Chapter 14

Author's note: I'm so sorry for the long delay. Have you ever passed a kidney stone? You know how absolutely agonizing it is, and how at the end of all that unrelenting pain and labour you end up with a tiny grain of sand? You know how you look at it, that bit of crystal that looks like nothing at all, and you can't believe everything you went thorough to get it out? Yeah, that was this chapter.

M/M sexytimes herein. If you have read this far and still think you don't like that sort of thing, I don't know what to say.

Love and adoration to strangegibbon, who is the best beta anyone could ask for. If you're enjoying this story, please thank her for her effort, because it would be very, very different without her. All blunders are my own.

Even before John was fully awake for the second time, he registered limbs draped over him, hair tickling his face, a familiar scent surrounding him—and frigid toes digging into his calf. The light from outside was dim and dove-grey, a liquid mercury two shades darker than Sherlock's eyes. Sleet drummed against the windowpanes.

The bed was warm and soft and full of Sherlock, and for once John didn't have to hurry off to the toilet. He left his eyes closed and pressed a kiss to the skin under his lips; Sherlock drew him in closer and sighed deeply.

Desire was a slow burn, stirring embers rather than a conflagration. The mouth against his was soft, the hands moving over his back deliberate, their breathing deep and relaxed.

"Didn't think you'd want this, with a case on."

"Verisimilitude. We're supposed to be lovers; you should look as if we have sex often." John couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. The nips under his ear convinced him he didn't care.

# # #

John had started to speak twice and stopped himself; Sherlock ran a hand up the long line of his arm and shoulder and said, "Ask."

"Is this..." John was rarely hesitant. "Is it all right if we do this now? If it's...more than sex, when you have to be sharp and brilliant and on your guard in just a little while? Would it, um, be a distraction?"

It took him a long moment to puzzle out what John meant, but when he did—

He could have told himself it was because John needed the comfort; clearly his nightmares had returned. He could have said it was insurance against John's anger if he found out about the registrar's. He knew very well, though, that those were partial truths at best, and to himself, if to no one else, he could admit the yearning and need that leapt through him like an electrical charge when he realised what John was asking. More than sex.

"I'll be fine," he said hoarsely, and gathered his John tightly to him, held him close and shivered with anticipation and longing and fear, always the fear, but the longing and need were so much greater than that and he could do this, he wanted to do this. He wanted John to do this.

John's taste. John's warmth. John's body and his ridiculous, easy affection, given so freely. All of this offered to him, to be his, now.

Yes. Oh yes. Please.

# # #

He could do this for hours. He could do this for days. He hoped he'd have a lifetime to do this, to explore this man in every way possible, to let quiet passion run through his hands and his mouth and his cock, because Sherlock needed it, needed to be shown what he felt since neither of them was likely to say the words. Absurd but true: neither of them could choke them out, despite everything.

They spent a long time kissing softly, the sounds mingling with the sleet and that strange, otherworldly light. They hadn't spent much time kissing each other before except as foreplay and it was deeply arousing and comforting at once to take his time, to hear the small sounds that pleased him so much, to be aware of his half-hard cock and enjoy the desire without urgency. Sherlock cupped his head and breathed a tiny whimper into his mouth; John's hunger rose sharply and his fingers tightened in dark curls momentarily before he forced them open. No. Let this be slow and sweet, make his fantasy real. He needs it so much.

Eventually they moved beyond kisses. He stroked and caressed, worshipping with his fingers, his lips, his gaze, with all his heart. Several times he had to stop and just lean their foreheads together, breathing steadily, forcing his desire into softer channels.

It was Sherlock who finally inhaled, dug his fingers into his arse, and groaned, "Oh God, John, get on with it." He drew up his knees and John said, "Do you want—?" and Sherlock said, "Yes, you idiot, yes."

He still wasn't used to this; it was strange, wonderful, and not something he thought he'd ever, ever do. Sherlock was beautiful and ethereal but very much male and it shook John sometimes that he could feel this way about another man. He held Sherlock's face and kissed him when they came together, moved within him, stroked his cock, whispered that he was brilliant, amazing, exceptional. Sherlock arched beneath him breathlessly and gasped, "Don't stop."

"Your face," John started, and bit his lip hard enough to bleed trying not to just take. This is for him. All for him. Behave.

