Bulrush

John ran into the restaurant, her blonde hair flapping behind her, a brown paper bag clutched in her fist.

"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, quickly scouring the tables.

Martin was easy enough to find, being over six feet, hunched over his lunch, already half of it eaten. She ran over to him and plopped into the seat opposite, ready to apologize all over again.

Martin help up a hand, a smile on his face. "I know," he said.

"Slept in. Very late. Clock wrong." John huffed and held up the paper bag. "Tape."

"It's fine," he chuckled. "It's not the first time you've been late and it won't be the last."

John's face fell. He was right, of course. She was never on time when a case was on. Never on time, never there when he needed her, never there even when she was physically there. This was usually followed up by the breakup speech.

Martin shook his head and reached across the table to touch her arm. "It's alright. You get murderers off the streets. If you were a copper, I think I would see you even less. This," he gestured between them, "-is good. It's only lunch. You can eat your salad cold and go over your new case with Sherlock."

John's face twisted into a soppy smile. "You really are too good for me."

"I know," Martin teased. "Now, do I want to hear about the new case now or should I wait until I'm done eating?"

John rocked her head side to side. "Not quite decent enough for public spaces. There is quite a lot of cock involved."

"Can I assume you do not mean chicken?"

"You can."

Martin's face scrunched and he nodded, taking a sip of his drink. "Alright then. Tell me about your paying job. Had any good patients recently?"

John happily dove into her latest tale about the man with the green toe. Martin was enthralled, cracking jokes at the perfect times, making her lose her breath and her face hurt from laughing. He truly was the perfect man and deserved all the credit for it. She knew she was going to marry him one day. It was refreshing, to just know. Comforting.

"So," Martin started, once they both had their breath back and were waiting for the check. "How about Sherlock? How is she? DId you start that new experiment where she was going to tell you what to do?"

John's face heated. "Sherlock is alright. This case has her frustrated."

"Yeah," Martin snorted. "With all that cock, she must be confused."

John grit her teeth. He did not mean anything by it. The virgin jokes were long coming and from everyone. Sherlock ignored it and she told John to do the same.

"We did start that experiment," John continued abruptly. "It went well, I think."

"Good," Martin said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"How about your kids?" John asked, changing the subject. "Are they allowed to use the microscopes yet?"

Martin filled her in on the latest antics from his class and walked her back to 221 clasping his hand in hers. It was easy and comfortable, the way she always felt in his company. They shared a kiss outside the door that left Martin lingering.

"I know you have a case," he started, "But…." He looked towards the second floor and back at her, lifting his eyebrows. "I have no classes for the rest of the afternoon and no one would notice if I did not return to school."

John's mouth fell open. "Oh, no. We can't go up there."

"I've only ever seen your flat twice since we've been dating. One might think you're trying to hide something from me."

"No, I'm trying to hide you from Sherlock. Trust me. She is in no mood for company and it will only end badly for all involved. Another time, alright?"

Martin seemed to want to argue but bit it back and nodded, leaving her without so much as a peck. John clasped the container full of her untouched salad and bag of tape as she watched him round the corner. He did not turn around once.

"Sherlock," John unhappily called into the flat.

Sherlock came running, angrily spouting the entire way over. "How long does it take you to do lunch when you don't even eat anything?! You don't like salad unless it's fruit!" She grabbed the bag from John's hand and stomped into the living room, tearing off pieces of newly acquired tape and carefully putting up pieces of evidence.

John slouched in the couch and stared at her phone, wondering if she should text Martin to apologize. Again. Twice in one day. She was so pathetic at relationships. It was a miracle he had her this long.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Sherlock huffed. "Just call him already."

John wanted to argue back, but knew she was right. She flipped to Martin's ID and called, but the line was busy. She closed out the phone and threw it on the opposite end of the sofa, slumping further.

"I'm the worst girlfriend ever," she muttered.

Sherlock grunted, reaching high to tape pictures of each victim, pulling the tape a ridiculous length off the role and snipping it with her teeth. "Tell it to Molly. I don't care."

"Thanks," John replied bitterly.

