Hello again! I got so inspired by the last chapter that I hurried to write the next one for your benefit. *Applauds for me. :) Enjoy the chapter!

Chap. 25 The threat

John scrambled up at the moment the intimacy was broken but as he hurried over to the desk, Sherlock was already there, ruffled appearance notwithstanding, and rummaged through the large stack of papers that covered the surface. John thought it best to stand back and let Sherlock's lethal fingers do their frantic work but in the meantime he heard the shrill noise get louder.

When Sherlock moved some files to the side, a vibrating and blinking phone was revealed. John frowned as Sherlock snatched it up. That was the cheap phone they had used to call John's army acquaintances. They had both forgotten about the phone a long time ago, especially after John had started to bleed.

John looked sharply at Sherlock who took a heaving breath, getting himself into detective mode, not a trace left from the previous lust.

"Hello?" he said in his most neutral voice while John studied him carefully. Even though the detective had the phone pressed to his ear, John could easily perceive the shouting that followed.

"Journalist, like hell you are! That call was the only weird one I've gotten for six months. You fucking twat! I'll rip you to pieces!"

"Miles Stewart, is it?" Sherlock replied with acid and John took a step closer. His old patient from the army sounded enraged.

"I'm not an idiot! You sent the police after me, and they harassed my wife!"

"Your ex-wife," Sherlock corrected coolly despite the disapproving glare he received from John afterwards. Not a good move.

"We were treated like fucking terrorists! No rights, interrogated for days. And it's your fault!"

Stewart sounded murderous and John couldn't grasp how Sherlock could look so unaffected when a man screamed into his ear.

"You know Dr. Watson, right? You live with him, I've heard from a reliable source. Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes."

Now Sherlock began to pale and his eyes darted to John's, query in his face. How could Stewart know this? Sherlock quietly pressed the speaker button and waved John to come over to his side. John stared angrily at the phone.

"Not so cocky now, are you? Maybe it's me who's got the upper hand now," Stewart chuckled and the conversation had turned too hostile for John's taste. He made to speak when Sherlock mouthed a no at him and pushed him in the chest, shoving him back almost in a protecting manner that John didn't appreciate right now.

"What was that?" Stewart hissed and Sherlock grounded out through clenched teeth, "Irrelevant. Why are you calling me?"

A cackle that resembled a genuine laugh filed the room. "I'm just saying, you aren't as safe as you'd like to think," Stewart revealed silkily.

"That's a threat," Sherlock stated but the other man snorted.

"And maybe I'm calling from an untraceable phone box. No-one can get to me here. Told you I wasn't an idiot. The government would find me otherwise. They are everywhere. The question is, can they protect Dr. Watson and you?"

John had heard enough. To threaten him was unacceptable, sure, but to even imply something bad would happen to Sherlock made his blood boil. He was getting really tired of Stewart's bullshit, and he would let him know it. With pursed lips, chin pushed out and clenched fists by his sides, John tackled his way to the phone despite Sherlock's sloppy attempts to stop him.

"Private Stewart! If I were you, I'd seriously consider hanging up now and leave us alone," John boomed with his most commanding voice to give the man who didn't deserve it one last chance to back away. Stewart didn't take the way out.

"Why, Captain Watson! First-class hero and marvelous army doctor! I wish you'll die tonight!" Stewart shouted with horrible craze and John lost his composure.

"What do you want from me? As far as I know, I haven't done anything to you! You want an apology for me getting shot the day before your hand got injured? Not that that's my fault but here it is: I'm sorry," John barked and Sherlock crowded his space, looming over him like a dark cloud. A dark cloud that didn't want him to engage in this conversation.

"John…"

"You fucked up my life, Watson! You made my innocent wife cry when her freedom was robbed from her!"

John countered in a yell before he had time to think, "You shot my friend! He nearly died! You're a mad killer, you pile of shit!"

"John!"

Sherlock backed away a little, and John appreciated the expended room for his swinging arms. But he realized the tone Sherlock had used was dismayed. And then he understood that he had made a mistake in his upset state.

"Oh! This story gets more interesting by the minute. So that bastard Lestrade is a friend of yours?"

Stewart sounded gleeful and Sherlock spat back, "The DI is out of your reach. You can't hurt him anymore."

A scrape from the phone indicated that Stewart was dragging his nails against something hard in the phone box. "No, but it was amusing to see him struggle to duck my bullets, and the bullets from the media. But you are not safe, either of you. Watch yourself, pricks!"

