Thanks to Daylen XVIII for pointing out I put up the same chapter - Life has been incredibly busy.
*.o.O.o.O.o*
Morning rain in London; watching it fall from heavy clouds thick with mist was calming, almost peaceful. The orchestra of droplets pelting against the stone below, the beat of hooves and the movement of wheels was quietly observed from the window above. The lone man, breath forming on the cold pane, was still. Mind deep in thought, Sherlock Holmes felt hollow. It had been months. Boring, quiet months. His wound had healed well enough, though a scar would forever remain. He felt in his chest a loneliness that held on with an iron grip. The memory of John Watson's face scorched his minds eye – John's piercing stare as he promised to never let him go. Sherlock shivered despite a splendid cashmere blanket covering his naked form. John had tried to send word, to visit, but Sherlock had refused. A child. Sherlock felt his lip curl. He touched the glass enjoying the frosty bite against his finger. That complicated matters.
"Overthinking again."
Sherlock tapped the glass, ignoring the ex lieutenant. Jefferson bit his tongue. This would not do.
"Sherlock."
Fingers squealed across glass in bitter annoyance.
"I am in a temper, it would be wise not to bore me."
"You've been in a temper these last few months. I find it maddening."
Sherlock turned towards the man behind him. Paul was pouring amber liquid into crystal glasses, emerald eyes never straying from the detectives face. The detective shifted awkwardly under the gaze. Something had changed when Paul had walked into the room that night with John. His gaze was almost consuming in their stare.
"Any news on the case?" Sherlock rose from his chair, wrapping the blanket around his waist (it was not enough fabric to cover his entire body and had left his clothes in a different room) and accepted the glass, trying to avoid the brush of skin of the man now standing beside him.
"No word from our sources. I went on a mission a few days ago to see what I could find. Nothing."
"Curious." Sherlock welcomed the burning taste of whiskey. He wanted to get high, forget the vacancy he was feeling. He needed a distraction. He shuddered as hot fingers brushed against his neck, capturing the escaping curls.
"Isn't it?" Jefferson remarked quietly. He had had to put events on hold, much to the displeasure of Alistair, for the great Sherlock Holmes was still fighting an unseen battle, a battle of emotion. How tiresome. It was time to get back to the game. He wanted this man broken and begging; desired this brilliant mind for himself. Wanted the powerful body quivering helplessly beneath his own.
"You have to forget about him."
"I hardly know what you mean, old goat-"
"John." Jefferson resisted the urge to spit the name. He tightened his grip about the detectives neck, tilting it backwards. "What you burn for – I can grant your deepest desire."
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
John faked a smile as Mary busied herself around their home. She was glowing with her pregnancy, her belly showing signs of life. He felt guilty and that guilt was eating him from the inside. He loved Mary, he did, but what he felt for Sherlock was something he couldn't put into words. Yes it was love, but it was also something much more. It tortured him that his friend had refused to meet or even speak with him. He must try again.
"Darling, you seem unwell. Do you need some rest? You've been overworked attending to patients these last few months." Mary sat down beside John, a soft hand supporting his cheek.
"I am fine, my dear." John reassured her, his words a lie to his ears. He needed to see Sherlock. A pretty frown formed along Mary's face.
"You should have Mr. Holmes over for supper this evening, John."
"What?"
"I can handle him for a few hours." Mary smiled. "You've been unusually sulky and I think I know why."
John remained silent hoping his heart would remain intact.
"You miss him." John bit his cheek as Mary smiled at him. "I think dinner is an excellent idea."
"Mary, darling, I don't think -"
"Nonsense," Mary rose heading for the kitchen. "Shall I invite Mr. Holmes or -"
"I'll go." John broke in. He took a deep breath as he grabbed his coat. Soft singing rose from the kitchen, a sweet melody amidst the sound of pots. John cursed his very soul as he closed the door behind him.
*o.O.o.O.o*
He was frozen, a contrast to the hot fingers at the base of his neck. He could feel the other man press against the small of his spine, hear the sound of the crystal being placed on the side table, could still taste the fire of the whiskey. Sherlock clutched his empty glass with a free hand, the other supporting the cashmere around his hips. He shivered as Paul ghosted along exposed flesh, drink forgotten.
"What do you desire, Sherlock?"
The toned, muscled body shook ever so slightly under Paul's touch, which became more daring. The temptation was too great. Paul inhaled the scent; honey and spice entwined amongst dark curls. He could have him - bend him over the table... A grunt broke him out of his reverie– it was too soon. The detective was rigid, muscle tense. He wasn't ready.
A loud knock sounded from the door. Paul bit his tongue, tasting blood. He had almost lost control. Alistair would have been terribly put off.