"Oh, just-" Sherlock spun towards her and pointed to the kitchen. "Occupy your thoughts somewhere else. Clean the dishes or something."

"Those are your dishes! I cooked the stir fry days ago. For you. You have to do the dishes."

"You ate most of it."

"That doesn't matter!"

Sherlock groaned and pulled at her locks, pacing back and forth once before reaching into her pocket. "Put this on."

John looked down to see the choker. "What?! No!"

"You had a bad date and need to clear your head. I need you to be occupied so I can work. So, yes!"

"You're just going to make me do the dishes! I'm not going to!" After a short pause she belatedly added, "And it was not bad."

Sherlock shook it at her. "I won't make you do the dishes. Now, put it on!"

"But-"

"I was planning for a scene later today anyway. Just put it on and we'll move it up to now."

John eyed the necklace and then looked towards the strewn paperwork, reaching from one corner of the room to the other. "You can't just make me sit in the corner and shut up."

Sherlock rolled her entire head, exasperated beyond a simple eye roll. "Well you can either put this on and go to the shops for food or I can drive you out with truths about how you are settling in your relationship with Maddox-"

"Martin."

"-because he is boring, comfortable, and safe."

John grit her teeth. "You've never even met him, Sherlock."

"What? Of course I have."

"No, you haven't. Over half a year together and he's never met my flatmate because I've been too scared you'll run him off. Do you realize how sad that is? I can't even introduce my boyfriend to my best friend!"

Sherlock stepped back, her mouth falling open and her hands slipping to her sides. She instantly left the world of the living, her eyes staring at nothing truly there, flickering at different parts of the air.

"Sherlock?"

The Mind Palace trip only lasted a moment. "You're right," she said shortly.

"I-" John breathed, ready to yell, but stopped herself short. "I am?"

Sherlock nodded. "What if we made that your reward? You go to the shops and in return I will go to dinner with you and Mahdi."

"Martin," John corrected, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Sherlock looked genuine, no ulterior motive clear to John anyhow, other than getting out of Sherlock's hair for an hour. It would be nice to finally have them meet, in more than just reading each other's text messages.

Sherlock seemed to read her mind and stretched out the necklace. "When you return you can delete that blasted social media page. I can only handle so many morons in one day."

John allowed to the smile to pull across her cheeks and snatched the necklace, easily clasping it into place. "You know, I'm not sure we're doing this whole Dom, sub thing right."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course we're doing it right." Sherlock slumped back to her paperwork, no longer bothered to look up at John. "We're doing it our way. Now, your safeword, if you so need it, is bulrush. Repeat it back to me."

"Bulrush?" John's eyes drifted to the ceiling. "Like the weed?"

"Not as a question. Try again."

John sighed and bowed her head, intent on getting that dinner date. "Bulrush, miss."

"Good. Now go to the store. I trust you don't need a list. Get healthy things you're always griping about. Fruit, vegetables, things like that. And cotton swabs. And B12 and iron tablets. I've noticed your nails are thinning."

John was tempted to take a peek at her fingertips but simply nodded instead. It could wait.

"My credit card is in the kitchen." She spun towards her wall and tapped each paper taped so far. "Grab it and leave. Take your phone. Text if you need me."

John checked the pocket of her jeans to assure her mobile was tucked away and jogged to the kitchen to grab Sherlock's mysterious black card. She knew it was not in Mycroft's name but John thought it probably came from his account anyway. Sherlock would be able to get away with something like that.

The shops were nearly empty, it being mid Tuesday. John pushed her cart through the isles, humming to herself, texting Martin her apology and promising she was already on her way to rectifying things and Martin would see the inside of her apartment soon.

Martin replied a few minutes later. I'm glad you two could work things out. I'll be busy with conferences for the next few weeks. I'll be happy to have that dinner sometime after. You can tell Sherlock I'm dying to meet her. xo

I won't do that or she'll take you on as a case. ;) - J

Texting Martin may not have been allowed, but the rules were not very clear this time around. With this scene being so haphazardly thrown together and taking place both separated and out of the flat, John was fairly certain this was not completely official. This would just be an easy, everyday activity that paid off in the end. No need to look too far into it.

