John was fucking beside himself. Absolutely god damned fucking beside himself. As in, you know, on the freaking complete other side of his entire self.
And don't you dare tell him he's over-reacting because frankly, who the hell even asked you? No really, who? Because Dr. John H. Watson? The one with the medical degree and the dozen-some-odd years practicing, you know, medicine? He does not recall having asked you for your medical opinion on this and so he will politely tell you to take your unsolicited viewpoint and to kindly stuff it up your arse.
Breathe John.
Breathe.
John took a deep slow breath. Let it out a bit less slowly. He took another, let that one out somewhat faster. He kept at this until he realized he was hyperventilating again. Dizzy, again. And knew that if he stood too fast and tried to locomote from the kitchen he was going to bang his head against the door frame. Again.
Okay. All right. Enough already. The case was over, a done deal. All was well, evil vanquished, the innocent victorious. So the guilt he had? Not getting him anywhere. The culpability he felt for suggesting to Sherlock that he take this stupid, god damn, idiotic, crappy case? Still getting him no where.
And really, it had sounded easy. To unmask a fraud posing as a doctor specializing in eating disorders Sherlock would be admitted to the man's 'spa.' Once there the detective would gather the evidence needed to take the scam artist down.
And that's exactly what happened. 'Evil vanquished, the innocent victorious,' remember? Easy-peasy, right?
Wrong. Because they'd needed seven days to close a case that should have taken less than two. But three blunders on the Yard's part, and one spa patient going into cardiac arrest had changed damn well everything.
Even that would have been okay but for one fact no one but John knew: To 'make it real' Sherlock decided the case required he fucking starve himself while at the spa.
"No."
That had been John, the day Sherlock was going undercover. Standing at the kitchen table with a plate of toast in his hand. A plate Sherlock wouldn't take.
"John, I don't actually need your permi—"
"No no no."
"Not eating while I'm there will make it more believable I'm anorexic. It's not as prevalent among men as women, so it'd be helpful for me to—"
"Fuck it I said no." John gets sweary when he's hungry. He apparently also gets sweary when he thinks about Sherlock being hungry. To underscore his feelings on the matter the good doctor slammed the plate of toast onto the table with both hands. "Now eat."
Sherlock sighed, stood up, stood tall.
John glowered up at him, hands fisted at his sides. "Don't pull that shit, Sherlock. You don't intimidated me, you never have. And you don't need my permission but I'm still telling you no. So…no."
Sherlock leaned warm against John, pressed his mouth to the good doctor's temple. "I'm not trying to intimidate you." He spoke softly, as if saying the words just so would help his lover believe them. John felt Sherlock's lips curve into a smile. "I'm trying to give myself resolve against you, you tiny tyrant."
John breathed out a little laugh and Sherlock said softer still, "It's only for a day or two. Please?"
A begging Sherlock is a little something like a tall, warm, wonderful drug. So John said yes partly because he wanted a good hard hit of that, but mostly because Sherlock agreed—and swore on the skull's smooth, cool brow—that after the case he would eat anything he was told to for three times as long as the case lasted.
John Watson: Not as stupid as he looks.
And then came all the bureaucratic snafus, the mistakes, the cardiac arrest—the damn mess that meant Sherlock was gone not for one day or two but for an entire week. Seven long days during which John knew, knew Sherlock was not eating.
The first day his lover went without food John just nodded at everyone a lot. The second day the good doctor frowned quite a bit. The third and fourth days John knew Sherlock was in there not eating he was cross with everyone with whom he had the slightest contact. The fifth and sixth days Sherlock was going without food John was so god damn fucking dick shit cunt cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch fuck-you-twice sweary even the beat cops at the Yard widened their eyes.
By the time the case was closed near the end of that seventh day and John knew Sherlock was coming home, he was so unrelentingly full of worry jitters he actually had to drink two cups of coffee to calm himself the hell down.
Then Lestrade rang.
"No."
"John, I don't actually need your permission to—"
"Fuck it Greg, he can go over the case and give his statement tomorrow."
"It's not up to me, it's—" Gregory Lestrade looked at his mobile, blinked twice. He was pretty sure John Watson had just hung up in his ear.
...
