heat. His limbs fell asleep and went numb. His head felt like a dry sponge. His tongue lay like damp sawdust in his mouth. Still, he tried to speak in order to salvage what he could. Why didn't anyone ever drop a bomb on you when you needed it?
"Sherlock, I..." But neither his heavy tongue nor his equally heavy brain could come up with anything else. Only then did he notice that Sherlock was still clicking calmly around in the internet. How in the world could Sherlock be so calm? Had he not noticed everything? It was possible... after all, he'd been pretty well occupied.
But if John thought the worst was over at that point, he was wrong. Dead wrong.
"And if we're discussing keeping secrets... since you have unusually high moral scruples, I can guarantee that no one will find out from me that you were aroused," Sherlock stated, as if he were merely asking after the sell-by date on the milk. At the same time, he logged out of the internet and shut down his computer.
John didn't know whether he was coming or going any more. His entire life couldn't have prepared him for this moment. So he did what he usually did in a high-stress situation. He tried to deny it.
"Aroused? What... How... I was not aroused!" he cried. He had wanted to sound indignant – like a suspect who had been falsely accused of a crime – but even he had to admit that his stammering didn't sound very convincing.
Sherlock snapped his laptop shut before turning to look pensively at John, his head tilted slightly to one side.
"Your breathing sounded like it, and you were in quite a hurry to get to your room. Why didn't you come in? I might have been able to help you. It would only have been fair of me to finally return the favour for your help."
For a few completely crazy seconds, John thought he was going to faint. His head was spinning, and the lump of ice in his stomach was making him feel nauseous. Sherlock would have... Certain parts of his body reacted enthusiastically to the idea, but John didn't even dare think about it. Nonetheless, for the next few seconds – which stretched out for a mini-eternity – he did nothing but.
Sherlock would have... John squeezed his eyes and his lips together and shook his head hard. "Sherlock... That wouldn't have been right..." he finally got out.
"Why not? It might have been interesting," Sherlock noted. His eyes regarded John with curiosity as well as a bit of irritation.
"Interesting," John repeated flatly.
He understood. Sherlock hadn't offered him anything more nor less than mechanical assistance. He might even have turned it into an experiment. John realised right then that he would probably be welcome in Sherlock's bed any time, but that Sherlock would merely be using him like one of his toys. Without any further emotion.
In an odd confluence of clarity and self-awareness, John knew that that wouldn't be enough for him. That wasn't what he wanted. He didn't just want an outlet for his physical desires. He wanted more. He wanted sex and emotion. He did want Sherlock, but he also wanted to have an emotional connection to him. However, he knew that he could never have that. Sherlock didn't do emotions. At least he didn't do them in a relationship. Not if it meant anything more than friendship.
"Yes, interesting," Sherlock confirmed. "But let's not discuss it further. Would you recommend any particular enema?"
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
Amazingly enough, John didn't suffer much over the next few days. The feelings of guilt that he'd carried around with him from his foray into voyeurism dissolved completely in light of Sherlock's matter-of-fact comments.
He bore life with Sherlock and his sometimes grotesque ideas and remarks with calm composure. The knowledge that there was no future for his innermost desires didn't depress him at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: it had a downright liberating effect on him.
It also didn't bother him any more when his masturbatory fantasies – heretofore populated by plush breasts and thighs - were sometimes invaded by masculine bodies with dark, curly hair and a sarcastic smile. He took things as they came and resolved not to lose his shirt over it.
However, his calm composure was broken one night when he was torn out of a deep sleep by a loud cry.
"Sherlock!" he shouted, aghast, and ran down the stairs in his pyjamas. The long, draw-out cry accompanied John all the way down, and only petered out to a breathless gasp when he was right in front of Sherlock's door. John was prepared for the worst; although it hadn't really sounded like a cry of pain. Had it?
The latch on the door had been repaired, so the door was now completely closed. John hesitated for a moment. Should he burst in or knock?
After a brief internal battle, he banged his fist against the door.
"Sherlock?! Is everything all right? Are you okay?!"
"John... You were right," came the muted answer through the door. "Fingers are sufficient."
The image that those few words conjured in John's mind's eye caused more than just a brief tug in his groin. He swallowed hard and managed a weak "Good for you," through the door.
He should really go now, but his blood was still pounding hot and fast through his veins, and a lustful urge had seized hold of him. Should he go in or leave? For a few frantic seconds, the decision hung in the balance, but then John turned and went back to his room. He was too proud to stand in for a vibrator.
Once in his room, he wiped the cold sweat off his forehead. His pyjama shirt was sticking clammily to his back.
