Changing The Rules

by xelectrogirlx

Tension is rising between Sherlock and John. Then something happens which makes both realise exactly what they have and what they have to fight for. Warnings inside. Rating WILL go up for later chapters. Sherlock/John eventual slash

21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Okay, so I wrote the last bit of this while quite tipsy. I find it easier to write when under the influence of white wine! Anyway, I hope you like it... it's a lot longer than I meant it to be but, I just couldn't stop! I hope the length makes up for the wait! I hope you forgive the angst that creeps into this chapter, I just can't stop myself. But there is a 'realisation' of sorts for one of our boys. On with the slash!

Warnings: Bullying/homophobic actions, violence and fairly graphic slash... no not yet! But it's almost there...

./tumblr_llnh21kO1h1qcga5ro1_ (this is the image of Benedict I used when writing Sherlock in his suit... don't know if it will work but if it does then you will see what I pictured in my mind)

Chapter Twenty-One

The Party

The doorbell rings. Sherlock jumps and sends the petri dish flying across the kitchen. It overturns on the tiles near the fridge and almost instantly a hissing noise fills the room along with plumes of smoke.

'Blast,' Sherlock mutters, pushing his goggles up into his hair. Hurriedly he crosses to the dish and bends down to examine the damage. Luckily it isn't a particularly strong acid he's experimenting with, however it is still potent enough to have burned a small hole in the kitchen tiles.

Delicately Sherlock picks up the still steaming dish with his gloved hand and places it in the sink. He stares at the burn for a few seconds before grabbing a teatowel off the side and throwing it over the mark. He glances at the clock and sees that it is dead on ten o'clock. He had meant to wake John at least half an hour ago but the experiment had yielded such intriguing and unexpected results he completely lost track of time.

Gracefully he flies down the stairs and opens the door. Augusta Holmes stands on the doorstep, removing her gloves.

'Ah, darling!' Augusta begins before her gaze travels from Sherlock's choice of attire (a stained, tattered apron and his boxers) up to the goggles embedded in Sherlock's crazier than usual curls. 'What on earth have you been doing?'

'Come in, Mummy,' Sherlock mutters, ushering her in and shutting the door. 'John's still asleep, I'm afraid. I'll get you settled in the living room and then I'll go and get him up.'

Augusta looks quite scandalised as she ascends the stairs after her youngest son. 'Still asleep! It's ten o'clock! I did tell him I would be arriving at ten.'

'I know but he was quite... tired last night.'

Augusta sighs and then glances around with interest as Sherlock leads the way into the living room.

'Well, this is nice,' she remarks, seating herself elegantly on the sofa. 'You know I think it's ridiculous that I haven't seen your apartment before now.'

'Well, there's not much to see Mummy, is there? Living room, kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms...'

'Don't be pedantic dear,' Augusta scolds gently. 'Now hadn't you better go and see about getting John up?'

Sherlock heads towards the stairs and then remembers his manners. He turns quickly. 'Would you like a cup of tea or something?'

Augusta peers tentatively into the kitchen which is still scattered with the detritus of Sherlock's abandoned experiment. 'I think I'll be fine for the time being, darling.'

Sherlock nods and then bounds up the stairs to the bedroom. John is exactly where he left him, snoring lightly, his face half buried in the pillow. Sherlock perches on the side of the bed and reaches over to shake his shoulder.

'John. John, wake up.'

The doctor merely groans and flaps a hand in Sherlock's direction. 'Go 'way. Tired.'

Sherlock grins and shuffles across to curl in behind John, wrapping an arm around his warm waist. 'John,' he coos into his ear, nibbling slightly on the earlobe. He hears John's answering mutter of interest and, on reaching his good hand down John's torso, he feels John's response to his stimulus. Fun though this would undoubtedly be, he cannot afford for John to appear in front of his mother with an erection. Reluctantly he removes his hand. 'You have to wake up,' he murmurs. 'My mother is downstairs. You're supposed to go shopping, remember?'

This serves to wake John up somewhat. He sits upright in bed and wipes a hand across his eyes. 'Bugger – what time is it?' he asks.

'About five past ten. And I should warn you, my mother does not like to be kept waiting.'

Awareness is gradually returning to John, along with a healthy dose of panic. 'Why on earth didn't you wake me?' he shouts, flinging his legs out of bed, and attempting to stand up. He sways a little once on his feet and has to hold onto the headboard of the bed to keep his balance.

Tiredly he rubs at his eyes with his other hand until the dizziness passes and then starts hunting around the room for his clothes.

'Did I pass out the other night or something?' he asks Sherlock, who is leaning against the door and smirking.

'Yes. I went to get you a glass of water and by the time I came back you'd fallen asleep. Fully clothed, I might add.'

John pulls on his jeans and groans. 'Oh God. I didn't do anything embarrassing did I?'

'You mean apart from when you danced on the table in the pub?'

John stares at Sherlock's impassive face for a few seconds before scowling. 'Don't even try, Sherlock. I know I didn't do that.'

Sherlock remains blank for a few seconds longer before giving in. 'No, you didn't. You did say I have beautiful eyes though.'

John pulls on his favourite jumper (blue with white stripes) and grins at the detective. 'In vino veritas as they say.'

Sherlock smiles slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 'I'm impressed. And thank you.'

'You're welcome. So where is your mother now?'

'Downstairs. I offered her a cup of tea but she didn't want one.'

'Did she see the kitchen?'

'Yes.'

'Well then, I'm not surprised.' John rakes a hand through his hair a few times then turns to face Sherlock. 'How do I look?'