Stewart hung up, leaving Sherlock clutching a phone in his hand and John gaping. It was John who spoke first.

"We must inform Mycroft about this. Immediately."

Sherlock stuttered, cleared his throat and placed the phone on the desk as if it repelled him.

"Sherlock?"

"It was most likely empty threats. A man with wounded pride trying to defend what he still believes is his woman. He enjoyed the media circus around Scotland Yard. He's a mad alcoholic in the middle of no-where. He can't harm us."

"But he said…" John interjected with an accusing finger pointing at the phone but Sherlock stepped in-between and brushed his chest against John's.

"No, John," he mumbled, shaking his head. John turned his remaining frustration at Sherlock.

"What do you know about that? How can you be so sure that he hasn't planned something with his anarchistic online friends no-one can seem to find? He's after us, and you!"

Sherlock cupped his jaw and John resisted the urge to wrench himself free. "Because Mycroft sent his best men to investigate Stewart. The man may utter awful things but he can't actually do anything towards us without detection. He only shot Lestrade because they approached him in his cottage. He's isolated himself after the time in Afghanistan. He's nothing. A wreck."

John looked up at the concerned grey eyes that were fixed on him. "He threatened you. I got angry," John mumbled and Sherlock read his excuse for revealing their connection to Lestrade.

"Everyone is safe, John. It's late and you have a clinic to run tomorrow. Go to bed," Sherlock said softly and stroked his arm in a way that drained John of the last bit of fury.

Hoping that the day still could end pleasantly, John tilted his head up and whispered next to Sherlock's ear, the one that hadn't been subjected to Stewart's vicious screams, "Sleep in my bed tonight. Please."

He needed to feel Sherlock close, not for sexual purposes, but for reassurance that Sherlock was secure. Plus, the doctor wanted to be nearby if Sherlock had a late reaction to the eerie call.

Sherlock gasped and bowed his head until John felt swollen lips nibble on the crook of his neck and silken curls brush over the little patch of skin on his shoulder that was bared thanks to the fairly wide neckline of his jumper.

"How can I refuse such a politely expressed invite?" the detective hummed before drawing back. John grinned at him. So it seemed Sherlock had turned much bolder after the first proper snog.

As Sherlock prepared for bed in the bathroom, John discarded his jumper and the shirt beneath and spared a look at his bed. That furniture had never been as crowded as it would be this night. Still, he wasn't about to jump Sherlock like some maniac, he did have standards.

John tugged on his t-shirt and went to undo his belt. He paused however, reached behind and tapped the gun. Yes, he would definitely not tell Sherlock about the incident on the street some days ago when he was shopping Christmas decorations.

Despite what Anthea or anyone else said, it felt reassuring to carry the weight of a weapon on his person. Especially when idiots called him. And somehow, John found himself reconsidering his attitude towards Stewart.

Maybe Sherlock had been right; the man was bitter, depressed, alone. Who wouldn't be after experiencing trauma and injuring a hand? Sure Stewart scared John, with his intense hatred, for it reminded him of how easily he himself could have turned into the same creature if he hadn't met Sherlock and gotten rid of his misery. But the man maybe just needed someone, some understanding.

John lost his track of thoughts as he placed the gun on a shelf in the wardrobe and removed his trousers, leaving the boxers on. Deciding to take on a practical approach, and to not let nervousness overwhelm him, he got into bed, the same side where he had slept when he'd been in Sherlock's bed.

Before he had time to consider rolling his thumbs, a tall detective dressed in pajamas entered his bedroom. Sherlock was texting and reading out loud.

"Stewart called. Very impolite. Phone box in Wales. Action required. SH." He pressed the send button hard and left the phone on the night-table on his side. "There. Let's see how this makes Mycroft feel when he has to get up in the middle of the night and remove his facial mask."

Sherlock sniggered sinisterly before sliding under the fluffy cover in a fluent motion. John turned towards him, disoriented by the man's suspicious ease at climbing into a strange bed when he to say the least had been edgy when John visited his bedroom.

"Are you alright?" John asked carefully and received a vague wave.

"Certainly. Here I am beside you in a bed that doesn't have an ancient bedframe with poles. The government is chasing after Stewart as we speak, and we have kissed vigorously and found proof that Mrs. Johnson wasn't the law-abiding citizen everyone thought she was. I'm happy to go to sleep after an eventful day and evening, I noticed the PVC duck's tail feathers are slightly deformed after the microwave, and everything is splendid," Sherlock rushed out with a voice that grew higher and higher.