"Letter for Mr. Jefferson," Mrs. Hudson announced, entering the room with a flourish. "My dear, Mr. Holmes, are you quite all right?"
The detective had, almost magically, returned to his seat by the window, his complexion scarlet.
"I'm -" Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm quite alright, Mrs. Hudson. An extravagant amount of drink – I'm fine."
Mrs. Hudson clucked worriedly before returning to her duties. Paul chuckled.
"That must have been one extraordinary drink." Turning his attention to the letter, Jefferson noted the seal. Grin fading, he tore the envelope, revealing its contents. A quick glance at Sherlock; the detective was focused on the outside world, unaware of the sudden change of mood. Tucking the letter deep into his inside pocket, ex lieutenant Paul Jefferson made for the door.
"I'll be engaged for this evening." He paused at the door, green eyes hungry. "I will see you later this evening."
Sherlock ignored the man. His thoughts were somewhat occupied and it would be hours before he showed any signs of movement.
*o.O.o.O.o*
The rain had not let up. The afternoon sun hid among the dark grey clouds as John shook off the muck attached to his boots, at the entrance of 221B Baker Street. The downpour had soaked him through to the bone, his teeth chattering. He rapped at the door waiting for an answer. Ten minutes passed. Bitting back curses John knocked again, with considerable force. Without warning the door sprang open, John's falling fist hitting Sherlock Holmes right on the bridge of the nose.
"Holmes!" John gaped, watching as the man, dressed in nothing but an overly ornate cashmere blanket, grasp at his face. "Sorry. I'm terribly sorry."
"The weather got to you?" Sherlock remarked, voice muffled. "Come in, people are starting to stare."
John glanced behind into the street. Indeed, passersby were gawking at the man dressed in nothing but cashmere.
"Right." John left the miserable rain behind and was greeted with the familiar sights and smells of the detectives flat.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock remarked, one arm holding the material about his waist, the other wiping the trickle of blood from his lip. His bare toes were drumming against the rich carpet. John tired very hard not to stare. The wound had healed well, but that wasn't what the good doctor was examining. He had forgotten how well formed his friend was; the chiseled jaw, the sculpted form and those almond eyes.
"Mary has asked me if you would care to join us for supper."
John swallowed as Sherlock watched him disbelievingly.
"Supper?"
"Tonight. 6 o'clock."
"Supper?"
"Yes, Sherlock. Supper. My house, 6 o'clock." John muttered.
"You need clothes."
"What?"
"You're watering the floors." Sherlock remarked casually, before disappearing up the stairs.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Sherlock tried to look away, but John stood half naked in the detectives room, currently attending to soaked trousers, which stuck to him like glue.
"You put on five pounds since that last time I saw you..." He remarked casually, not fully aware of the words forming on his tongue.
"Two pounds, Sherlock. Two." John hissed, face red. "Could you turn around, or better yet, leave the room?"
"I do believe your calculations are wrong –"
"I'm trying to change!"
"It's my room."
"Yes, I know, but Holmes," John pinched his fingers over his nose. "But I would prefer it, if you didn't oggle –"
"Who's oggling?" Sherlock muttered quietly, though he did turn his back. John sniffed in silent approval.
"Do you accept?" John inquired, managing to pull off the wet fabric, instantly feeling the warmth of the room embrace his naked body.
"Accept..."
"Dinner. At 6 o'clock with Mary and I."
Ah John and Mary. The happy couple.
"John, I–"
"You are coming and that is that." John cut in sharply. He would not argue any further.
Sherlock flared his nostrils, turned and lost the words that he was about to convey. John, fully naked, was attempting to pull the trousers through one foot. Sherlock felt his breath hitch, his heart leap to his chest. He could feel beads of sweat stick to the back of his neck. Thankfully John was too preoccupied with the trousers to witness Sherlock's glimpse. Seeing John here, being here with him, even if it was for something as simple as attending dinner, was like putting in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. He felt complete. Sherlock forced himself to avert his stare.
"Fine." Sherlock voiced, his tone dropping an octave. He would go for John. Always for John. Clearing his throat Sherlock left the room.
Triumphant with his victory, John quickly finished dressing before sliding on a tailcoat. He checked himself one last time in the mirror before heading out to the sitting room. What he saw rooted him to the spot.
Sherlock turned around from the fire place, pipe in hand wearing one of the finest suits John had ever seen. Ebony trousers, a black velvet tailcoat that sported a stunning design, a violet vest and a black silk puff tie. And it wrapped around his frame like a tight leather glove. John felt his mouth go dry.
"I take it you approve?" Sherlock questioned, revealing a bright white smile. John nodded curtly.
"You look..." Beautiful. Stunning. Beddable. "Presentable."
Sherlock laughed and it was as if music filled the room.