"Fuck you," he cursed softly and lay down on his bed. His agitated brain threw image after image at him of long, white fingers and sinewy legs, shaking with arousal. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he cursed again and shoved his hand into his pyjama bottoms.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
As was to be expected, Sherlock was still asleep when John went to make breakfast the next morning. As they were out of not only milk but also toast and jam, he reluctantly pulled on his jacket in order to go shopping.
His thoughts were still circling around the events of the previous night; his mood regarding the same was still undecided. But when he ran into a hysterical Mrs Hudson on the stairs, he was able to remind himself of the humour of the entire situation.
"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," he greeted her.
Mrs Hudson actually grabbed his sleeve with one hand and held onto him, a sure sign of her agitated emotional state.
"What in the world was going on last night? I heard screaming! It came from your flat." Her voice wavered between horror, curiosity, and indignation.
John began to suspect what the point of the interrogation was, and he had to suppress a grin.
"That was Sherlock," John replied simply, and carefully removed Mrs Hudson's hand from his jacket.
"Sherlock?" She made a sound of concern. "Good heavens – did something happen to him? Is he all right?"
John couldn't help smirking at this point.
"I'm sure he's doing splendidly," he answered.
"How can you be so sure?" Mrs Hudson insisted stubbornly. "You haven't seen him yet this morning, have you? Because I only heard one person walking around in the flat."
John sighed quietly, but with a smile. "No, I haven't seen him yet, but I don't have to. My deductions may not be as brilliant as his... but as a doctor I'll go out on a limb and guess that he and his prostate got acquainted last night. Quite successfully, in my opinion."
"He and his... Oh!" Mrs Hudson, with sudden comprehension, clapped her hands over her mouth while her cheeks turned scarlet.
"Exactly," John agreed with a slightly indecent grin. "Good day, Mrs Hudson." He turned around to go.
"But you..." Mrs Hudson said bashfully.
"I had nothing whatsoever to do with it," John replied firmly, and fled the house before he burst with laughter, so to avoid drawing her eternal animosity on himself.
The expression on her face had been so precious that he seriously considered gloating over the whole thing with Sherlock.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
The next few days passed by with a halfway decent case concerning a fish, a signet ring, and marital infidelity. Sherlock didn't exactly was enthusiastic about it, but he did go about the investigation with a pleasing diligence, and the mood around Baker Street 221B was relaxed and even – thanks to Mrs Hudson's biscuits – tending toward Christmassy.
On the day of the Yard Christmas party that Sherlock and John were invited to, however, Sherlock was in a difficult mood, to put it mildly.
John tried not to do or say anything that would antagonise him further; although there was nothing he hated more than playing the whipping boy during one of Sherlock's pouts, neither did he have any particular desire to go the party alone.
Everything was going fairly well until they were sitting in the taxi, where John committed the incaution of yawning.
To which Sherlock said, "You should sleep more, then you wouldn't be so tired during the day."
"I wouldn't be so tired if I didn't get woken up every night by your screams of ecstasy," John retorted, irritated.
Sherlock's eyes flashed at him angrily.
"Every night? You should really learn to count, John. It's happened exactly twice. I needed reference values, obviously."
"The first time was already once too many. And it wasn't just me you woke up, the whole house could hear you."
"Is that so? Then why hasn't anyone complained about it?"
"Because everyone but you has a speck of common decency and doesn't want to bring up such a delicate topic unless it's absolutely necessary."
"That's ridiculous!"
"No, that's manners! And the next time, bite your pillow or something, for God's sake. As long as you're not so loud the entire street can hear you."
"It was just the house before, now it's the entire street... Really, John. You should pay more attention to your own hyperbole. Why are you so upset anyway?"
"Because with all that yelling, people are going to think we're going at it like rabbits," John shot back furiously, not even thinking about the cabbie, who had been listening in with great interest since the start of the argument. "And yet it's only you who doesn't waste a single opportunity to stick your fingers up..."
"You told me to!"
"So?!"
"John, you're being terribly illogical today." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "And I don't want to go to this party."
"You either come or you delete those pictures!"
"No."
"Then you're coming to the party. That was the deal. You agreed."
"Under duress! And under protest!"
"You're going to go, you're going to be pleasant to the people there, you're going to drink a glass of wine, and you're going to have a good time! Is that clear!" John raged in his best commanding officer voice.
"Yes, sir." Sherlock mock-saluted. "I do like it when you get your officer on."
"Shut up! Just shut up!" John hissed at him.
Just then, the taxi came to a halt. John got out, leaving Sherlock to pay the cabbie.
As Sherlock handed the driver the money, the man asked, "What're the pictures of?"
"Him wearing a banana costume," Sherlock answered neutrally.