Sherlock grimaces slightly. 'How exactly am I supposed to answer that, John? You look just like you usually do. Of course you have slightly red puffy skin around your eyes, a testament to your tiredness. They're also slightly bloodshot. Your skin looks a little dry and pallid, probably due to your dehydration, I did try to tell you to drink some water, and your hair is dishevelled. You probably ought to brush your teeth as well.'

John's face drops slightly and he nods. 'Okay. Thanks. I'll... er... I'll just go to the bathroom then.'

As he passes by Sherlock near the door he feels a slender hand clamp onto his wrist. He stops immediately but doesn't look at the detective.

'You didn't let me finish,' Sherlock says.

'Go on then. What else? I have food stuck between my teeth? I stink of alcohol? My outfit doesn't look right at all?' He can't quite help the bitterness that is more than evident in his tone. Sherlock's grasp becomes tighter.

'No. I was going to stay, but you're still stunning.'

John blinks and feels himself being twisted around and then Sherlock's lips are on his, tongue probing for entrance. He sighs and feels himself melt into Sherlock's chest, responding with equal passion. Sherlock's good hand finds its way to the back of John's neck and strokes the soft skin there, the hand with the splint rests on the small of John's back, pressing him in closer.

'We can't do this now,' John mutters eventually, pulling back reluctantly. 'I don't want to keep your mother waiting and I do need to do my teeth. My mouth feels like something crawled in it and died.'

'Right. Well, I'll go downstairs then. I need to finish off my experiment. It's shaping up to be quite interesting.'

John pauses on his way out of the room and smiles back at Sherlock. 'Does this mean you'll keep yourself from boredom enough so that when I come back the flat will still be standing?'

Sherlock gazes back quite solemnly. 'Possibly, John. Very possibly.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock hears John's key in the lock and glances around the kitchen. It's bad, there's no other word to describe it. Nearly every available counter is cluttered with dishes, samples, ingredients and piles of paper with Sherlock's cursive scrawl. The counters have several new burn marks, one of the failed examples is smoking in the sink, the oven has been scorched and Sherlock is fairly sure that at least two of John's saucepans have been rendered completely unusable.

He straightens up, pushes his goggles off his face and wipes the back of his good hand across his cheek, leaving a striking sweep of soot as he does so. The clock says nine o'clock. Half an hour out. Damn.

He hears the heavy thud of John's steps on the stairs and then the creak as the door opens. Sherlock gazes at the kitchen again despairingly. Could he perhaps pretend he went out and found it like this when he returned? No, no good. John would never buy it. Maybe he could say he was trying to make dinner for John and the oven exploded? No... the bags of human organs and the scientific notes would give him away. Added to that there are no actual edible ingredients anywhere in the kitchen.

Steeling himself for the inevitable explosion he dusts down his apron and walks into the living room.

John has collapsed in his chair, a couple of expensive looking shopping bags beside him. Sherlock quickly takes in his features. Drooping bags under his eyes, mouth slightly downcast, his heavier than usual tread on the stairs means that he is no doubt exhausted. His clothes are far more rumpled than they were when he left, a testament no doubt to the amount of times he had to remove them to try outfits on. He quickly stifles the thought which flashes through his mind that he wished he'd come along, if only to sit in the changing rooms with John.

In any case, John is clearly mentally and physically exhausted. Sherlock's quick mind rapidly makes calculations about just how angry John is going to be (taking in his current mood) when he sees the state of the kitchen. Conclusion, not good.

Casually Sherlock seats himself on the sofa and flings one leg over the other.

'Successful trip?' he asks slightly sarcastically. 'I see that my mother forced you to try on at least eight... no... nine different suits.'

'How...?' John starts tiredly then shrugs. 'No. Don't worry. You're just going to show off again.'

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. 'I'm a natural show-off John, you know that. Now, would you like a cup of tea?' He figures that John is going to want one soon and he'd much rather delay the inevitable discovery of the state of the kitchen. The gesture, however, is unusual enough for John to look at him quizzically.

'You? Make tea? What have you done?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock responds, perhaps a little too quickly. 'Honestly John, I just want to make you more relaxed. I know what shopping with my mother can do to someone.'

Luckily John doesn't pursue the point and merely lets his head fall back against the back of the chair with a dull thud, closing his eyes.

'Fine. Tea would be great. Try not to destroy the kitchen.'

Too late, Sherlock thinks with a small grin, as he gets up to boil the kettle.

'So you found one then?' he calls as the water heats up and he searches for two mugs that are clear of hazardous chemicals. Eventually he finds them, right at the back of the cupboard.

'Found what?'

'A suit, of course, what did you think I meant? Can I see it?'

'Yes, we found one. After we'd been in at least twenty different shops. Ted Baker, I think. I'm not sure though. I lost count after the sixth store. My brain started going blurry.'

'Yes, that can happen sometimes if you're not used to it,' Sherlock responds absently, hunting for the teabags. He eventually finds them cunningly hidden behind the plastic bag containing the human liver.

'And no you can't see it. Not yet. It's a surprise.'

Sherlock finishes making the tea, gazes once more around at the kitchen, and walks back to the living room, placing John's mug in front of him.

'If my mother had any say in it, I'm sure it's a lovely suit.' Realising that it is unrealistic for him to hope that John is going to remain oblivious to the destruction just behind him for the rest of the evening, Sherlock stages a theatrical yet convincing yawn. 'Right, well, I'm quite tired. I'm going to go to bed.'

John stares at him. 'Now? It's only...' he glances at the clock. 'Quarter past nine! When do you ever go to bed at quarter past nine? When do you ever go to bed without me nagging you?'