Sherlock threw his head back, exposing the length of his throat as his hands clasped John's and came up slowly beside his head, sprawled softly, vulnerably. John thought he'd never seen anything so erotic as that trust and abandon. Then Sherlock rolled his hips and made a wanton sound that was so sweet and so filthy that—oh, God, he wasn't going to last long now. "Love," he whispered, and he felt the jolt run though the body around him, "come on, love, come with me, let me see you, I need you, come on."

He came first, which was only to be expected since he didn't have a hand free to bring Sherlock off, but he hadn't done that since he was a teenager and was so embarrassed he nearly hid his face in Sherlock's neck but wouldn't have missed that sight for anything. Luckily he was right behind him and a few twisting strokes of John's hand was all it took. Sherlock held his head to his shoulder through the aftershocks, murmuring, "John, my John," and when he made to pull out, Sherlock's other hand pressed against his lower back and he said, "No, not yet."

So John just brought his clean hand up to stroke the flushed face next to his, and if there was an unusual amount of sweat trickling down Sherlock's temples and John's throat was too tight to speak, well, neither of them would mention it afterwards.

# # #

Molly Hooper had been raised to do the right thing, always, even when the right thing hurt. Her mother had believed that good manners were the foundation of a civilised society and that there was no excuse for shirking.

So Molly had cried for a while, then had washed her face, emptied the used tissues into the bin, and done the right thing—the polite, civil, courteous thing. She'd petted her cat for a while and had taken deep breaths and then she'd picked up her phone and ordered him the best present she could think of. Them. It was them now, not him. If it had been just him she would have given him the amputated gangrenous leg from the diabetic that Ross had offered her. He would have loved that.

She cried some more and fed the cat and really, really tried to wish them both happiness. She threw the stupid newspaper in the bin.

Minutes later she plucked it back out, smoothed it, and put it away in her keepsake drawer. She would throw it away. She would. Just not yet.

# # #

It was one of the unfair cruelties of life, John reflected, that his status as a supposedly engaged gay man was currently netting him more feminine attention than any single thing about him had previously. He smiled, took another sip of wine, listened to the sixth woman to monopolize his attention this afternoon—this one with a lovely set of breasts that he was trying very hard not to notice—and thought fuck my life.

"—structure of the garden is a nod to Oudolf's early work. Mycroft must have followed Piet's career from the beginning."

Privately John thought the garden reflected Gertrude Jekyll's influence—Gran had been an admirer of hers and Mycroft was clearly a traditionalist—but he grinned bashfully and said, "Ah, don't know much about gardens, I'm afraid. Well, except for a bit about allotments."

By then he'd seen so many people make the same recalculation regarding his social status that he could anticipate every glance, every mental shift. This must be what it's like to be Sherlock. He waited, detachedly, for her to realise he was Not One of Us in spite of his new suit ("This belongs to me, Sherlock, I bought it and don't you dare go tossing it out because I'm not spending a couple of hundred pounds every time you—what are you choking on?"), for her expression to settle into a polite, distant mask, for the conversation to trickle off as she made her excuses and glided away to talk to someone with more potentially useful connections.

Instead her face lit with sudden warmth and she said artlessly, "Oh, it's a love match, then," before slapping a hand over her mouth and blurting, "Oh, God, that was tactless. Forgive me."

John gave the first genuine laugh he'd had since this bloody luncheon began. "No, no, it's fine. That's a far more charitable way of putting it than what most of the people here are thinking."

"You mean that you're after him for his money and he's been addled by shagging a bit of rough?"

John was actually speechless for a moment. Private school, doctor, Army officer—he knew he wasn't as posh as Sherlock's people and he certainly wasn't rich by any stretch of the imagination but he could honestly say he'd never been referred to as anyone's bit of rough before. "Er."

"Shit, shit, shit. I swear to God, give me a bottle of wine and my mouth just runs on its own. Let me start over. Hi, I'm Helen Blaketon and I'm not actually as big an arse as you might think if you'd met me a few minutes earlier."

"John Watson. And it's fine, really. Would you like another glass of wine whilst you tell me all about the rest of the people here? Particularly the ones who were rude to me?" He grinned. After a beat, she laughed and looked relieved.

As it turned out, Helen knew everything about everyone.

# # #

"If you ask me—"

"I didn't." Jesus, but Donovan was like a bloody terrier with a chew toy. Greg just wanted to enjoy his coffee in peace, not go over her new favourite topic yet again. He wished he'd never left that damned paper on his desk yesterday, although if it hadn't been his copy it would have been someone else's. There was never any chance the Yard wasn't going to hear about that particular announcement.