John was thrown from her thoughts when a bulking hulk of a man stepped in front of her cart reaching for the pickles, nearly making her collide with his head.

"Sorry," she said, even knowing it was not her fault.

The man turned to her and cocked his head to the side. "Joan Watson?"

John squinted. The man was big, true, but he was also holding himself straight, his feet shoulder width apart with his right hand slipping closer to his waistline than his left. Warning bells were ringing and John wondered how many pickle jars breaking over this guy's head would knock him out.

"Who's asking?" John backed away, one trainer falling behind the other.

The man smirked and his hand dove towards his waist. John cursed not bringing her gun with her and dove for the nearest jar, but the man held up his hands, producing only a small black mobile.

"A friend," the man said, holding the phone out.

Well, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly all had his phone number already and she doubted they would be the type to hire this kind of muscle for a telegram. Doubtful it was anything related to the army. Mycroft played along with being Sherlock's arch enemy so he would never refer to John as something as simple as a friend. Which only left one option.

She cringed as she reached for the device and held it up to her ear. "Yes?"

"HeeeeelllloooooOOOOooo Johnny boy!"

"James," John greeted fondly, her teeth clamped together. "We both remember I'm still a girl, right?"

"Oh, Joan," Moriarty sighed into her end of the phone, her soft Irish lilt spoiled by her slimey murmurs. "Are you still mad about that one little op-ed piece?"

Now that she mentioned it, yes, very mad. Only John's friends called her John, the rest of the world knew her as Joan. So when Moriarty decided to publish an article leaking her nickname to the world entitled, Joan or John? Is Sherlock Holmes' Assistant A Man, Transexual, Or The Butch In Their Relationship?, and splashed it with larger than life projections on the House of Parliament, throwing Mycroft through hoops to get it down, things had become a bit more complicated in her day to day life.

"I already redacted the assistant title," Moriarty huffed, pouting like a child. "It was changed to partner. Much more suiting."

John's teeth ground together and she snarled out, "Thanks."

"Oh you are so welcome, my dear!" Moriarty laughed chaotically, one that crescendoed into nowhere and abruptly stopped just as John was going for her phone. "Johnny," she warned. "There will be no texting Sherlock. Hand your phone over to the nice gentleman in front of you. Well, I say nice, but I'm afraid he's rather not."

As Moriarty laughed at her own joke again, John slipped her phone from her pocket and delicately placed the device in the man's outstretched hand. Now that John was looking, she could see small nude wire leading up to the man's ear. John shook away the memory of a similar wire clinging to her ear, Moriarty's sickeningly gleeful voice telling her what to say and when to say it, the smell of chlorine burning the back of her throat.

"Don't look so glum, Johnny," Moriarty's voice lifted, all teeth and growls. "All I want to do is talk. Take a ride in the car with me and no one will get hurt. No kidnapping." She sang, "I promise."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Yes you are," Moriarty cooed. "If you don't follow that hunk of a bear in front of you, then I'm going to have him shoot the boy behind register three. He looks rather a lot like your Marvin, doesn't he?"

John checked her six to find that the man working register three had a blissful ignorant smile on his face, helping an older woman with her bags. He was younger than Martin but tall and with a similarly round face.

"Why is it so hard for you and Sherlock to learn my boyfriend's name?"

Moriarty giggled like John had made the best joke she had heard all day. The sound continued to pierce her eardrum as she followed the big bear of man to the back of a large SUV parked just along the street, waiting.

With one last look towards the closest CCTV, John sucked in a breath and entered the vehicle, eyes flashing everywhere. The back of the SUV was closed off from the front, seats facing both backwards and forwards. There was a trunk behind her, empty, but at least no one could lock her in a boot. The big man followed her in and pressed her against the opposite door, a door with no handles and no window control. Windows all over were tinted nearly black, making John question how the person driving knew what was behind them.

Promise or not, this felt like a kidnapping.

The car jerked and pulled from the curb. Fantastic.