Sherlock stands up and straightens his apron huffily. 'I can't help it if I'm tired, John. I'm going to sleep.' He picks up his tea and makes his way out of the room. If he tries really hard he may even be able to be asleep by the time John discovers his mess.

He finishes the tea in bed, flicking through one of John's old medical journals as he does so, then switches off the light and lies there in the darkness. He can hear the distant muted sounds of the television from the living room. Good. John obviously hasn't decided to get up just yet.

God. How can people do this? Night after night, just lying in the dark. It's such a pointless waste of time. Yes, he has found it surprisingly easy to sleep recently, but he realises that he only manages it when John is in the bed with him.

Irritably he turns onto his side and groans slightly as he jolts his injured hand against the sheets. The pain has dulled over the weeks to a dull ache and John has assured him that he'll be able to have the splint off soon.

Downstairs there are muted noises as John gets up from his chair. Sherlock listens intently, cataloguing John's every movement. Picking his mug up from the table, turning and walking towards the kitchen... any moment now...

'SHERLOCK!'

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

A couple of days later – the 21st December – Day of the Party

'John, the car's outside. Are you ready?'

'Almost!' John calls back, slightly desperately, from his position in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It's been so long since he's worn a suit and he isn't entirely sure it looks as good now as it did in the Ted Baker changing rooms with a male attendant helping him out. Irritably he tugs at his bowtie again, trying to get it straight.

It's no good. He's never going to get it looking right. He frowns at himself in the mirror, absently tugging at the bowtie again.

'John!'

Sherlock's calls are becoming increasingly louder and John rolls his eyes. Even though Sherlock is evidently not looking forwards at all to this party, it seems he still cannot bear to be late to it. With one last despairing look in the mirror John shoves his wallet into his pocket and goes downstairs to where Sherlock is waiting.

He hasn't seen the detective in his suit yet and when he enters the living room he almost has to grab onto the doorframe to stop himself from falling. As it is he is fairly sure his mouth drops open most unattractively. Sherlock's slender frame is encased in a pitch black suit which clings like a second skin. The dark waistcoat cinches in at his waist and the jacket, cut to perfection, hangs just to the tops of his thighs. He is fiddling absently at the thick white tie around his neck and his wild curls seem to have been tamed by some magic so they now lie in elegant waves across his forehead and curl softly at the nape of his neck.

He glances up as John enters, those piercing grey eyes latching straight onto him. 'Ahh good, you're...' he tails off and his gaze rakes John up and down. The doctor swallows and pulls at the bowtie again self-consciously.

'I don't think it looks right, it looked much better in the...'

'Don't talk, John,' Sherlock says in a throaty voice, pacing towards him slowly, a predatory look gleaming in his eyes. The command is quite unnecessary. With Sherlock prowling towards him like that John's mouth has gone dry and he doesn't think he could have talked even if he'd wanted to.

Sherlock reaches him and extends his good hand, a pale finger trailing down the luxurious material of John's jacket. John bites his lip and Sherlock's eyes flick to the movement briefly before resuming his examination. He moves his finger upwards to the bowtie, and from there to the skin of John's neck just above the collar.

'You should wear suits more often, John,' Sherlock murmurs hoarsely, leaning forwards. 'You've been holding out on me.' John can feel Sherlock's breath against his lips and he groans slightly. Giving into his desire he moves forward and kisses Sherlock deeply, tugging at Sherlock's curls roughly.

Sherlock's good hand is roaming all over John's back, from his shoulder blades to the top of his buttocks. His injured hand is resting gently against John's cheek, his thumb rubbing circles against the skin.

After a minute or so Sherlock pulls away, breathing heavily, his lips reddened and even plumper than usual.

'We really do have to go, John, otherwise Mycroft will have a fit. Although, seeing you like this, I'd much rather stay here...'

John blushes deeply and follows Sherlock out the door, admiring the way the detective's suit trousers highlight his slender legs. Once at the door Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and throws a disgruntled look back at John.

'Right, let's get this farce over with shall we?'

Clambering into the car next to Sherlock, John glances across at him. 'Why exactly do you have such a problem with this party? It can't just be your family.'

'You haven't met them yet,' Sherlock responds darkly, tapping away on his phone.

'But, everyone has a dysfunctional family. Well, at least most people have a few distant relations who are a bit... odd.'

Sherlock sighs and puts his phone in his pocket. 'You're not going to let this go, are you?'

John shrugs. 'I just want to know what's really bothering you.'

'Fine,' Sherlock bites out. 'You're right, it's not just my family. My family would be the easy part. When I was a child it won't surprise you to know that I was quite isolated a lot of the time. I was always far more interested in science and knowledge than other children. My mother worried about me, she was always trying to find ways to get me to mix with people my own age. Mycroft, of course, being seven years older than me didn't count.'

John sits silent, hardly daring even to breathe too loudly. This is the first time that Sherlock has fully opened up about his childhood to him and he doesn't want to do or say anything to make him clam up again. Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues.

'So she used to invite several other boys of my age around to the house. All suitable, educated, privileged children... like me. She was underestimating my social abilities wildly. As long as she was around everything was fine. They were polite and friendly, just as well-brought up children should be. But as soon as she left the room they made it very clear to me that my whole existence was intolerable to them. It was the usual; taunts, name-calling, interspersed occasionally with bouts of physical violence. I've always been skinny and although even at ten or eleven I was taller than most of them there was nothing I could do to defend myself.

'My mother never found out about what went on, I was too ashamed to tell her. She was so desperate for me to have friends I simply never disillusioned her. I grew up and moved out as soon as I could. However my mother continues to invite these "boys", believing they're my friends, although of course they're now in their early thirties, to her party each year. It's the done thing in her social circle. And they always come. And they're going to be here this year, just like every year. I'm not particularly looking forward to seeing them. That's why. Are you happy now?'