Hands clasped behind his back to keep them from shaking, Sherlock stared out Lestrade's office window. Through the glass he could see the desk of fourteen detectives but, while waiting for Lestrade's return, Sherlock had eyes for only three.
First Dickens, at the middle left. She was a model of efficiency that one, fingers flying over her keyboard, answering her phone, chatting with colleagues. And now and again she popped a handful of almonds into her mouth and chewed slowly, meditatively. Sherlock had never stared so hard at a woman's mouth in his entire life.
A few minutes later he noticed Bell all the way in the back, eating a falafel with one hand, writing a report with the other. Sherlock was certain he could smell meat and onions through the intervening twenty feet and a sheet of smudged plate glass and wondered if anyone would notice if he started tonguing the window.
Then very close, almost right outside Lestrade's office there was Haddad. Smiley, corpulent, always-eating Haddad. Right now he poked at—and seemed to talk to—a large salad. And if Sherlock wasn't mistaken that divine-looking thing had buttery croutons and tomatoes and fat creamy bits of feta cheese and maybe those were cranberries in there and some walnuts and—and—Sherlock's brain bloomed with fantasies of plunging his hands into that over-sized bowl, opening his mouth, and just eating and moaning and eating and—oh god.
Sherlock blinked fast a couple dozen times. He was confused, alert, still, and shaky all at once. His tongue slicked repeatedly over his lips as if finding sustenance there. He knew he needed food. He really, really needed—
John!
Sherlock's heart kicked hard in his chest. Oh god there was John, striding through the station like a small, angry tank. The sight of him sent wildly mixed signals skittering through Sherlock's brain. John: Your much-missed lover! John: Very often the bringer of food! John: Almost small enough to pop into your mouth and—
The good doctor swept past a dozen desks as if every last one was empty, opened Lestrade's door so hard it banged against the wall, slammed it closed just as violently, grabbed his lover's hand and tugged him into a quick kiss then barked, "Sit down and open your mouth."
Sherlock blinked fast a couple dozen times, and right then a week's worth of iron resolve vanished instantly. "I am so hungry I would cannibalize Anderson," the detective whimpered. "John, I'm ready to eat Anderson and enjoy it." The hysterical little uptick in Sherlock's voice? So not John's imagination.
John banged a satchel onto Lestrade's desk. "Sit. Open."
Sherlock sat. Sherlock opened. And maybe, just maybe Sherlock moaned a little. He wasn't entirely certain because at this point he was pretty sure he'd been hallucinating for the last twenty hours.
Didn't matter, because John had a god damned litre of chocolate chip ice cream in one hand and a spoon freighted with it in the other and the second that stuff hit the back of his throat Sherlock knew he wasn't going to be able to keep quiet.
"John…John…oh sweet Jesus." Sherlock opened his mouth again, leaned toward the spoon as it came, closed his mouth around it so fast his teeth clicked against metal. A little frantic he gripped John at the waist, tugged him closer. "More," he panted, "more."
With compact, efficient movements John gave him more, as fast as humanly possible. For his part Sherlock was so eager his mouth barely closed to swallow before it flew open again.
Again, and again, efficiency-eagerness, efficiency-eagerness. Then John thought, fuck this and dug in deep, the next spoonful so damned lavish half made it to Sherlock's mouth, the rest slicked from the spoon, plummeting down.
Without hesitation Sherlock slid to his knees on the floor, bowed over John's foot and licked the ice cream from the tip of his lover's shoe.
The jaw of every last detective at the desks nearest Lestrade's window dropped wide open.
Sherlock rose, sat back on his heels, looked up, opened up, grunted. John filled that waiting mouth. Sherlock groaned. Filled it again. Sherlock sighed. And again. Sherlock moaned. And one more time. Sherlock opened wide for that last spoonful, tilted his head back and laughed.
"Oh dear god." You could hear the smile in John's voice, the relief that wanted to bubble up into an outright giggle.
Sherlock's hands slid up to his lover's waist. "Don't stop John Johnny John, my beautiful, beautiful John."
