Hey, there, FYI, that last chapter had a grievous typo that had to be fixed, and so I had to re-load it, which I think sent you followers and favers, a message, which I didn't mean to send – Sorry about that! – I didn't mean to trick you! It won't happen again! I will try to be more careful.

In which Molly is mightily tested but not in a bad way.

In which Sherlock and John get back to some semblance of something.

Mycroft rears his skeevy head

And the next chapter is set up with deliciousness in store.


The Thames -II- 4 Days and 5 Nights

Molly

"You take milk no sugar, right, Molls?"

Molly blinked and looked at the door to the lab. Three of her co-workers were going for coffee, and they'd just promised to bring her one and she'd just been talking to them. But her focus and awareness had gone off into space all on their own again, and her companions were starting to find it funny, since she'd been spacing out all week.

"Hmm?" She said, "Oh, yes, that's right, thanks!"

"Sure you don't want to come with us? Get some fresh air?"

"No, no, that's fine – I um – no thanks."

"God, what must John be doing to her!" Said Liz.

The assembled women at the door tittered, though not in a malicious way, and filed out the door. As they went, Molly heard them say 'newlyweds,' and 'giving it to her,' and 'I wish my Steve -,' and 'I wish my Bill-,' They smiled and waved over their shoulders. Sharon remained. Oh, god, Sharon, please, please, please no questions, please. But Molly's wish was to no avail.

"Hey, Molly, what's going on, hmm? John keeping you up at night?"

Molly had had a couple of her co-workers notice love bites on her neck, despite her cunning use of scarves and make-up. This was the least of her worries, the good natured ribbing she was getting was only that, and she could handle it. What she was badly in need of, however was not more scarves or tattoo-grade cover up makeup, but sleep. Dear, sweet, lovely sleep, where have you gone, she wondered? She had also fallen asleep in a meeting, as well as her desk. It had been four days and five nights since the incident of the Thames and the schedule she was keeping was about to kill her.

"Yes, yes, haha, Sharon, yes, John is keeping me up a bit. Haha. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Well, what are you feeding him? That's something that can sometimes contribute to things like this. What's he been eating for the last five days?"

Good lord, 'what's he been eating for the last five days?' No, no, can't do Sharon at the moment – I know: morgue! Yes. That's it, I have to go to the lovely, lovely morgue.

Sharon was a nutritionist and her question was a serious one, and while Molly saw great potential for comedy in the interview Sharon seemed to want to conduct with her, Molly knew she had to get away quickly to avoid saying anything too revealing. The pathologist excused herself and ran to the morgue to avoid Sharon from nutrition, though all she really wanted to do was collapse on her desk, while the others were out, and catch ten minutes of sleep.

Owing to John's rage at Sherlock chucking himself into the Thames as had been chasing a criminal, John was still avoiding 221B, and was staying at the married couple's flat. Though it was only a couple blocks' walk away, the current arrangement was starting to really wear Molly down. For the last five nights, Molly had had dinner with either John or Sherlock separately, then if dinner had been with John, she had gone to 221B, where Sherlock proceeded to make love to her for hours, and no sleep at all was had. Molly marvelled at how incredible he had been each and every time, and had varied his usually quite desperate and animalistic approach with lots more subtlety and variety. Each time, she thought, he set the bar a little higher, but the next time he'd done it again, and then again. Where will this end? Me in the grave, she'd thought, but with a big smile on my face.

Close to midnight, the pair would dress, and Sherlock would walk Molly to the apartment containing John. Molly would let them in with her key, and they would find John seated at the tiny kitchen table with a mug of tea in front of him, which he seemed to be mostly ignoring, as he waited up for Molly. Sherlock would stand by the door, which he held ajar. The two men wouldn't look at each other: Sherlock out of deference, and John out of rage, at first, and later out of stubbornness. Then, Sherlock would sigh, and say 'Ok. Good night,' and go.

Then John would take Molly on the living room carpet or the sofa quickly and urgently, pounding into her roughly, licking her all over, searching for all evidence of Sherlock's presence. He'd ask her what she'd done with their friend earlier in the evening, and Molly would tell him, sometimes in some detail, relishing the way her husband would react to each tidbit of information, usually with more roughness and force. He was able to let go in these moments, she saw, and she wasn't able to say 'no' to these new lovemaking sessions, since they were so thrilling. But dear god in heaven, I can't keep this up for much longer, for godssake, someone end this stalemate!