"You look rather rumpled today. Did your boy Mu-"

"Martin," John snapped, searching for any cameras, finding one in the top passenger side corner. "His name is Martin."

Moriarty's voice dropped to a dangerous level. She did not like being interrupted. "Did he fuck you into the mattress? Or were you up sucking his cock all night long?"

John glared daggers at the camera.

"Oh, that's right," Moriarty chuckled. "You're not attracted to your own boyfriend. Have you considered you might be a LESbian?"

The car swayed to the left and John tried to remember the path they took, but she knew it was hopeless. She envied Sherlock's ability to have a conversation with a deadly maniac, keep an eye on the hired help in the car of no escape, and keep a map of their route memorized.

"Did you fuck him because he bought you that necklace?"

John's jaw clenched and she automatically tugged at the lace circling her neck, glancing at the man next to her to see if he saw. He was too busy looking straight ahead at nothing.

"Do you people have nothing better to do than talk about my sex life? At this rate, I'll be expecting a copy of the Kama Sutra from Mycroft."

Moriarty screamed into her ear, her laughter reaching truly new ear piercing levels. "Oh Johnny, this is why I keep you around," she sighed, calming down. "I really need to revisit keeping you as my pet."

John's grip on the phone tightened.

If jokes were the only thing keeping her alive, John would sincerely need to consider stopping by the bookstore for a copy of Make Your Maniac Giggle! If they had such a thing, that is. Then again, being Moriarty's pet could only be a blood infused nightmare and there was no reason to invite such a hell.

"Ohhhh," Moriarty gasped in a way that reminded John far too much of Sherlock's deduction o-face sound. "You already are someone's pet, aren't you?"

John squirmed back into her seat and fell towards the door as the car turned again.

"That's Sherlock's necklace." Moriarty spoke rapidly into her ear, clearly reading every single one of John's conscious and subconscious reactions. "Personally, I think it would look much better dangling from her fragile neck, but I suppose it works for you. It went better with the dress you wore at my club. Yes, John. My sex club. One of my more elegant establishments. I must remember to thank you both properly for removing that scum from within her walls."

If I miss you love notes were sent to them via dead body with the heart cut out and tied off with a dick bow, John could only imagine the horrors of a proper thank you.

"My way of doing things would have been much less… public, of course," she continued.

"Of course," John nodded shortly and glanced at the bear again. If he knew any of what they were talking about, he did not show it.

"And I thought this would be a boring conversation," Moriarty crooned. "A thinly veiled threat here, a broken bone there, all tied off with a hint only Sherlock would understand. Yet, here we are. And to think I thought you were playing the part of undercover spy. How silly of me," she laughed again, dipping immediately back into her vicious snarl. "When really, you were Sherlock's play thing all along."

John sucked in a breath to argue, but there was a trick to talking with deducing geniuses and the bear man next to her had it right. Never show any emotion.

"Oh! Only after the club!" Moriarty actually clapped into the phone. "My, my Johnny. My little establishment did that for the two of you? Finally bringing you out of the bisexual closet! I'm flattered!" Moriarty sucked in a breath and moaned lewd and long, "So it was Sherlock who fucked you into the mattress then."

John stared straight at the camera, unblinking, as stoney as possible. The army did come with training, after all.

"Cheating on your boyfriend, Watson? Color me impressed." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "But if all you needed was some domination, you could have just asked. Daddy is more than willing to play with you. In fact…"

John could not help her eyes widening. Not good. Very much not good.

"I know I said I wouldn't kidnap you, pudding, but this changes things."

The car spun violently, throwing John into the man next to her and nearly to the floor beneath her. No seatbelts and 180 turns did not mix! Which caused John's already racing heart to kick into overdrive. They were turning around.

Very, very, very much not good.

"Oh, who am I kidding!" Moriarty screamed, angry but still laughing. "I don't have time to play with you right now."

The car spun again, this time sending John down to the floor, hair flying into her mouth and her leg catching beneath the seat. When the car evened out, she saw the man had not moved. Which was completely unfair. He probably had a warning in his ear.