John blinks. 'Jesus, Sherlock. I'm sorry, I never realised...'

'There's no reason why you should have. You're not a mind-reader.' John sighs as he takes note of Sherlock's tone and body language. It's classic behaviour from the detective. He becomes a lot harsher and he has shifted himself almost to the other side of the car. John reaches out a hand and clasps Sherlock's. The detective doesn't look at him, but John can see a muscle twitching in that pale, stony jaw.

'Yeah, well. There's something different this year, anyway.'

'Oh yes? What's that?'

'I'm with you. You're not on your own anymore.'

Sherlock doesn't respond but John feels the grip on his hand tighten slightly.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Oh, just look at you two! John you look so dashing! And Sherlock, darling, handsome as always.'

'Thank you, Mummy,' Sherlock mutters, walking into the lobby and handing his scarf to the housekeeper. John follows him in, nods an awkward hello to the housekeeper and glances around. The lobby is deserted, although there is the sound of music, the tinkling of glasses and low laughter and conversation coming from the rooms to the left.

'You're a little late,' Augusta says reprovingly.

'Sorry about that, Mummy. John had some trouble with his bowtie,' Sherlock murmurs. John glares at him.

'Well, never mind. You're here now, that's what matters. Everyone's through here, and they're all dying to see you again.'

Sherlock snorts in disbelief. 'There's no need to lie to make me feel better.'

Augusta raises a delicate eyebrow. 'I am not given to lying, darling. Dorian has said to me already how much he wants to have a chat with you to apologise for last time.'

'And how many sherries has he had?' Sherlock asks caustically, nevertheless he makes his way into the large room on the left, followed by Augusta and John.

John, having been a little distracted the last time he was here, gazes around him in interest. The room is open and spacious, with a couple of small sofas along the walls. The windows are large and the walls are papered with a delicate, elegant floral pattern. John's feet sink into the lush carpet which is a deep crimson in colour. Small lamps are lit in corners and a chandelier is dimmed overhead, shedding the room in a warm, amber light. A fire crackles in the fireplace to John's immediate right. The walls are filled with ornate paintings, several of which look to be family portraits, if the profusion of dark hair, tall slender figures and piercing eyes are any indication. A waiter glides over to them, with a tray of champagne flutes. Sherlock takes one and sips, looking around in a disinterested manner. John helps himself as well and goes to stand next to Sherlock.

The room is filled with small groups of people, each with a flute in their hands, all talking animatedly. Upon spotting them, Mycroft detaches himself with a little bow from the people he was talking to and approaches.

'Well, Doctor Watson. You do scrub up well I must say. And Sherlock, it's a wonder that suit still fits you.'

'Some people find that remaining the same weight is surprisingly easy,' Sherlock snipes back at him waspishly.

'Boys!' Augusta says warningly. 'Come along, John. I want to introduce you. Sherlock, Mycroft, can you mingle please? And try not to kill each other.'

'Of course, Mummy,' Mycroft murmurs, taking Sherlock's elbow and attempting to draw him towards the nearest group of people. John has to bite back a grin as he sees Sherlock childishly wrench his elbow out of his older brother's grip and stride off in completely the opposite direction.

'They'll be the death of me, my two boys,' Augusta says, leading John into the group of guests. 'Now, what would you like me to introduce you as? Sherlock's boyfriend? Partner?' She hesitates, eyeing him shrewdly. 'Colleague?' John bristles slightly at the implication that he wouldn't want to be publicly branded as being with Sherlock.

'Partner will be fine,' he says curtly.

'Partner it is,' she replies with a beaming smile and a pat of his arm. 'Now, I want you to meet my sister Elizabeth... she should be around here somewhere... ah yes. Elizabeth! This is Doctor John Watson, Sherlock's partner.'

An elegant woman, almost an exact replica of Augusta, approaches them, smiling broadly.

'A partner of Sherlock's? I confess myself a little surprised. We never thought he'd find someone, did we, Augusta? And how long have you been involved with Sherlock Doctor Watson?'

John draws himself up slightly straighter. 'I've been his flatmate and colleague for around ten months now. I've been his partner for about...' he debates lying but decides against it. With all these Holmes genes around he'd probably be found out in a second, '... three days.' Elizabeth looks slightly taken aback and then laughs loudly and slightly harshly.

'Three days! Dear me! No wonder you haven't run off screaming!'

'I've lived with him for ten months, he hasn't scared me off yet,' John responds shortly, rubbing his fingers together agitatedly.

'Yes, but...' she laughs again and then pats his arm patronisingly. 'Just so long as you're happy, that's all that matters I suppose.'

Augusta, clearly sensing John's annoyance, steers him away. 'Elizabeth was never very good at tact,' she murmurs. 'She's very fond of Sherlock, really.'

The next hour or so passes in a similar manner. John is beginning to understand why Sherlock never enjoys coming to these family parties. His relatives are a mixture of borderline alcoholics, snobs and homophobics. To the latter he notices that Augusta introduces him as Sherlock's colleague, not partner.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock leans against a cabinet in the study, taking a well-needed rest from socialising and mingling. He cannot stand it, he doesn't want to be here. Seeing all those faces again, judging him and finding him wanting...