After this initial bout of rough, immediate contact, the pair would make their way to bed, but just as Molly was falling asleep, John would take her again, this time in his usual manner, quite thoroughly, quietly, all loving attentiveness, and she loved this, too, and wasn't willing to put her husband off.

One afternoon, on Wednesday, Molly had had the afternoon shift off, and John had been at work. She took a cab home, a luxury she didn't usually afford herself, and charged home as fast as she could with no plan but to plunge into bed fully clothed and sleep. But there was Sherlock, already in the flat, his arms suddenly around her, his mouth on her, kissing her.

"Did you shower this morning, love?" He asked desperately, his mouth in her ear, in that bedroom tone that always made her wet.

"No, there's, there's no time, I – ah!"

"No, you didn't – ah, god, how lovely, Molly, please, let me, let me, please?" He had her knickers down to her knees, and was already pushing his face between her legs, tasting her, biting her, licking the insides of her thighs, looking, searching for evidence of John. She really had no say in the matter, she thought, so she said nothing, and spread her legs, taking the opportunity to lift her jumper and blouse over her head. Maybe if I just let him, he'll finish quickly and I can fall asleep before John gets home, then I could – ah!" He'd lifted her to his shoulder, her bare bottom in the air, and hauled her to the bedroom. It was only a mildly rough first go, and she'd fallen asleep directly afterward, and must have had at least a couple hours' sleep. But she'd been awakened with Sherlock on her, inside her, pounding away. He finished, and whispered in her ear.

"That was really very - very ill-mannered of me, I'm sorry, I just – I just – I'm sorry, please forgive me." She'd smiled quite evilly at him, kissing him, saying nothing, and he'd smiled back, the same naughty smile they shared at certain moments. It was a smile that John was not privy to.

"It's almost time. I'll see you later," said Sherlock, and he'd left quickly, in time to miss John's arrival at home.

Jesus Christ, I should be writing all this down to tell my grandchildren or something, she thought before she passed out. She had a fleeting image of how she must look displayed as she was on the bed. Her skirt was still on and fastened, but all rucked up around her waist, her bra unfastened, but up over her collarbone like some weird necklace, her knickers still hanging on for dear life around one ankle, her sex open and glistening. One shoe still on. This is how John found her on the bed when he came home at five. He fell on her, though she was deeply asleep, fairly devouring her. But, she reasoned, she'd gotten about three hours of extra sleep that day, so she figured it was worth it.

Finally, on the fifth night, during one of John's second, gentler sessions with Molly, she had actually fallen asleep, and she woke to him laughing.

"Ahaha! Ahahahaha! Oh, there you are, good morning, sunshine. Did I put you to sleep? Sorry about that. Ahaha. You must be exhausted. But you haven't said a thing. We don't have to, you know."

"I love it," Molly had said, laughing a little, too.

"Ahaha. Well, that's good. Ahaha." John pulled out of her and held her.

"Can you please just speak to him, darling? I beg of you," Molly asked.

"He comes in every night, he doesn't say anything."

"That's because he feels he's already apologized. Do you want him to say it again? I'm sure he will. Just talk to him."

"No, no – that's all right. I'm – yes, I suppose, I'm just punishing him."

"No, dear, you're punishing me."

"Ahaha. I see. Well, we can't have that."

John entered her again and began his usual attentive careful movements. Molly sighed and allowed her head to loll to the side in exhaustion. She decided to be direct.

"Don't, please don't take this the wrong way, you're beautiful, and I love everything you do - but can you just, just finish – for yourself? I'm ruined, I'm completely ruined I can't keep my eyes open – do you see? – please?"

"Oh, of course, of course – Hmm, I've never, thought of it uh, that way."

Yes you have, Molly thought.

"Think of it as though I've just come in the door, yeah?" Molly said.

"Ah, yes. Desperation, loneliness, rage. Like that, do you?" John looked at her with a darkness she well knew was in him, but which she rarely saw.

"I don't – I don't like it, it's just – it's what we have right now – John, love, you can end it."