'Oh, dear," John thought and recognized the behavior of a distressed and exhausted Sherlock. He hoped it wouldn't be like the night Lestrade got shot, for both their sake.

"Sherlock, look at me."

The detective whipped his head around so fast that the curls whirled through the air. John went for a smile.

"Hey."

"The proper greeting at this time would be good night," Sherlock answered stiffly but did position his hand palm up on the area between them. Without analyzing, John placed his own over Sherlock's and squeezed it softly.

"It's perfectly fine if you'd rather sleep in your own room. I don't mind," John let out and watched Sherlock close his eyes momentarily and shift.

"I told you I like it here. The bed satisfies my needs. It's exhilarating to duplicate the experience of sleeping in the same bed as you," Sherlock mumbled back and secretly made John feel more at ease since that meant his friend wasn't opposed to sharing his bed. John bounced their intertwined hands on the mattress. "Then what's the matter? I can see something's bothering you."

The haughty expression disappeared and instead the corners of Sherlock's mouth angled downwards. "I know he can't get to us according to pure logic but I remain worried about you because of the things he said."

There was no question who Sherlock was referring to. John exhaled and plucked at the sheet with his unoccupied fingers.

"I know. I was scared, too. That's why I got so angry when he threatened you. I guess we're shaken, but you've informed Mycroft, and we have protection. We're okay," John comforted and saw Sherlock lift his gaze to meet his eyes.

"You matter to me, John. Never doubt that," he said seriously and John gulped under the relentless expression in the grey pools.

"Thanks," he whispered, because it seemed right to whisper all of a sudden, and then he brightened and slid down to lie on his side on the bed, turned towards the detective. Sherlock followed him after letting go of his hand and Sherlock was the master of burrowing down and making himself look comfortable.

John failed to cover a yawn before he emitted, "You were saying something about the duck…?"

A sharp inhale came that sounded like regret. John brightened and peered curiously at the blushing man.

"It just slipped out… Just a minor detail I noticed when I was brushing my teeth."

"Should we get a new one?" John wondered timidly, already planning on giving one to Sherlock for Christmas when sheer panic bloomed out on Sherlock's face.

"No! I was only presenting the facts. There's nothing wrong with the duck, except. The tail feathers. Are merely. Disformed," Sherlock finished meekly and John couldn't help the chuckle.

"Okay, calm down. We're keeping the toy. Jesus." But Sherlock relaxed into the pillows, a vision of relief.

John began to wonder if he should be jealous of that toy, considering how protective about it Sherlock got. In addition to that, that piece of rubber got to see Sherlock naked often and…that really wasn't useful to John now when he was knackered and had promised to not launch himself at the detective, no matter how much he endeared the doctor.

"Good night, Sherlock," John said flatly and reached to switch off the light when Sherlock snuggled some inches closer, not so they touched, but still closer.

"Good night, John."

Sherlock slept well considering the circumstances. It felt like his head was filled with cotton when he woke up to the rustling of clothes.

Reluctantly, he opened his rested eyes and found John's shape by the open wardrobe in the obscure light of a dark winter morning. A small, exasperated protest escaped him, because Sherlock suddenly wanted John by his side. John stilled and turned around.

"Hello, there," he whispered and Sherlock ran a hand through his tousled hair.

"The clinic again." It was a statement, though it dulled Sherlock's mood nevertheless.

John shrugged and retrieved a cardigan from its drawer. "Yeah, that's the deal with regular jobs: you have to be there every day."

Sherlock's gaze wandered over John's form, admiring his night attire that left him in nothing but a tight t-shirt, fitting boxers, and dog tags. With perfectly executed movements, Sherlock shuffled until he sat up with the cover pooled around his waist.

Whether he was oblivious or indifferent, John began to change while Sherlock studied him with curious eyes.

All of a sudden, just as John buttoned his jeans, Sherlock remembered his text to Mycroft last night. His brother must have been bound to send a reply even if Sherlock had been asleep. He leaned over on his side and picked up his phone. Indeed, there was a message.

Sincerely hope you didn't provoke him into this. We might reevaluate him. By the way, DI Lestrade says hello and has heard about an intrusion in Scotland Yard's files from DI Dimmock. In any case, keep a low profile. MH

"I won't be bullied by those insufferable imbeciles!" Sherlock scowled and made the doctor jump from his outburst. Sherlock set to write a venomous reply and more or less stabbed the buttons.

"Erm, not that I mind, but do you plan on staying in my bed the whole morning?" John inquired slowly and brought Sherlock from planning his revenge. He lowered the phone and looked around, puzzled by his comfortably crossed legs under the cover and the arranged pillows that supported his back. A small crease appeared on the detective's forehead.