The phone had slipped across the mat but the man would not move his foot so John had to reach between him to get it.

"I do so love tossing you around." Moriarty hummed contentedly. "Another time, maybe."

John pushed back into the seat, hoping her hair would hide any flinch that promise may have caused.

"This has been charming," Moriarty continued, sighing to herself. "But we are reaching your stop. We wouldn't want to alarm Big Brother, now would we? I hope Sherlock is enjoying our latest game." She snorted. "I must admit, this one does rather tickle me pink."

"Because of all the cocks," John sighed.

Moriarty giggled high. "Foreign territory for her, I know. But you must admit, it does warm your heart to see I have a humorous side, does it not?"

John went back to glaring at the camera.

"I hope Sherly doesn't drive herself into a tizzy over this. The answer is soooooo obvious." The car pulled to a stop and Moriarty gave one final sigh. "Tell her I'll be seeing you both soon. Ciao, darling."

John slapped the phone into the man's lap and held out her hand for her own. The man was quick about it and shifted to the other side of the car, under the camera, allowing John to push out. They were at 221, directly in front of the door.

The car silently pulled away and John looked back, trying to catch a plate number. She memorized it but was sure it would not come to matter very soon.

When she reached the top of the stairs she saw the living room was finally decorated in papers, pins used despite the rolls of tape she had purchased. Sherlock was sprawled across the couch in her open dressing gown, wearing her usual shorts and bralette combination, staring at the ceiling.

"You didn't buy the groceries," Sherlock said, disapproval lacing her icy tone.

John swallowed once and said, "Bulrush."

Sherlock flipped around and sprung to her feet, eyes taking in every inch of John's frame, looking for clues. Her face flashed from concern, to understanding, to absolute fury. "What did she do?!"

John told her every detail she could remember, right down the license plate.

"Why now?" Sherlock muttered, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

"She knows, Sherlock," John mumbled back, her chin resting on her legs in her corner of the sofa, her eyes following Sherlock's movements, gown flowing behind her like a cape, flashing her panties to half of London. "About us."

Sherlock waved her off. "She thinks she knows. We are not having sex."

"Even better," John tucked her forehead between her knees and grunted to her thighs. "The new headlines will read Sherlock the Dominatrix or Can John Watson Be A Man If He's A Sub? or Holmes/Watson Relationship Confirmed! or-"

"Who cares?" Sherlock snapped, threw her hands in the air, and paced faster.

"I do!" John unfolded her limbs, flapping her arms around. "I'm not like you Sherlock. I can't turn it off. I care. I don't like her knowing or thinking she knows or being able to snatch me off the street whenever she wants or wanting to play with me or promising to see us later. I don't like any of it!"

Sherlock finally froze. One bare foot slipped in front of the other as she made her way over, walking on her toes like the dancer she pretended not to be unless undercover at a sex club. She folded into a squat and looked up at John, waiting to catch her eyes.

"Nothing is going to happen to you." Sherlock promised, her voice low and deep, her gaze strong and certain. "I promise you."

John shook her head back and forth, grabbed her knees with her fingers, and rubbed harshly at her skin. "You can't promise that."

"Do you trust me?"

John flinched, her mouth dropping open. "Of course I do. You know I do."

"Trust me now." Sherlock reached out and snatched one of John's clammy hands between her own, clasping until the chill of Holmes' poor circulation soaked into her skin. "You are safe with me. There is no need to be scared."

"I'm not-"

"Moriarty is a mentally ill psychopath intent on making the world her playhouse while obsessing over you and I. Of course you are." Sherlock pulled her hand closer, refusing to let John argue. "But you are with me now. You are home. You have your gun and you are a warrior who knows how to use it. Anyone who walks in that door would meet a force to be reckoned with. I am safe with you. We will beat her. Nothing else matters."

John looked to her gun, resting on the cushion next to her, loaded and ready to fire at a moment's notice. Yes, they were as safe as the two of them could be, being danger addicts -which was just how they liked it. It would take an incredible force to move them from 221B. More than what Moriarty had to offer.