"Yes. Yes, I know," John started to move into her, locking eyes with her and took her quickly, forcefully with no move at all from him to help her with her own pleasure. She didn't need it, it turned out, she came easily when he was close, and he finished quickly afterward. They lay for a moment, breathing regularly, holding one another.

"Was that - real?" He asked.

"Oh for god sake, John, yes, love, it was real, of course it was – I couldn't possibly fake it tonight, I'm just too tired! Love you. Now, please, please, let me sleep."

John chuckled quietly to himself and watched his wife fall quickly into a deep sleep.


John

Even in the dim light he saw how tired his poor Molly was, the lines of her face more pronounced, and the love bites all over her shoulders, neck and chest. Where else? He wondered, though he knew he himself had left a number on other parts of her body. We're killing her. What a pair of idiots we are. This has to be the last night, he resolved. He slipped out of bed and took out his phone and texted.

I'll be eating lunch outside clinic in small adjacent green area. Talk? Near river. Watch your step. - J

He thought the humour would make his meaning clear, that he was finished brooding, and wanted to return to the way things were. He'd hoped, too, that it communicated a little of the contrition he felt about making this separation last longer than necessary. Surely two or three nights would have sufficed to make his point, but each time Sherlock had come over to deliver Molly in the middle of the night, he'd allowed himself to get angry, again. He hoped he hadn't waited too long and made things worse and somehow put his friend off. He was fairly sure he hadn't.

Sherlock replied almost immediately.

Yes, John. Thank you. 'til then. SH

John hung his head and realized how idiotic he had been to let this go so long. He'd ruined poor Molly. Just look at her! And he knew how alone Sherlock felt when he was left to himself. But he'd had Molly to take it out on, too. Oh, my poor, poor girl! He thought.

Desperation, loneliness, rage. No, John hadn't had a very nice time of it, himself, come to think of it. Each of those evenings waiting for Molly after dinner was distraction and anxiety embodied. Just sitting in that damned kitchen, staring at the tea pot and some tea things. He wouldn't be able to sit there again for some time or even drink tea out of that damned pot any time soon.

Once more he considered the three of them, and the strange arrangement they had entered into. It had been at Molly's prompting, of course. She had been the one to nudge him toward approaching Sherlock in the beginning, offering a shared relationship. He had only thought to share Molly initially, and never thought that he and Sherlock – well – never in the beginning. No, never. Perhaps we have more staying power than we thought. Than I thought. He could easily imagine the spat he and Sherlock had had, sparking an insurmountable obstacle to another couple, but Molly's involvement had helped to make him see sense, helped him to see a way to end it. And Sherlock, he thought, Sherlock already considers us a permanent part of, his life. He said so. Well, I can't live without him, either. Them. Both of them. Maybe there are years to come – years of us together. After all, what does anyone ever know about years to come? Even in the most traditional of couples? Exactly nothing.

John hadn't told Molly of his text to Sherlock, preferring to surprise her with a big 'all clear,' later in the day, he'd hoped. So, in the morning, John and Molly got through their routine preparations for work somewhat hectically, as usual, and finally got out the door in time to be prompt. He walked Molly to the tube, and then continued on to the clinic, which was somewhat of a trek, but he preferred the bit of exercise he could eke out of the walk. But today, he hadn't walked 100 yards from dropping Molly at the tube before an impressive black car pulled up ahead of him, and a man with an umbrella stepped from it to the walk way. Bloody Mycroft, what the hell? John thought, but continued to walk, now toward the man, until he was face to face with him.

"Mycroft."

"John."

"I'm on my way to work. I'm not getting in the car with you."

"No, need, John, no need. Just five - well, perhaps ten minutes of your time?"

The elder Holmes' mouth was held in a rather tighter than usual smile at John. Smug motherfucker, it would be so easy, so lovely to just haul off and – John took a breath and managed to control himself.

"Five minutes – all right." Said John.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and began.

"I understand there was - an incident. In the Thames, about a week ago? Involving the police?"

"Yes, yes, there was," John's patience was not going to take much of this, he reckoned.

"Yes, and I understand I owe you my thanks for having saved my brother's life."

"Hmm, well I dunno," John adopted a more casual tone, hoping to calm himself. "Nothing at all would have been accomplished without the rescue boat and her crew."