The thing was, he understood why Sherlock hadn't said anything to him. Sherlock to that day didn't understand why Constable Lestrade hadn't left the shivering, starved smart-arse who looked like a damned kid with track marks up his arms (who had incidentally pointed out three small but really sodding important clues his team had missed at the murder scene) behind to live or die. Didn't understand why he'd wrapped him in a spare jacket, bullied him into the car and driven around with the heater all the way up until he'd stopped shaking so hard Greg could hear his teeth chatter. Didn't understand why he'd later nearly force-fed him a hamburger with chips and three cups of hot coffee and watched him eat with the manners of a bloody earl, had even later shoved him into the shower at his own flat and pretended not to see the flicker of relief in those strange eyes when he'd told him he'd be sleeping on the sofa.

Yeah, he understood that it wouldn't even occur to Sherlock to say anything. What he didn't get was why John hadn't either.

But then, John had texted him to come out to the pub a few days ago, that day he was dealing with paperwork up to his bloody eyeballs and hadn't even left the office until half eleven. Maybe he'd been going to tell him then.

"Well, if you ask me, they only did it so they couldn't be forced to testify against each other."

Greg's mouth quirked. A moment later he pulled out his mobile. That one was too good not to share.

# # #

Since they'd begun having physical relations, John's innate sensuality had thrummed against Sherlock's skin like the notes of a cello. Annoyingly, he was not alone in this; other people reacted to John as well, which was not at all acceptable. Since Mycroft had forcibly separated them early in the event and blocked his every attempt to make his way back to John's side ("He has a job to do, Sherlock, and so do you. Please try to remember that."), he had worked out all sightlines in the room and positioned himself to scowl unblinkingly at the women attempting to be inappropriate with his partner. This invariably drove off the interlopers within minutes.

Mycroft was shooting him tight-lipped warning glances but it was necessary. Breasts had a profoundly detrimental effect on John's already strained thought processes and Sherlock took it upon himself to provide the optimal working conditions for him to gather information without distractions.

Also, he couldn't take the chance someone might mention the newspaper announcement to John.

This—Cassandra? Iphigenia? whatever—was proving harder to drive off. Not only had she not retreated but now she was dragging John around and introducing him to people as if she were the hostess. Bloody cheek. How was John going to learn anything useful with all that incessant mammary-waggling?

Sherlock could get him focused properly again.

# # #

John's head was spinning a bit. Helen had been telling him about Maxwell's knack for picking slow horses and how somebody named Robbie (whom she seemed to think he knew) had been in Greece recently "for the obvious reasons" when from behind his left shoulder had come That Voice.

"Hello, we haven't properly met. I'm Sherlock."

Oh, God. That Voice, the one John had heard most recently whilst listening to the sleet and watching Sherlock's eyes shift from grey to green to blue as the sweat had dried on the body beneath him. He'd tried not to swallow too conspicuously as Sherlock smoothly extended his hand to Helen.

No sooner had the handshake ended than Mycroft had materialised at Sherlock's side. "Helen, how is your grandfather? Please give him my regards when you speak to him next. It would be a pleasure to have him for dinner when he's in the city. If you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I must steal away my brother; there's someone he really must meet. Sherlock, if you will." And just like that they were gone, and if John hadn't known to look for it he would never have seen the stiffness in Mycroft's carriage from his injured ribs.

He'd felt a whisper of touch as Sherlock had moved off, and when he casually slipped his hand into his pocket his fingers closed over slips of embossed metal on a chain.

He looked across the room, and Sherlock returned his gaze with lazy heat, lifting one corner of his mouth, then deliberately turning his head aside to charm a silver-haired doyenne. John repressed a shiver and turned to shake the hand of the young man Helen had beckoned over. Remembering Mycroft's warning from the night before, he took care to keep his stance relaxed, kept doctor instead of soldier in his thoughts as he ran his thumb over the edge of the dogtags, and didn't think about desks at all.

When he noticed Sherlock had taken his phone in exchange, he shook his head and grinned to himself in a way that made Adrian Jameswood blink, give him a second look, then rejoin their conversation with considerably more interest.

Oh. Right. He really should have seen that coming as well.

Maybe Adrian knew why Robbie was in Greece.

# # #

They met in Mycroft's sitting room afterwards to share information.

"Sherlock, for God's sake stop sniffing him. You know perfectly well where he's been; you spent the afternoon frightening off everyone he spoke with and I do not wish to be subjected to your—" foreplay was bitten off before it passed his lips. Sherlock smirked anyway. Mycroft deliberately turned his attention to John. "What have you found out?"

