Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N….So…I'm back. I know, you all thought I was dead – Hell, sometimes I thought I'd never work my way out of my writing slump. It's been… you know what, the website took pity on me and won't show me when the last actual update happened. I'm pretty sure it's more than a year, though.
Part of me was so embarrassed that it actually considered forgetting it all, and maybe erasing this story outright. Especially when laptop death happened. But I'd saved my stories on Dropbox, bless the cloud, and so. Here I am.
Also, apologies for the cliff, but this is my way to force myself to update next month. Otherwise someone will find a way to doxx me and come with pitchforks, I bet! In fact, you're authorised to!
They left the therapist's office hand in hand. John's eyes darted around – they'd officially become worthy targets for their killer, and for all they knew, their murderer was the bloody receptionist. It was kind of hard to be on high alert every minute when Sherlock decided to be…the only word for it was sappy.
Apparently the detective had taken to heart the lesson on using his words- or someone's words, at least. John wouldn't be surprised to discover that his partner had been reading romance novels to prepare for this role. And not even romances by famous authors. John had a hard time not giggling at declarations like, "How could I ever forget that you're the flower to my bee, love?"
How was he even supposed to answer that? He decided that he didn't have to. He just dropped a feather-soft kiss wherever he could reach. Which happened to be the other's collarbone.
Sherlock's answering squeal was utterly gratifying. The sleuth tried to glare at him, but immediately softened his gaze. Because he didn't want to ruin their charade? Because the adoration in John's face (was it brilliant not to have to care who saw what anymore) defused him? Because he was already planning revenge? John didn't know, and, to be honest, didn't mind.
(Murderer. Murderer on the loose. He really should keep his mind on the important things.) Their killer didn't seem to be in any rush, though. It didn't matter if they flaunted their affection in a local park – and then explored its emptiest corners, both to ensure no one else would be involved and that their target would see a favourable occasion.
Relaxed strolls in lonely alleys couldn't tempt him (statistical chance leaned toward a man) either. Not even when Sherlock swung their joined arms here and there until their linked hands 'accidentally' brushed John's crotch.
Fine, he deserved it. His strangled croak was followed by a grin and, "If you're that eager, love, we can always get back to the hotel."
"When you were wooing me, the place wouldn't have mattered." The detective honest-to-God pouted.
John laughed. "Back then I was a boy scout, love. Always prepared. I'll admit I wasn't so sure this would work. Besides, I want to take my time making love to you. Is that bad?" Oh Gosh, Sherlock's bad lines were contagious. Maybe their serial killer wasn't acting because he was too busy cringing at what a ridiculous pair of besotted idiots the two of them made.
"Never." Sherlock purred. Actually purred. If John had a heart attack from his partner turning the heat levels up beyond any sensible scale, would he be ruining the whole case? Was Sherlock going to don an even more absurd disguise, rope someone else in and be back next week?
Somehow, the idea of the detective pretending to love someone else – and what a brilliant actor he had proven to be – was more appalling than the idea he'd be dead. My God. He needed to visit his own therapist again soon…if he could find the nerve to admit the depth of idiocy he had reached. "Are we going right back to the hotel, then? Or can you wait? If we're going back home tomorrow, we might as well have a last date. About that, are we going home? Or have you fallen for the town, too?"
The detective shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy…but of course we're going home tomorrow, love. First thing in the morning. The last thing we need is to dillydally more than necessary. I can't leave Anderson in charge of forensics one minute longer than strictly necessary, you know. There are already enough criminals that will have gone free in my absence."
John laughed. "Point taken. Well, let me romance you tonight then. And sorry if I ever stopped."
Sherlock shrugged, but his cheekbones flushed – way too adorably for a grown man. "Neither of us were perfect, J...Jake. But that's what your esteemed colleague is for, isn't he?"