"Maybe. I'm content here. Mycroft is dealing with Stewart, though not without a few jabs at me," Sherlock revealed in a peeved tone, but widened his eyes as John stepped closer and bent over the bed.

"Just make my bed when you're leaving, okay? And you can reach me on my phone if you need to talk or something."

The doctor ended his speech by pressing his lips tenderly against Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock might have inclined his head like a spinning cat and captured John's chin before he withdrew to place a swift but definitely tangible kiss on his soft lips.

"See you, later," John breathed, a fog developing in his brown eyes, and stepped away to take his gun and then leave the room. He left the door open so Sherlock could hear him prepare breakfast and whatnot.

Once John had exited the flat, Sherlock breathed in deeply, and let the scents of sleep and John fill his senses. He was beginning to feel restless however from his inactivity and so, he got up and went to the bathroom. The duck seemed happier than ever on its throne of porcelain shaped into a sink and didn't mind when Sherlock tossed his pajamas haphazardly on the floor and stepped into the tub.

As he stood under the streaming water, Sherlock discovered that the image of John moving around in his scarce attire pushed every other thought to the back of his mind. That was the incitement Sherlock needed to allow himself some carnal pleasure.

He pushed his hair from his face and slid his long fingers down his neck, gasping at the tender spot where John had sucked last night. The humid air surrounding him left him wonderfully dazed and his fluttering fingertips experimentally skimmed over his nipples. Tingles spread inside him and Sherlock gripped the shower head for future support. He always was good at thinking in advance.

While his hand slid lower, playing idly with the darker, coarser hair that trailed from his navel, the detective felt his length grow hotter, heavier, stiffer. His mind went for sensations and sounds mainly, which had him thinking about John sitting on him and pressing his erection into Sherlock's crotch, tangled tongues leaving him disoriented, John's moans when Sherlock caressed the small of his back.

Sherlock let out a raspy moan of his own and wouldn't deny himself further pleasure even if it left him spent. He looked down and followed his hand's movements as it encircled his swollen length and hugged it. The instant response from his body fired off Sherlock's libido and he bucked into the air, as waves of delicious heat washed over him.

"Oh, God!" he called out with a hoarse tone and squeezed his eyes shut, letting drops fall into his open mouth. He bit his lip.

Absently, he understood his hand was moving in a way it hadn't done in a long time and he was a sensitive mess down there. John had been moving rhythmically against him and the want felt intoxicating.

No disgust intervened to tell him that what he was doing was not treating his body functions as transport, but Sherlock absolutely didn't care. He sped up his strokes, driving himself closer to a tantalizing horizon and his sobs mingled with the slick noises and water drumming against the tub.

Suddenly Sherlock snapped his eyes open and his thumb moved over the taut, glistening head just as a taste of metal filled his mouth and his mind connected it to John's dangling dog tags that rocked against the man's broad chest.

It turned out it was blood from Sherlock's split lip but he was already beyond reason. A tight, long stroke had him ejaculating, dripping white fluid into the tub and his buttocks clenched when he thrust into the small ring made by his hand. Ripples travelled across his skin as a rumbling cry left his throat. His knuckles turned white on the hand that gripped the shower head.

Once the orgasm was over, Sherlock sagged against the wet wall, smiling fleetingly at the relatively cool tiles against his warm back and he tossed his disheveled hair to the side.

"Umm. Oh. Good," he mumbled once he got his breath back and collected himself. He licked his lips and first now felt the sting from the cut his teeth had made. Quite the contrary to what he had believed, he didn't feel completely tired after the session of self-pleasuring, only calmly aware of his body and content that he could respond so intensely to the thought of John.

So Sherlock washed himself, prepared for the day, and his member was tucked into his underwear and wouldn't cause any trouble for at least some hours.

The peace in the flat ended in the late afternoon when someone rang the doorbell simultaneously as Sherlock received a text. He opted for the phone first, his features tensing when the screen showed an unknown number. Had Stewart found out his personal phone number? Sherlock opened the text.

A visitor. He's safe. Cassiopeia

Mycroft's dark-haired assistant, then. Immediately, Sherlock marched into the hall and pressed the button for conversation.

"Yes?" he drawled upon seeing a short, sturdy man in a knitted hat and a thick coat outside the entrance of the building. The middle-aged man jerked to life and leaned closer to the camera, clearly unused of these devices.