"I understand quite differently from my sources. I understand that you – seemed to have a preternatural sense of where Sherlock was, ah, in the river – and that the crew would have surely lost him had you not been there."

"I heard him calling. That's all. I heard him from the stern of the boat. The crew were in the bow. Not very much preternatural about it, I'm afraid." John clenched at the 25-cent word and the implication that he knew Mycroft was trying to make, and tried not to let the word stick in his throat.

"Hmm," Mycroft smiled, but looked away from John. "Please accept my thanks in any case, I am most grateful."

"Ok. Is that all, then?"

There was a lull in the conversation now, and Mycroft was twisting his umbrella's tip into the pavement with a little more concentration than perhaps was necessary.

"How is your wife – uh, - Molly, John?"

"She's fine, Mycroft, thank you."

"And ah – how are you getting on with her, John?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"And how is she getting on with Sherlock?" How is he able to purse his lips after each and every sentence? John wondered.

"Just ask what you came for, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes stopped punishing the tip of the umbrella, and took a step closer to John, and adopted a quieter but much less casual tone. John sensed a distaste from Mycroft he hadn't encountered in him in the past. Well, he thought, here it comes.

"I'm confident that Sherlock has told you about my knowledge of the three of you and your,- arrangement, so there's an end of that, hmm? You also know I have Sherlock under surveillance for unusual activity and that I do this for various and quite valid reasons, so we can put that aside, yes?" Mycroft paused and took a breath. "I can see that something is – 'wrong.' You've been ah - sleeping at yours, and Sherlock has remained at his. Poor Molly has been a bit of a shuttlecock, hmm? My question, John, is, how serious is it, and how long will it last?"

"That is none of your damned concern, Mycroft, now, if you'll excuse me -." John could take no more, and turned on his heel.

"Just as you say, John, you're quite right, of course."

Something in his voice stopped John, and made him look over his shoulder at Mycroft who still stood on the walkway and now turned to face him directly.

"But I do - I offer my sincerest wish for things to normalize soon? In Sherlock's best interests."

John rage was almost beyond containment, but the phrase 'Sherlock's best interests,' stopped his anger. He knew that although Mycroft's methods and sometimes his results as well, were reprehensible, the elder man did care for his brother. He showed it the only way he knew how. In a skeevy, reptilian manner. John drew a deep breath and spoke.

"I don't think he's anywhere near as fragile as you make him out to be." Said John.

"Hmm. Perhaps not."

John decided to give him what he wanted, it was harmless enough, he thought. It really had more to do with John than Sherlock, after all.

"Well. I'm - confident that things will – ah, normalize. Uh, today. I hope," John offered.

"Ah. I see. Well, that's good, isn't it?. Thank you, John. Give Sherlock my regards. Good day." Mycroft gave his parting wish a sing-song quality, and waved his umbrella as he stepped back into the car.

It was only at that moment that John realized that Mycroft had probably been hoping that their triad was breaking up, or had done already. He'd used words in the way that he, John had expected them to be used, not the way Mycroft and society in general would use them. God, I'm an idiot. John had a fleeting feeling of what it might have been like for a young Sherlock to grow up with this kind of manipulating cunt as a big brother. He shook his head, a little ashamed of himself, and resumed his walk to work.

John's morning at the clinic was uneventful, but busy, and before he knew it, Sarah was telling him to take his lunch break, and he was out the door, and around the corner to the little park at the river's edge.

He knew Sherlock would be there before him, and there he was at the edge of the river. Probably got there a good half hour early, just so he could pose for me like that, John thought, looking at his friend's unmistakable silhouette. Sherlock's back was to John as he stood against the light of the still low spring sun, his arms on a safety railing, spread out wide, his coat's hem whipping in the wind. John approached him and felt his jeans get increasingly uncomfortable. Was this a first? Had he ever gotten hard approaching a man before? Probably, though he couldn't remember. If he had, it had only been the fickle whims of his body playing him up. But today was very specific. It was because of Sherlock. Is this what I am now? The voice asked. Shut it, John's consciousness answered, and then, Get used to it, these people are my life, now. He was by Sherlock's side at the railing.

"Hey." John said by way of greeting, and Sherlock responded.