"You're always right, love. I should be used to it by now, but I don't think I'll ever fully be." John didn't pet, kiss, or otherwise touch him as he wanted to. Sure, they were supposed to be disgustingly in love right now – enough for someone to decide to off them – but his self-control had been worn thin enough till now. Actually jumping the man – especially if Sherlock was not going to protest because of their cover – would be far beyond what they'd signed up for.
"You're not serious," his beloved replied.
"About this? Very much so." John nodded solemnly for emphasis. "Now, the important things – what do you say to replicating our first date?"
"Do you expect to find a dead body soon?" The other quipped. True, they weren't the only clients of Dr. Reese, but hopefully no one else had been let go from therapy in the last days. Sherlock mentally kicked himself. Why had they not tracked every patient's clinical evolution? How could he be so stupid? He knew how. He'd been so focused on John, he forgot the basics of investigation. Had John noticed more than he did, for once?
"Just because we're going back in time, it doesn't mean that we have to do all in order. I was more thinking about Chinese...though if the murderer comes along, I won't complain." John laughed.
"Oh."
If they were really together, John would have kissed him silly right now, stealing the breathy exhale from his lips.
"You always surprise me, honey," Sherlock added. True. Also better than admitting he'd started to uselessly overthink. On cases, he usually could be focused and avoid it. Then again, usually he wasn't playacting as John's husband.
"In a good way, I hope." The doctor grinned at him.
"Always. You're the only one I know who is never boring."
"That's a high standard to live up to!" John quipped. If this was what Sherlock needed, no wonder the man had never dated during their cohabitation.
"And yet you do that without even trying. So, where's this Chinese place?"
"I saw one in the street with the shop you liked, but you'll have to check the handle for me. I confess I didn't."
"Lead on." Sherlock might as well worry about his lack of planning tomorrow. There was still a chance that their killer would come round later on. They'd lost so many days. He could allow himself one last night. One last time to pretend.
The restaurant was spacious, and they were welcomed and brought to a table protected by a folding screen decorated with a red and golden dragon. On a whim, they ordered the very same food as that first time. Spring rolls, dragon noodles, honey chicken – whose sweetness was very welcome after the noodles set their tastebuds afire – and, of course, fortune cookies.
"So? What does mine say?" John asked, holding the slip of paper. Sherlock hadn't guessed right that night either...but this was his second chance, after all.
"You have every reason to be self-confident," the detective replied, smiling.
"Well, it's not right, but it sure is a good match to the actual suggestion. Pursue your dreams with vigour, it says. Which is exactly what I intend to do tonight." John winked at him, grinning at the other's blush. "What does yours say?"
"Everything will work out for the best," he hazarded, before opening his cookie. Or at least, he fervently hoped so. "Go with your gut feeling," he read, wincing. "Of course these silly things would discourage people from actually using their brain."
"It's not always a bad suggestion, love. Besides, the gut has its own set of neurons."
Sherlock laughed. "That must be Anderson's only set of neurons."
"Back to our room?" John asked. If the killer wanted to act, he would have already. Maybe he was waiting for them, and getting impatient because they didn't get back.
...No, he wasn't. Damn. He'd never been this eager to have someone attack them. What were they supposed to do now?
A look was enough of a question, and Sherlock shrugged, kissed him (which didn't help John to keep his mind about him at all) and then whispered in his ear, "Let's rumple the bed...and then we can take turns sleeping. If you trust me to be able to stand guard."
"I trust you with my life." His CO would have done the same. John shouldn't have expected Sherlock to make things more complicated. The detective was clever, not one to confusticate things on purpose (and John had zero guilt for stealing the word from Tolkien).
They settled, as usual (damn, it already felt like usual...what would they do at home?), and Sherlock claimed first turn. With his army training, John was asleep in seconds. He expected to be nudged, one way or another. Better not let the enemy know you noticed him, and his PTSD had become so much better since he lived with Sherlock. Instead, his eyes opened at his partner's shocked, "Impossible!"