Sherlock trembled against him, but whether from hunger or relief John didn't know and had no intention of wasting time finding out. Twisting in his lover's embrace he slammed the ice cream onto Lestrade's desk (lots of BAMFy slamming from John this week), yanked a can of chocolate sauce and one of whipped cream from that satchel and went to fucking town spraying and squirting and oozing it into that half-gone bucket of ice cream. Calories. It was all about the god damn calor—
Oh.
Hands fisted around those tall cans as if he were about to drawl "Draw!" John twisted back around and just went right to the damn source. "Open."
Sherlock already was.
First a noisy, obscene-sounding squirt of cream right into the detective's mouth, followed immediately by a thick, heavy stream of chocolate sauce until there was no more room for either.
Sherlock hissed, closed his mouth, worked it around that sugary mess with something like ecstasy, while sixteen of Scotland Yard's finest forgot every single damn thing they were doing—Haddad even put down his salad—and just stared.
Make that seventeen.
Lestrade finally rounded the corner, arms full of too damn much paperwork—seriously, in the age of computers what was with the paperwork? It was absurd. It was almost as if there was more of the stuff, and it's not as if—
Gregory Lestrade's long-legged stride faltered, slowed, came to a halt. He noticed the dead silence first—correction, silent but for three ringing phones—then noticed sixteen detectives all facing the same direction, every last one motionless, open-mouthed, and breathing heavy, like a nice little zombie horde.
"What the…" he muttered, following their gaze, then widening his own. "Jesus H. Christ."
...
"More," John said, not a question, just a sort of BAMFY observation, as he inserted the whipped cream plunger into Sherlock's mouth (they'd figured out it was faster) and let him use his teeth to activate the thing. Then Sherlock opened again, there came a gush of chocolate sauce, and everything was followed by some breathy, moany, relief-filled consumption. Lather, rinse, repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
"Oh John," Closing his eyes, Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's belly with a sigh. "I couldn't even think past the hunger. I'm an idiot. I'm—"
"Shut up," John whispered into that crazy mess of hair. "Just hush. And open your mouth again."
Sherlock sighed deep and shaky, like a little boy who's cried himself into exhaustion. He kissed John's stomach, pressed his face into it, "Yes, John," kissed again, "Yes John," and tilted back his head, mouth open, tongue thrust out.
"In or out? Either way, close the door."
Greg Lestrade looked behind him, as if perhaps there was someone else being bossed around. Nope, he appeared to be it. Greg frowned briefly. He was very not used to being pushed about by John Watson. Sherlock, yes, sure, that ship had long since sailed, but John? Polite, asks-very-little, little John? Immediately the detective inspector had the perverted need to boss John right back but he was a bigger man than that. (Hence the continued, unmurdered existence of Sherlock Holmes.)
"John, what the—"
"In or out?"
Greg opened his mouth to—
"In. Or. Out."
The DI stepped into his own office on tiptoe, closed the door with a quiet click. John and Sherlock both looked away from him at the same time and continued on as if he wasn't even there.
"Do you want to tell Greg that you haven't eaten anything for the last seven days because you're an idiot, or shall I?"
Immediately the shaky, still-possibly-hallucinating, very hungry consulting detective had the perverted need to be bossy back at John, but it turns out he'd become a bigger man than that. Damn the luck.
"But it was for the case, and—"
"Yes or no?"
Still quite on his knees, arms clutched around John's middle, in the middle of Lestrade's office, in the heart of Scotland Yard, Sherlock frowned up at John. Very quietly he said, "You do it."
John smiled. If a begging Sherlock was like a warm, wonderful drug a compliant one was like a shot of good, smooth gin.
"Open."
For a moment Greg thought John was talking to him and he almost turned and left his own office. Right then was the first time—though far from the last—Lestrade realized that, though small, John Watson could absolutely and completely fill a room when he wanted to.
Sherlock opened his mouth wide and Gregory Lestrade almost left the office under his own urgent advisement. Good god he never realized how sexual an open mouth could look. When a man was on his knees. With his eyes closed. Long arms wrapped around another man's waist. While the other man repeatedly spoon-fed him half-melted ice cream dripping with chocolate syrup. Then…um…wiped away a dribble with his finger. And the other bloke, the one on his knees, um, grabbed at the other one's wrist and sucked on that chocolate-smudged finger, and—
Greg opened his mouth so he could breathe without wheezing. He had decided quite awhile back that he did not need to interrupt this show. At any cost. If what John said was true and Sherlock, the idiot, hadn't eaten for the last seven days—well fuck it gentlemen, do carry on.