"Hey." Sherlock looked at John, then back at the river, a little defensive, non-committal. He brought his arms in close to his body, but still held the metal railing. John leaned his back against the railing, but quite close to Sherlock. He sighed before he spoke.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have -."

"You're -?" Sherlock faced his friend.

"Yes, I shouldn't have let it go on like this. For this long. I – I was – Well, Sherlock, I was just so fucking angry with you."

"Yes. I know, I'm sorry, I -?"

"No, I don't mean to-, You've said – you've already apologized and I – appreciate it. I'm not angry now, ok?"

"Ok - ?"

"I guess I got – stubborn with it and then, I think I got a little self-involved. You know, punishing you, or something." John paused, kicking some pebbles on the ground with the toe of his shoe. "I should have talked to you– about it. Every night when you brought Molly over. You gave me that opportunity - . I should have – well. Will you – forgive me?"

"Forgive you -?" Sherlock was at a loss for words.

John turned around and stood next to his friend, adopting Sherlock's stance at the railing, looking out at the river. He touched shoulders with his friend, his left one to Sherlock's right, and knew that no one who might be watching could see him put his hand on top of his friend's on the metal. He gripped Sherlock's fingers in his own, and rubbed the back of the hand with his thumb. John noticed Sherlock's breathing hitch at the contact, and the two held one another's gaze. Sherlock turned over his hand, and the two laced fingers together and looked at their locked hands in the sunlight. They stayed connected this way for some long moments. Finally, John squeezed his friend's hand, made eye contact, and released him, stepping a little way from him.

"Ran into Mycroft. Well he made sure to run into me, I suppose."

"Really?"

"Mmm, this morning. He made out he was concerned about the goings on at Baker Street."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure he did. I'm surprised he waited this long – I mean -, that is -."

"Ahaha. Yes, I waited a while, I'm – I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Ok."

John turned, and leaned his back against the railing and the two were comfortably quiet for a time.

"Sherlock. I'm – I'm not angry. But, I need to ask - what the fuck were you thinking? Jumping in the river? Can you tell me? What did you hope to – accomplish there? I can't get it straight in my head. Did you think he could really get away?"

Sherlock offered his thought process during the moments before jumping into the river, his thought to grab Sudan with one hand, and then one of the pylons on the bank with another and then to wait for back up. His calculation of the current had been correct in so far as reaching Sudan was concerned, but not so accurate in terms of being able to reach the pylons along the bank before the current swept the pair farther into the river. His ability to gauge the current had probably been impeded by the darkness. John was mightily unimpressed by this explanation, but didn't get angry.

"Yeah? Ok." John shook his head again.

"Did – did you think he could really get away? You know -escape? Having jumped into the Thames? At night?"

"Oh. I didn't consider that. No, I suppose not, I imagine most would consider it almost certain -."

"Yeah, there we go. Almost certain death. Suicide? Whatever?" The two were quiet and John spoke again.

"When are you going to stop making me watch you jump to your death?"

"John, I – I'm sorry – I -."

"No, no, I shouldn't be doing that -I'm sorry, ok? I guess, I just want you to know what it would do to me, if you - to us, me and Molly. You've seen how incomplete we feel without you. In general, and when we -."

Sherlock recalled the morning he'd broken into John's and Molly's apartment and had become an accidental witness to the couple's tearful lovemaking in his absence. He hung his head.

"I do know, John. I know. But John -."

"Yeah?"

"We do – both of us – we are involved in some rather dangerous – you were almost killed that day in the alley. That was a very close thing."

"Yeah. It's true."

"And you choose, you choose to be there, you chose to be with me on these – cases. And Molly – well, we should talk to her about it, but she seems to accept it."

"It's true. It's true." John nodded and closed his eyes.

"John, I've thought about this all week, but I -I don't know how to tell you – how it would be for me – if I lost – if I lost either one of you. I just don't know what to say to - how to tell you." Sherlock locked eyes with his friend.

"Yeah. Ok, ok." John nodded, and the two stood looking at the river in question.

"It would be – it would be -," Sherlock tried to find some way.

"It's ok, I get it, I know." John reassured his friend, and they stood together quietly for a time.

"Molly," said Sherlock, at length.

"Yes, I know." John rubbed his forehead in embarrassment.