He takes a deep draught of the water in his glass. Despite the overwhelming urge to get drunk to dull the pain of mingling with his family he decides that he'd be better prepared for whatever they have to throw at him if he has a clear head. To make matters worse he has seen Cameron, Tom, Francis and Spencer, although thankfully he doesn't think they have seen him. Predictably he spotted them cosying up to a few of his more aesthetically blessed cousins. Most of them are well on their way to being drunk already and it's barely nine o'clock. The telltale signs are all there. Sherlock observed them from the safety of a dark corner and noticed immediately the way that Cameron in particular, the leader of the group, was swaying as he attempted to paw at Beatrice, Sherlock's Aunt Elizabeth's youngest daughter. Disgusting, Sherlock thinks as he takes another sip of water. Beatrice is only seventeen, almost half Cameron's age.

He peers around the door of the study to the main room. He cannot see John, no doubt he is suffocating amidst all Sherlock's relations. The detective smiles slightly. He did warn John against attending. He glances around again. He can't see Cameron or any of his gang anywhere. This causes him a flicker of unease. He had played it down to John in the car coming here, but the reality is that the treatment he received at their hands as a boy was rather more violent than he would have John believe. Aggressive homophobics, the lot of them, and although Sherlock hadn't actually worked out he was gay until around age fifteen, apparently they'd figured it out a lot earlier. Age hasn't mellowed them either. The last time he attended this party, around four years ago now, they'd all made it more than evident to him that his very presence was distinctly unwelcome. Never mind the fact that it was his family's party and not theirs. The arrogance of the well-bred, he suspects wryly.

The whole situation is so utterly tedious. He could be back at Baker Street right now, curled up with John on the sofa, watching rubbish t.v., an occupation he has to admit he has become scarily fond of. And it is much better with John because the doctor always gets so amused by his deductions of the characters.

He needs a cigarette. There are too many people, he can't take the stares anymore, the whispers of his extended family about his peculiarities. He knows that Mycroft uses this study often when he comes to visit Mummy, which is a lot more often than him, but then Mycroft always was an insufferable suck-up. The point is that Mycroft smokes cigarettes and Sherlock knows he always keeps a spare pack in the desk drawer along with a lighter.

Swiftly he crosses and opens the drawer. Excellent. Mycroft being a creature of habit has worked in his favour. He takes the crumpled packet and the lighter and makes his way back through the throng of people, outside and onto the patio. It's dark, Mummy hasn't switched the outside lights on yet. He finds a fairly dark corner, leans against the wall and lights the cigarette.

Taking a deep drag he inhales deeply and sighs with pleasure. Marlboro. Not his usual preferred brand, but it will do to calm his nerves and clear his mind. The night air is quiet until he hears stumbling footsteps. He narrows his eyes. Four people. Inebriated, that much is obvious from the irregularity of their feet hitting the paving slabs of the patio. Swiftly he considers stubbing out his cigarette and making his way back to the isolation of the study but before he can do so, they round the corner.

Sherlock groans internally. Cameron and his band of idiotic cronies. He supposes it will be too much to hope that in their drunken state they don't notice him, and he is right. In fact, Francis trips over him in the darkness, alerting the others to his presence.

'Well... if it isn't our favourite faggot.'

Sherlock brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply, exhaling a stream of smoke into their faces.

'Disappointing,' he drawls casually. 'I had rather hoped you would have been able to think up a more innovative insult in the three or four years since we've last seen each other.'

Cameron, the tallest of the four but still only coming up to Sherlock's chin, smirks nastily. 'Smoking's a filthy habit, Sherlock. But then again, you're a filthy sort of person, aren't you?'

The other three laugh dutifully. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'Now that we've got the pleasantries over, Cameron, I have to return to my mother's party. If you'll excuse me...' He pushes himself away from the wall and attempts to make his way past them. He should have known it wouldn't have been that easy. Tom grabs his shoulder and shoves him back.

'Not so fast.' Cameron's small blue eyes dart down to Sherlock's hand. 'Yes, I saw you'd managed to break your fingers. Or rather, someone of exceedingly good taste broke them. Who was it? Remind me to send a thank-you note.'

Sherlock winces as the memory assaults him. 'Yes well, you can't. He's dead.'

'Who was it, Sherlock? One of your queer boyfriends get angry with you?'

So perfect, Sherlock darling. As I always knew you would be. And now... we'll be together. And I'll have ruined you.

Sherlock shudders as his mind insistently replays the feeling of that intrusive finger... circling...

Cameron laughs raucously. 'Oh, looks like we hit a nerve, boys!' He peers into Sherlock's eyes, his rancid, beer-soaked breath gusting across Sherlock's face, almost making him gag. 'Domestic violence, eh? How tragic. But then, we always knew you're a freak. Stands to reason that nobody else can stand the sight of you.'

Ignore him, Sherlock's mind is screaming at him. Focus, Sherlock. Think about how ignorant they are, they're animals.

But it doesn't help. Not when his mind is assaulted with memories of Moriarty. Think about John. He desperately glances at the brightly lit windows of the party-room. He can see the guests mingling inside, laughing and sipping their drinks. But of course, they cannot see him. He and the four other men are in a dark corner and anyway, for people in a well-lit room indoors, seeing outside into darkness is virtually impossible. All they will see are their own reflections. There is no help for him in there.

'Get away from me, Cameron,' he hisses, finally dropping his cigarette to the floor and grinding it with the heel of his shoe.

Cameron sways slightly and leers at Sherlock. 'Oh, no. I don't think so.' He eyes Sherlock thoughtfully. 'You know, you were a total little bastard. I remember that time you told me about my father having all those affairs, don't think I don't. One of the first times I came to "play". You took one look and reeled everything off.' He leans closer, his blonde fringe flopping over his blood-shot eyes. 'You freak. You're a fucking psycho, you know that?'