They did.
John had a lot of food in that satchel, actually, but instead of a nice medley they seemed to have gone directly to the smash number one hit and put that fucker on replay. John didn't care. Tomorrow was for well-balanced, today was for fat and calories and later on possibly some annoyed swearing at his own personal idiot and then maybe some sex.
Sherlock heard John think the word and then Sherlock decided to top from the bottom, as it were. "More," he whispered, opening his mouth yet again, and when John brought up that heaping spoon of ice cream Sherlock shook his head and stared pointedly at John's mouth.
And only just now did John kind of, more or less, sort of register where they were and what they were doing and who was watching.
Eighteen people watched the good doctor waver. Only one of them held his eye and whispered softly, "They don't matter."
It wasn't that. John didn't care what most of these people thought of them, no. What he did care about was keeping what was precious…personal.
Then again what was precious was this strange, beautiful, damaged creature on his knees. John knew that more than he wanted to keep their private life a bit private, Sherlock desperately wanted everyone to know how much he, Sherlock Holmes, was wanted. And not wanted by someone as freakish as himself, but by someone the rest of them respected, liked, admired.
John stroked Sherlock's hair off his brow, then kissed his forehead. "Just a little," he whispered against the warm skin, "then I take you home and we do this properly."
This might mean feeding Sherlock. This might mean sex. This might mean feeding Sherlock during sex. Sherlock had no clue. Which made him quite possibly happier than he already was. "Yes, John."
Compliant…docile…submissive. Whatever you wanted to call it, it had the interesting tendency to make John, mmmmm, hard. And compliant. Accommodating. Pliable. Was it possible they were both topping from the bottom? John had no clue. Didn't matter. Stop thinking John. Feed Sherlock, John.
And so John did.
That next spoon of ice cream went into his own mouth. Then John Watson leaned down and kissed that chilly, sweet confection into his lover's.
Only after he'd made the sound did Greg realize the sound he'd made had come from him. Briefly he was grateful his office door was closed and the only people who could have heard him make the sound were not even, technically, aware he existed.
And besides, that breathy, moany, sort of panting noise that was filling the room? The one coming from Sherlock? Much louder than the surprised little, "Oh fuck," Greg'd just uttered.
The second spoonful that went from John's to Sherlock's mouth required two hands, in that John put that spoon down after, ran his fingers deep into Sherlock's hair, and pulled his head back far enough to expose a tender curve of neck. He also got in on the racket, groaning as he passed the food from his mouth to Sherlock's. Quite possibly the sound of John pulled another unexpected sound from Greg and at this point the DI was feeling kind of dizzy and thinking, "I did not see my day turning out this way."
The question, of course, would be exactly how his night was going to end up.
"Ready to go home now, love?" John murmured against Sherlock's mouth. "Or shall I show them how I make you come, too?"
As soon as the words were out of his mouth John almost regretted them. Because of all the people John knows—and he knows a great many—this was the one most likely to say, "Yes."
"No," Sherlock whispered back. "Let's show them how I make you come."
John laughed so hard he was pretty sure he sprained something.
Later on, after they went home and he got a proper meal into the man, they went ahead and made each other come. There was plenty more ice cream involved. Also whipped cream. Some butter. A surprising amount of cheese. Four packets of roast chicken crisps (don't ask). And finally, somewhere around three in the morning, they did an extremely interesting thing with chocolate cake.
It was mentioned to me that eating so much sugar after fasting may be a stellar way to do grave damage to your health. So, simply put: Please don't do that. Sherlock's not real (I know, damn it, I can't believe it either), so of course it won't hurt him. In the meantime, thank you Coragyps for asking to see John getting Sherlock to eat in front of Lestrade and company. And for anyone who missed the actual, you know, sex, it'll resurface in the next chapter.
In the meantime if someone with BAMF icon/macro skills wanted to make one that said "John Watson: god damn fucking dick shit cunt cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch fuck-you-twice sweary," I'd be so happy I'd write something at your request. And probably flail a great deal.