'Living in an area without those, apparently. Clothes not stylish, only practical, no famous labels. Middle or working class,' Sherlock deduced automatically when the man tipped his head back and exposed his bronzed face.

"I'm…I'm Samir Ghaddar. I know Dr. Watson. Can I come in?"

Not that Sherlock wanted to entertain a guest of John's until said doctor returned home from the clinic, but he suspected John would find it proper to let in the Lebanese restaurant owner. The advantage Sherlock realized with such a visit was an excellent opportunity to finally inspect the man face to face.

"The door's open," Sherlock stated and pressed the proper button. Then he spun around and let his eyes sweep around the flat once. It looked habitable, absent books on the floor and body parts in the fridge. John wouldn't be mad for how his home looked when Sherlock welcomed a friend of his into the flat.

When echoing steps sounded through the door, Sherlock opened it smoothly and took one step over the threshold, taking in the unassuming man with detective-greedy eyes.

Rarely a good night's sleep, hands calloused in the way of a shop owner and server, a brain that knew the price of objects, not afraid of enterprises. Huddling shoulders: frightened still, and unsure at the tall stranger before him who didn't behave like normal people.

Sherlock caught himself and stopped staring at the man. Instead, he held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. Pleasure to meet you."

The other man visibly relaxed at the changing of his stance, and shook Sherlock's hand firmly.

"I'm Samir Ghaddar."

'I know,' Sherlock thought in a snarky way before offering a fake smile that could fool Lestrade, not John.

"Well, do come in, Mr. Ghaddar and present your matter," he delivered formally and strolled inside and led the way to the living room after the man had removed his large coat and hat. The bald man sunk down in one of the armchairs at Sherlock's pointing gesture and his jeans stretched over his legs whereas the brown jacket bunched around his middle. The detective sat down in the other one and pressed his hands together under his chin in expectation.

Samir's eyes however darted around and his fingers moved anxiously on the armrest. Sherlock swallowed an annoyed huff and held out a hand.

"Do you want anything? To drink, eat?"

Samir stirred and turned shocked eyes towards him as if he had forgotten where he was.

"No, no. I'm fine. Thank you" he stuttered and Sherlock could practically touch the dread in the air. The seconds ticked by, silence settling in the room. Sherlock blinked. Samir opened his mouth but didn't meet Sherlock's observing gaze.

"Dr. Watson… He's not home yet."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, unable to hide his impatience. Samir shrank back in the armchair. Sherlock backpedalled.

"He'll be home in half an hour, I assume. I think your visit will make him happy."

Samir shifted and gave him a lopsided smile that lasted for two seconds. "So he's healthy again? No poison in his blood?"

Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap and crossed his legs elegantly. "His anticoagulants have reached normal levels, yes. But as we're waiting for him, why don't you tell…"

"I didn't mean to harm him!" the man blurted in an upset voice and was up and stalking back and forth faster than Sherlock would have given him credit for.

"Poor Dr. Watson. He is a good man. But you weren't there when that dog pointed a gun at me and threatened my children! I had to take the bags of poison or else he'd punish me!" Samir exclaimed and his open face was ridden by guilt and angst. Sherlock found no reason to blame the man who also had been a victim of the mysterious gangster in the gorilla mask.

"Mr. Ghaddar, as far as I know, John doesn't blame you at all. You saw no other way out from your predicament," he said while straightening the sleeves of his jacket. The standing man paused and buried his hands in his pockets, clearly forcing himself to regain control over his emotions.

"I haven't been able to work since the police took me in to interrogate me. I feel so bad. I know that man is still out there, and he can get to me or my family despite the protection we've been promised," Samir uttered with worry lacing his deep voice and Sherlock contemplated what the best thing to say next was.

"Scotland Yard is a very competent establishment. John is also guarded by the police, and I'm certain you are supervised from afar by agents like we are, to ensure your safety."

"Yes. They've told me so," Samir replied somewhat clumsily and glanced at Sherlock.

"Mr. Ghaddar. As you know I'm John's flatmate, and a consulting detective. I'm investigating this next to the police and my results usually turn out to be satisfying. I will not deny it would be helpful to me if you told me all about this masked man who repeatedly threatened you," he ventured tentatively and watched how the haunted man looked like Sherlock was offering him a well when he was dying from thirst.

"Can you…Can you help me? Find that bastard and get him arrested?" he gasped with reborn hope and Sherlock basked in the faith in him.

"I'm very effective in my methods but I require details. Please sit down and tell me everything that's happened since that man walked into your restaurant for the first time. And don't be boring."

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