'It's been said before,' Sherlock retorts, trying to fight down the rising panic. Panicking will not help him now. If it had just been Cameron alone, Sherlock would not have worried. In his youth he did well in boxing and he's sure that a well-placed jab would have laid Cameron out. But, unfortunately, he surrounds himself with others and... good though Sherlock is... he doesn't fancy his chances against four. Especially not with two broken fingers on one hand.

John, where are you? he thinks and then mentally rebukes himself. He doesn't want to sound like some pitiful damsel in distress, not even in his own mind.

'So... while we're here... I suppose you're on your own. Again.' Cameron glances around at his friends, who all laugh on cue.

'Of course he is, Cam, who on earth would want to come to something like this with queerboy?' Spencer drawls lazily, lighting a cigarette of his own and drawing on it deeply.

'I did actually come with someone,' Sherlock responds tightly, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of responding, but unable to help himself. Somewhere inside him the isolated eleven-year-old wants them to know that he is worthy, that someone cares.

Cameron nods understandingly. 'Of course you did, Sherry, of course you did. Who is he, the invisible man?'

'Don't call me that,' Sherlock snaps, irritated out of his panic. 'My God, look at you all. What a pathetic example of the human race. You make Anderson look virtually evolved.'

Abruptly Cameron's hand flies out and grabs Sherlock's throat, pinning him back against the wall. Sherlock attempts to take deep, even breaths and not panic. 'I don't know who the fuck Anderson is. Probably one of your bum-buddies. But if you ever insult me like that again, Sherlock, it will be the last thing you do.' He presses tighter on Sherlock's windpipe and the detective begins to choke harshly. Cameron gestures to Spencer. 'Hey, Spence. Stub that cigarette out on his hand. Go on.' His words are slurred and Sherlock knows that if he hadn't been drunk it would never have gone this far.

'Aw, look Cam, I don't think so...' Spencer starts off, taking a step backwards. 'Let's just punch him a few times and go. He's not worth our time. Besides, didn't you want to keep on chatting to Beatrice?'

Cameron turns an ugly look on his friend. 'Spence... I told you to stub that out on his hand. It'll be fun. And fuck Beatrice. She's a frigid bitch anyway.'

'She's seventeen!' Sherlock chokes out, disgusted enough to force the words from his lips.

'Still a frigid bitch,' Cameron remarks casually, 'doesn't know a good thing when she sees it.'

Filled with a sudden surge of anger, Sherlock lurches away from the wall and lashes out with his fist. He catches Cameron on his right cheekbone and the other man releases his choke-hold, spinning around with the force of the punch and almost falling over. He clutches at his cheek and turns back to face Sherlock, his eyes burning with fury.

'Oh, that is it freak.'

XXXXXXXXX

John takes another sip from his second flute of champagne. He doesn't particularly want to get drunk tonight and so is taking it slow. The same cannot be said of many of the other guests, most of whom are in various stages of inebriation already. He stands chatting by the windows with Charlotte, one of Sherlock's many cousins, an attractive brunette. Out of all Sherlock's relatives she is by far one of the most normal.

In the couple of hours he has been here he has found out that she has a job as a Personal Assistant in London, is a vegetarian and has recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend of five years.

'He was a dickhead,' she says succinctly, taking another sip of her drink. 'Who dumps somebody after five years in a text?'

'He did that?' John asks incredulously.

'Oh yeah. Said he didn't have enough signal to call. Strange, that he had enough to text and not ring, isn't it?'

John laughs and then immediately feels bad. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...'

She shrugs and pats him affectionately on the shoulder. 'It's fine. I'm over it. In fact, if you weren't already with my darling cousin I'd have probably made a move on you by now.'

John gulps, slightly surprised that this gorgeous, tall, leggy brunette (who, now he thinks about it, is basically a female version of Sherlock in terms of appearance) actually finds him attractive. 'Really?'

She laughs. 'Oh yeah. Captain in the army? I've always been a sucker for a man in uniform.' She eyes him speculatively. 'Don't think I'm being rude but... why are you with Sherlock? I mean, I personally love the guy but... he is a little, odd, don't you think?'

'Oh, definitely. But he's fascinating, stunning, and when you get to know him, really kind. Added to that, I'm never bored.'

She grins. 'Ah yes. I've read your blog actually. Great fun – sounds like you two get into some proper scrapes together!'

'Yes, we have at that.' John pauses, glancing around the room. 'Speaking of Sherlock, have you seen him recently?'

Charlotte follows his gaze. 'Actually no, I haven't. I said hello to him of course, but that was about an hour ago.'

Out of the corner of his eye John spots slight movement from beyond the window, out in the darkness. Frowning he peers closer, trying to see anything beyond the glinting reflections.

'I'm just... going to get some air.'

Charlotte glances at him. 'Are you okay, John?'

'I'm fine. I'll see you in a bit.'

He is sure he is probably being stupid but there's a horrible churning in his stomach. He hasn't seen Sherlock in awhile now and Charlotte has already mentioned the fact that some tosser had tried to chat up her youngest sister Beatrice. From the way she described him John is forcefully reminded of the boys Sherlock was telling him about in the car on the way here. He makes his way out of the french doors and shuts them quietly behind him. Now he is away from the tinkling music, laughing and chatter of the party he can actually hear. The night is quiet apart from sounds of some sort of scuffle going on to his right.

As he strains his ears he hears a pained groan and a dull thud, followed by many more. Moving swiftly he makes his way over and then freezes. In a dark corner of the patio he can spot four men grouped together. They are all facing a fifth figure, and the tall silhouette identifies him immediately as Sherlock. As John watches one of the four men sinks a fist into Sherlock's stomach, making him double over.