"I think we've been rather brutal, John. I mean just the marks I've – we've -."

"Well, yes – but -."

"Yes, -. She's extraordinary."

John smiled. "Yes, she is. Shall we call her?"

"And tell her that we've kissed and made up?"

"Well, yes – ah."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John on the mouth, unhurried and unembarrassed, fully, and with patience as well as passion. John responded as openly as he could, though Sherlock felt a little reticence in his friend's touch, no doubt owing to the public venue and the shadow of Mycroft's earlier visit. He forgave that, too. They separated, and stood apart. John took a furtive look around to check if anyone had seen them. There were no people about, but there were a couple buildings overlooking the area in which they were standing. Probably not, John thought and smiled sheepishly at Sherlock who'd seen him scan the area. His friend only smiled.

"Sorry. But - ahaha. Molly?"

"Yes, let's call."

They took out their phones. Sherlock texted.

Kissed and made up. - John to call. -SH

Sherlock showed John the text before sending it.

"Ahaha. Oh, Molly, love, oh, sorry – can – it's just, we've made it up – yes. Yes, love, sleep tonight. Ok. Ok. No, I won't, we won't - No, I'll leave you to it, I'll go to his. All right. I'll wake you at noon if I haven't heard from you. Love you. No, don't worry. But call me when you get home, or text me or something, yeah? Ok. Love you. Bye." John rang off and pocketed his phone.

"She doesn't really want to see us tonight," John grinned.

"Ah. Really, I can't blame her."

"Oh, I've said I'd be at yours tonight," John grinned, "will that be all right?"

Sherlock grinned back, before dipping his head in embarrassment.

"John. Of course, of course. So – just the two of us? Just like old times?"

"Um. I guess not. Not exactly." Now John turned his own head away, trying to cover the pink flush that was certainly crawling up his neck and over his face.

"No. No, indeed. Five o'clock?" Sherlock bit his lower lip.

"Yes. Ok. 'Til then." The two men looked at one another, and Sherlock flashed a brilliant smile as he invaded John's personal space, his mouth close to his ear, his voice intimate.

"I've heard that sexual contact between partners following a resolved dispute can be rather agreeable, John. I've never encountered it personally, but I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. Are you sure you can't take the afternoon off?"

John smiled, and started walking away, back to the clinic.

"If I take another afternoon off before Christmas, Sarah will sack me, and I couldn't blame her."

Sherlock trotted behind the doctor, as he made his way back to the clinic.

"Are you sure? I'll make up a ruse, I have the perfect thing. Shall I start?" Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

John turned, smiling, but firm.

"Don't – please don't do anything, ok? I'll see you around five." John briefly squeezed Sherlock's wrist, let go, and walked briskly into the clinic.


Sherlock

Sherlock watched John disappear into the clinic, waving over his shoulder at the last moment, and Sherlock returned the gesture briefly, and turned to the street's walkway.

Sherlock had been fairly certain that this meeting was to be a reconciliation, but had no idea that it was going to be this easy, or that John would admit to stalling or stubbornness as he had. He'd hated his time alone at night, but had a secret glee in knowing it would only last a while. Molly had told him the very next night that John had promised her it wouldn't be weeks or months, and he knew she kept a very perceptive finger on the emotional pulse of her two men. So he'd felt fairly confident that there would be reconciliation and he'd suspected a fairly uncomplicated one, a fairly joyful one, and here it was. It didn't seem possible. It didn't seem real. He couldn't keep from grinning from ear to ear.

Meanwhile his time with Molly alone in bed had been one of the most incredible weeks of his sexual life. He'd learned so much from her, grown, he thought, from being somewhat selfish to much more generous and perceptive about his partner, and her needs, learned Molly more thoroughly, her specific preferences, and he'd added to his repertoire. She had seemed appreciative, and was vocal about the differences she'd noticed. He chuckled to himself and wondered if John had had any revelations in this regard. He would have to ask him.