"I learned that it's considered vastly amusing that the lower classes expect fidelity from their partners," John said tightly.

"I assure you that I expect fidelity, John. Do remember what I said about corpses."

"If you two could be bothered to remember that we are dealing with a case of possible treason—"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Evidence points to Fitzhugh, but something's off. Aspects of the situation are simply too amateurish to have been engineered by the same mind that organized a co-ordinated attack on you."

"Are there two different groups?"

"Possible, but unlikely. Perhaps someone who is not as clever as they think had decided taking the initiative might be rewarded."

"There's something that's been bothering me." John shifted in his chair. "The car that whoever-it-was was going to use to snatch me. A yellow car isn't exactly inconspicuous; you'd be able to track a car like that easily. So somebody wanted people focused on the car, right? No-one would pay much attention to what the people in it looked like, not when the colour's so distinctive."

"Obvious," dismissed Sherlock.

"You think this may be similar," Mycroft said slowly. "Tell me why."

"We're all paying attention to the attack, naturally. People killed, wounded, possible treason, someone after a very important device or the person who can make another. If I were in a battle where so much heavy fire was coming from one direction, I'd be watching for a flank attack."

Mycroft nodded—this was nothing they hadn't considered—but it confirmed that the person they were searching for had military command experience.

"They won't be that crude," said Sherlock. "It won't be an attack. It'll be a spy."

Mycroft said it aloud for John's benefit. "Catch the spy and we'll have his master. Tell us everything you remember about the conversations you had today."

# # #

Sherlock had him up against the bedroom wall before the door had finished slamming shut.

"That was good, John, very clever, good reasoning." He was repeating himself but his mind seemed to have developed a stutter now that John was pressed to him, his intoxicating scent rising from the open collar of his shirt. "Very good." He let his hands slide up from hips to shoulders, lifting the body more tightly against him. John's breath, broken and hot, caressed his neck, followed by small, maddening nips.

When John pulled away, he had his phone. Sherlock couldn't help but be impressed at his improving pickpocketing skill even if this was an unfortunate development. He hadn't had a chance to delete more texts or voicemails since before they'd gone to Mycroft's sitting room, and John'd had a worrying number of congratulatory messages from a number of people an addition to a furious one from his sister. There was no telling how many more might have arrived in the meanwhile.

"Need to check on Harry," John said, and Sherlock carefully manufactured a look of inquiry. "She's been calling, ranting about something, I can't tell what because she's totally pissed yet again. Probably another girlfriend's left her because of the drinking, so of course she gets drunk to deal with it. Oh, there's a message from Mrs Hudson."

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He'd managed to keep any mention of the damned announcement from John so far and with just a little more time he'd be able to—

"Oh my God." John sat heavily on the bed, and Sherlock stepped close beside him, alarmed. "Oh my God. It's Molly. She...um, I didn't even know they did that kind of thing anymore." Blue eyes looked at him out of a stunned face. "She gifted us six months of daily milk delivery. Oh my God. Oh my God. I think I love her."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"She wants to know what to do with the pint that arrived today. Oh, God," he groaned, flopping backwards on the bed. "She must have heard a rumour about this stupid party and thought she had to get us a gift. We can't keep it, Sherlock, we have to tell her to cancel it, we really do." John sounded somewhat less than convincing. "We can't accept it under false pretences."

"It...wouldn't have to be false. We could..."

"I haven't changed my mind about rushing things."

"Right." He cleared his throat.

"Although this comes very close to swaying me. Daily delivery." The sound coming from John started deep in his chest and was the sort of vocalisation normally reserved for sustained prostate stimulation. "Milk. Every day. Right to the door." He sat up and reached for Sherlock. "I need to fuck you. Right now. I know you're planning the whole desk scenario and I want that, I really do, but that's hours away and I need you right now."

He supposed he should have been offended to have his person used to slake desire engendered by a bovine dairy product, but John was becoming pleasingly skilled at fellatio and it gave him a chance to reacquire his phone.

He'd have to remember to turn off comments on John's blog as well. He'd make this work. John would come around and everything would be fine. He just needed to keep him distracted until then.

Author's postscript: Humble thanks to every person who favourited and alerted this story. Knowing there were people waiting for the next chapter kept me going when I was trying to make it come out right and banging my head on the desk more often than not. As always, my devotion to those of you who reviewed knows no bounds; you help me be a better writer, and there are no thanks great enough for that.