'How d'you like that, eh, faggot?' the man sneers at him. John's fists clench and he takes a couple of deep breaths. He doesn't want to lose his cool at Augusta's party and abuse her hospitality, but there is absolutely no way he is letting these men get away with behaviour like this. As the leader sinks another punch and Sherlock groans again, John moves forward.

'Problem, gentlemen?' he asks coolly, his icy tone effectively masking his inner rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The leader turns narrowed eyes on him.

'Bog off, stumpy, there's a good chap. This doesn't concern you.'

John takes another step forward, meeting Sherlock's pained eyes briefly. He nods once to him, as if to reassure him everything's okay, and then turns his attention back on the other man.

'Sorry, but it does. Now, I suggest you step away from him before you embarrass yourselves even more. You're grown men for God's sake.'

'John, it's...' Sherlock attempts to defuse the situation. He can see the heat rising in John's eyes, even if his tormentors can't. Four against one. Not good odds for Cameron and his gang.

Cameron takes an exaggerated step backwards in surprise.

'Wait a minute Sherry! You actually know this short-arse?'

John takes a threatening step forwards to Cameron's step back, bringing him within a foot of the group of men.

'Yes he does. Captain John Watson. I'm Sherlock's boyfriend.'

This time Cameron's surprise is not simulated. His mouth drops open in astonishment, before he regains himself. 'His... boyfriend?'

'That's right. Now... get the fuck away from him. All of you. This is disgraceful. It's Augusta's party and you're picking on her son like you're eleven years old again. If I wasn't restraining myself due to my respect of Augusta you'd all be on the floor right now. I doubt you could fight your way out of a paper bag.'

Cameron sneers at him and gestures to one of his friends. 'Francis, show this John Watson that we don't take kindly to interference in our business.'

John clenches his fists again. 'It's Captain John Watson, thank you. And please, I will warn you not to try anything. Just let him go, it's that simple.'

Francis, however, steps forward, smirking. He looks to John as though he is built along the Crabbe and Goyle mould, bristling with sheer stupidity.

He takes a swing which John easily ducks, rising again and smiling coldly at Francis. 'Care to try that again?'

Francis, no longer smirking, takes another couple of swings, all of which John avoids merely by ducking his head.

'Pathetic,' John scoffs, before suddenly letting fly with a right-hook which almost lifts Francis out of his dress shoes. As it is the bigger man stumbles back against Cameron, his eyes rolling back into his head. Cameron doesn't bother to try and support him and Francis slumps to the paved patio. 'Come on Sherlock. Let's get out of here.'

Sherlock, trying desperately to regain any semblance of his previous icy demeanour, moves to pass Cameron. But Cameron, with all the innate arrogance of some of the well-bred, isn't letting it go that easily.

'Don't you walk away from me, Sherlock! Just because your faggot boyfriend has come to save you doesn't mean we're finished! You made Melissa split up with me, you tosser!'

Sherlock whirls around. 'Please don't be an idiot all your life Cameron. I merely pointed out to Melissa that she could do a lot better than a guy who treats her like an accessory and plays away from home at least every couple of days with the local prostitutes. She happened to agree with me once all the appropriate evidence was placed at her disposal.'

Cameron's friends all look a little surprised at this declaration, apart perhaps from Francis who is still rubbing his jaw on the ground.

'Prostitutes, mate?' says Tom, his accent like cut-glass. 'Why? That's really quite degrading you know.'

'You freak,' Cameron hisses venemously, swinging a fist straight at Sherlock. Before the detective can react, John has caught the fist in mid-air, muscles cording in his arm as he stops the force of Cameron's charge.

'Don't you dare,' John snarls, his eyes blazing. 'Sherlock is worth a thousand of you. More, in fact. All your posh education doesn't seem to have done you much good, as far as I can see you're just a group of little boys with the mentality to match.' He pushes Sherlock subtly behind his back and stands so that he is face to face with Cameron. 'Beatrice said to me you reminded her of a toad, only not quite as cute. I'm inclined to agree with her.'

Cameron takes a step backwards, his eyes sparking with hatred and embarrassment. 'What, not your type, Captain? I'm not surprised, you obviously prefer the twisted, psycho, freakish variety of men. You can't tell me you actually enjoy shagging him...'

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence. John, despite his promise to himself not to brawl at Augusta's party, has heard Sherlock insulted one too many times. He punches Cameron squarely in the nose, which effectively floors the other man.

Shaking his hand slightly John turns away from the men and wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist, leading him away from them. They go through the french doors and make their way through to the study. Once in the isolated room Sherlock paces away from John and stands at the window, his hands in his pockets.

John undoes his bowtie and a couple of the top buttons on his shirt, looking anxiously at Sherlock.

'I don't need you to come and save me, John,' Sherlock says eventually. 'I'm not some damsel in distress. I used to box and I'm more than capable of defending myself.'

John clears his throat. 'I know. But to be fair, there were four of them and only one of you. That's unreasonable odds. Nobody could have fought their way out of there. And I know you prefer to rely on your wits. In fact, that's what usually gets you into trouble in the first place.'

Sherlock turns on him, his eyes blazing. 'I wasn't doing anything apart from having a cigarette...' he starts, before realising exactly what he is saying. John rolls his eyes.

'It's okay, I'm not going to start having a go at you about smoking. Not now, of all times. I get why you were stressed. Your family are... tricky, sometimes.'

Sherlock smiles tightly. 'You noticed?'

'I did. Although Charlotte's lovely. We need to catch up with her later.'

'Ah, Charlotte. Yes. Possibly the best of a bad bunch. Apart from Beatrice. Very promising, I think. You know she's planning on studying law at University?'

John takes a step towards Sherlock. He notices how Sherlock is doubled up slightly still, and one hand is resting on his stomach.