Poor Molly! thought Sherlock. I wonder if she feels abused? Special treatment in the very near future is in order starting with flowers at work on Monday she loves that must tell John so as not to show him up No just send a separate bouquet from John as well don't forget to let him know. John! Four short little hours and John will be in the flat with me alone I will go mad until that time I will drive myself to distraction must find something to do with the time besides sitting and reading for I will obsess myself into a stupor and be of no use to anyone when he finally arrives I'll find something to do there are four experiments I don't give a good goddamn about a single experiment they're all going into the bin I can't read a single journal article report or analysis I will lose my mind I will go jogging no no that's too much I'll take a bath no but yes but later I'll clean the kitchen yes the kitchen I will clean the kitchen I will clean the goddamned kitchen!

Sherlock Holmes actually stopped at Tesco on his way back to his flat, purchased tea things, some other basics, and a few cleaning supplies. When he arrived at the flat, he surveyed the damage. The kitchen was fairly disgusting, but not the worst it had ever been, certainly. But with Molly's flagging energy all week, and John's total absence, it had gotten pretty bad. He flung himself at it with every scrap of energy he had and it took him nearly the whole time before five o'clock. At about 4:30, he stopped and surveyed his handiwork, fairly certain that John and Molly would be impressed, then took a quick bath and put on fresh pajamas and a dressing gown.

Sherlock wandered into the sitting room and picked up a book he'd nicked from Molly's bookshelf at theirs. Les 120 journeés de Sodome in the original French. Good lord, Molly, what have we here? You are such an interesting woman, He had thought. He dropped into his chair, slouched down, and opened the book. Sherlock quickly assessed it to be a fairly ridiculous affair, though not without a bit of black humor. It was interesting to read about certain activities in French, however. There were some forgotten words and some interesting new ones, but it wasn't long before he let the book loll against his chest, and he fell off into a light comfortable doze. And this is how John found him.


John & Sherlock

The slam of the door, the step on the stair.

"Ah, John, love." Sherlock woke at John's entrance to the flat, but didn't budge from his chair merely smiling devilishly, looking at the doctor where he was standing in front of him. His presence both soothed and aroused him. Sherlock took in the whole picture he offered. "Hmm. Come here, love, sit in my lap. Let me – hmm, oh, let me lick your neck for a couple of hours?"

"Uh-oh. You've been obsessing, haven't you? And reading - Sade? Oh, no," said John, taking a step in retreat.

"No, no, don't be alarmed, it was only a passing interest in French terminology. Oh, I've cleaned the kitchen."

"You what?" John walked into the kitchen. "Jesus fucking Christ! Where's all your, all your - stuff?" John popped his head out.

"I've chucked it or cleaned and stowed it. For the duration of the – uh –agh: honeymoon, as you put it. Since I'm not getting any work done anyway."

"This is like a real – a real kitchen. I – I could eat off this table! Is it a present? For me and Molly? A clean kitchen? Thank you." John smiled.

Sherlock took in his friend as John returned to him in the sitting room. This man is utterly adorable, I could eat him alive. I believe I will. His thighs, in those jeans are - so alluring. Why, though? Who cares?

"So you like it? The kitchen?"

"Very impressive. Fairly military."

"Ah. Good."

Sherlock was interested in seeing if John would make a first move, as he had in the park this afternoon when he'd grasped Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had found it quite thrilling and hoped for more initiation on his friend's part, but was also content to wait, the build in suspense being something he now quite enjoyed. But seeing that John was expectant himself, waiting for Sherlock, he continued. He pointed his steepled fingers, which he held under his chin, toward the doctor. Hesitant, thought Sherlock. Has he been left in the exclusive company of a woman for too long? Oh dear. I'll have to . . .

"Good, yes, the kitchen was, huh – Oh, I was wondering, by the way, if the term soixante-neuf held any particular interest for you?"

Sherlock saw his friend stiffen, and then swallow mightily.

"Bedroom. Now," John turned on his heel and strode toward Sherlock's room.

"John, you're brilliant, you're fantastic!" Sherlock leapt out of his chair and followed John to his room.


Oh, so unfair, I know, but it's getting to be too long a chapter, agh!

Next chapter will be insane with another 'first.'

I know it's not everyone's ship, so if I offend, please forgive me!

But if you liked it at all, please let me hear from you!

There doesn't seem to be a lot of Jollock out there, and fewer Jollock shippers.

I feel lonely: There's a and tons of Johnlock, but I like 'em all together!

Would love to hear from you if you liked it!

Reviews don't have to be 'review-y,' you can just say 'hi,' and I will love that!