"You have a Chiquita fetish or something?" the cabbie said, shaking his head. "Why do I always get the perverts?" He took the money and drove off without making change.
John had heard the exchange and didn't know whether to fume or laugh. His expression was no challenge for Sherlock to read. After a brief glance at him, his friend said, "Not another word. You started it."
"You ticked me off first," John responded, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter.
A smile passed briefly over Sherlock's lips.
"Touché," he said simply.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
The party was officially being held in the rooms that were used for press conferences and internal meetings, but the partygoers had spread out over the entire level.
Lestrade seemed to have been lying in wait for John and Sherlock; as soon as they stepped out of the lift, he came over to them with two glasses of wine, shoving them into their hands.
"You're in a good mood, Lestrade," Sherlock noted with his usual slightly patronising manner.
"I have every reason to be!" the Detective Inspector crowed cheerfully. "My wife tricked me with the pottery class because she was learning how to fish. She wanted to surprise me with it for Christmas. Now she'll be able to come with me on my next fishing trip. Isn't that unbelievable?!"
"All I can say is..." Sherlock stopped, then finished by saying, "All's well that ends well."
Lestrade beamed. "Thanks! Have fun, you two!" With a cheerful wave, he disappeared into the crowd.
"Why did you kick me?" Sherlock asked John.
"You know bloody well why, otherwise you wouldn't have reconsidered and wouldn't have said something other than what you were planning on saying," John growled quietly.
"I was simply going to open his eyes to what exactly his wife was fishing for. My personal belief is that it was the fishing instructor," Sherlock retorted, slightly insulted. "He has a right to know the truth."
John sighed.
"Sherlock, he has a right to be happy. It's Christmas. Let it go. Maybe it's already over with the instructor, or maybe there wasn't anything going on at all and she only had a crush on him, and Greg would get upset over something that... You know what I mean!" he concluded angrily.
Sherlock frowned.
"Not really. And yes – it is over with the instructor. Why doesn't he finally divorce the woman? She's a notorious adulteress."
"He loves her."
Sherlock snorted derisively.
"How do you know that?"
"He told me."
"But that doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock cried. "She keeps making him unhappy."
"Love doesn't really have to make sense," John said, and realised that he must have spoken in a tone of voice that caused Sherlock to eye him critically.
But he only remarked, "Stupid," and turned away.
John breathed out in relief and went looking for the promised cold buffet.
Two glasses of wine later John allowed himself to turn his vigilance down a notch and relax. Sherlock hadn't insulted anyone more than was usual, and at least was making the appearance of not being bored. John decided he could concentrate on having his own fun now. His advanced state of relaxation caused him to miss a certain fact that was very much a subject of interest to a small group of young ladies who were whispering and giggling about it.
John Watson was standing directly under a sprig of mistletoe.
He only became aware of the fact when a plump brunette approached him. The determination in her eye and the bright red spots on her cheeks engendered a feeling of foreboding in him and made him look up. When he saw the mistletoe, he realised that neither flight nor rejection were viable options.
And so he accepted the inevitable and allowed her to kiss him. 'Why not,' he thought to himself. 'It's been far too long since you've kissed a woman anyway.'
Unfortunately, it occurred to him just as her lips – tasting unpleasantly of artificial strawberries – pressed against his that he'd wondered not all that long ago what it would be like to kiss Sherlock on the mouth.
His eyes automatically sought – during the kiss - dark curls and a slender figure in the crowd. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he'd just turned his back. John was grateful, as otherwise his friend would have read in his face the longing and the thousand questions that had suddenly come over him.
He didn't notice that Sherlock was standing in front of a framed certificate that was hanging on the wall, nor that the room behind Sherlock was reflected in its glass. His friend actually had a very good view of the area beneath the mistletoe. He saw not only the plump brunette kissing John; he also saw that John hadn't closed his eyes.
oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
Sherlock was aware of mass media's attempt to make the average consumer believe that romance or love went hand in hand with cheesy violin music. He had always found that to be the pinnacle of sentimental tripe.
But now he paused, listened, and paid attention to what was going on inside him. There was something stirring ... vibrating ... something that he hadn't thought he possessed, or at least that had been lost. Wiped from the map. Gone forever. There was no doubt about it, though, that there was something... in his chest, in his head, deep in his belly.
He wanted to put it down to the cheap wine, but he'd only taken a couple of sips. Certainly not enough to cause such a physical reaction. Not to mention auditory hallucinations.
Still bewildered, Sherlock realised that the muffled vibration was emanating from somewhere near his diaphragm and was louder than his own heartbeat. A dark, mysterious rhythm that put him in mind of heathen rituals and made him feel strangely restless.
And on top of all that was the surprising insight that John wanted him.
(To be continued…)