'Let me see.'

Sherlock feigns ignorance. 'What?'

'Your stomach, let me see.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'John, I hardly feel that here is the best place for...'

'Your injuries, you absolute idiot. Let me see.'

Sherlock eyes John and then realises that there is absolutely no point in resisting. Sighing he untucks his snowy shirt from his trousers and lifts it up. John approaches and looks closely. Obviously he is expecting the bruises to form later but he experimentally presses a finger to a couple of points on Sherlock's torso. Sherlock hisses slightly.

'I should have knocked them all out cold,' John mutters, anger lacing his tone.

'No, you were the perfect gentleman. Ironic, isn't it, considering the fact that they were brought up as supposed gentlemen and you weren't?'

'I love you,' John says suddenly, looking up at Sherlock. The detective meets his gaze and his grey eyes burn.

'I... I love you too.'

John takes a step backwards, warily. 'Really? You can't say that unless you mean it.'

For the first time in their relationship Sherlock sees total vulnerability in John. He has tensed and his eyes have trouble holding Sherlock's gaze. On Sherlock's part, the declaration is as much a surprise to him as it is to John. He hadn't meant to say it. But just at that moment, with John gazing up at him, after everything they have been through... it is more than obvious. Intolerable, really, that his mind missed it. How could he not be in love with John? The man is... the man is life to him.

'I mean it. You're everything to me, John. I love you.'

John pauses and to his dismay Sherlock sees tears gathering in the deep blue depths of John's eyes.

'Did I say it wrong?' he asks worriedly.

John reaches out, grasps his tie and yanks the detective towards him. 'No, you... you really are an idiot, you know that? You said everything exactly right.'

Sherlock feels a surge of lust as John grabs his tie and he wraps his arms around John's waist, joining them in a kiss. John sighs and opens his mouth (he has given up fighting Sherlock for dominance) and Sherlock slides his tongue into John to taste and to claim. Champagne, mints and something that is undefinably the doctor greets him. He walks them backwards until John hits the wall and presses his advantage, searching and plundering John's mouth.

John moans slightly and allows Sherlock's leg to press in between his thighs. His cock strains against the silky material of his trousers and he knows Sherlock feels it by the detective's strangled groan of lust.

As for him, he can feel Sherlock's arousal pressing against his hip. Knowing that this isn't the time, or the place, he nevertheless finally feels the confidence to unbutton Sherlock's trousers and zipper. The detective sucks in a shocked breath against his mouth and this makes John feel awful.

When he thinks back it has always been Sherlock pleasuring him. He has always been reluctant to take care of Sherlock's needs. Possibly because he still wasn't ready to admit his sexuality, even to himself. But now...

He slips his hand into Sherlock's trousers, past the silky material of the boxers, and grasps Sherlock's cock. The younger man gasps aloud, tears his mouth away from John's and throws his head back against the wall, the dark curls splaying for a moment on the plush wallpaper.

'John... Jesus... is this really the time...'

'Shut up,' John growls against his throat, biting the pale flesh lightly as his hand works inside Sherlock's trousers. 'You're so beautiful, Sherlock.'

'John...' Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and John traces his free hand up into Sherlock's curls, tugging them roughly.

'The most brilliant, infuriating, charismatic, sexy man I've ever met...' John carries on, sliding his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, making the other man cry out in pleasure. Suddenly it occurs to John that, as far as he knows, Sherlock hasn't been pleasured like this by anyone apart from himself. He stills his movements. Sherlock's eyes fly open, already slightly panicked.

'John?'

'Sherlock... have you ever... I mean, have you...'

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. 'No. Nobody apart from you. Is that a problem?' Although he tries to cover this last sentence with his usual bravado, the vulnerability shows through. John smiles, feeling immensely privileged and honoured.

'No. No, of course it isn't, Sherlock. I'm honestly honoured. I just want to make it good for you.'

'No worries there,' Sherlock sighs as John starts up his ministrations again. His good hand clutches John's shoulder as his breathing escalates. 'John... oh my God... yes...'

Suddenly wary there might be people outside the study door, John clasps a hand over Sherlock's mouth. 'Not so loud!' he hisses, almost laughing.

He can't stop himself getting hard, as much as he tries. Feeling Sherlock's cock underneath his hand, already slippery with pre-come, is turning him on massively. Added to that the detective has now splayed himself against the wall, moaning wantonly. John has only to glance at the dark curls in total disarray, the pale column of Sherlock's throat, and then his own hand, thrust into Sherlock's trousers, and he almost comes undone then and there.

Feeling suddenly daring John moves his hand to Sherlock's balls and cups them, while still stroking the detective's length with one finger.

'Oh, fuck! Oh JOHN!' Sherlock screams aloud, his orgasm overtaking him suddenly. John finds himself suddenly releasing in his own trousers. The cause? Sherlock swearing. He has never ever heard the detective swear.

'Shit,' he mutters, gazing disconsolately at his trousers.

'John,' he hears Sherlock murmur.

'Yes?'

'You realise we've broken pretty much every party etiquette rule there is? We've fought with the guests and now we've pretty much had sex in the study.'

John looks at Sherlock. His dark hair rumpled and messy. Lips plump, lush and red. A bite mark forming on his neck. Tie skewed to the side. Shirt untucked. Trousers undone and splatters of come staining the dark material. Debauched. Utterly debauched.

'I couldn't care less,' John murmurs throatily, launching himself at Sherlock for another kiss.

I hope you liked! Please review, they mean such a lot to me. When this fic is finally finished I intend to list every single one of you as a thank you! You deserve it, you're all brilliant! xxx