Disclaimer: nothing mine. Also, I don't repeat it every time, but God bless Ariane DeVere. Many, many times over. A. N. I know, I know, this is two weeks late – but I had so many days when I coulsn't push myself to write this at all. I am so sorry. And it means you can expect next chapter around the end of next month, too, unless I fall in some unexpected writing frenzy (but don't count on it).
John doesn't know what's got into Sherlock, but he would very much like to know. He thought he'd figured it out. He thought that he'd solved the issue with that bit of creative writing. He's in for the long haul. But now, it seems that his flatmate is the one who doesn't want him to.
Of course, the sleuth has always been a bit of an ass. No wait, don't think of ass in connection to him, not when you have a mind-reading flatmate – he's a dick, not that either…oh fuck, are all swearwords sex-related? He doesn't even like Sherlock like that (of course he does, but if his friend picks up on that he'll be even more insufferable). Oh, there it is. Insufferable works.
What he was trying to say – well, think – before he got sidetracked by linguistic considerations was that, while ordinarily insufferable, the consulting detective has worsened lately. Gone the frankly unsettling 'helpfulness', he's more impatient and arrogant than ever.
And work-addicted. It's case after case after case, so much so that they have barely any interaction outside of them. Sherlock is out following a lead, or they're both working on it, but John knows his role then – keep his gun handy and murmur, "Amazing" at appropriate intervals.
But the more domestic side of things…that is gone. Of course, John still buys the milk and most often than not does the dishes and whatever other errand or chore is needed. But Sherlock will rarely hover in companionable silence like he used to, pretending to look into an empty slide (John noticed, of course he noticed – he wasn't blind).
The detective will use the flimsiest excuses to avoid sharing a meal with him, while before it seemed he'd only eat in his company and at his urging… And most often than not pick from his plate like the most annoying girlfriends, not that he was one or that John – strangely – minded it much when it came from his favourite madman. John is reduced to keep track of food – mostly his leftovers, unsurprisingly, he doesn't expect Sherlock to start cooking for himself – disappearing from the fridge to assure himself that yes, his flatmate is not starving, and that only out of his doctorly concerns. Or so he tells himself.
Sherlock, involved in a case or not, would spend insane amounts of time in his mind palace. Yeah, right, the rest of the world is boring and dull and whatever else you want, when one is a genius. John can accept that. He still misses cuddling with his friend on the sofa and hear him yell at trash tv shows. The best was when Sherlock got the solution wrong on crime dramas because he deduced the actors, not the – admittedly clichés – plotlines. Sure, he'd sulk after that, but John knows how to bring him out of that. This new coldness, instead, he doesn't know how to deal with. Especially because, no matter how aloof the sleuth got, he'd always – always – involve him in the (many) cases.
Still, it is true that the world's only consulting detective has become more testy than ever. He wants cases – constantly. But he does not want just any case. Often, he'd only ear a few words before dismissing prospective clients – usually angering them. Not that John doesn't understand them. If he'd been worried over some issue, and been summarily shooed like a fly and pronounced boring, he'd be glaring daggers too.
Honestly, John thought they'd take the case about the nutter claiming his aunt's ashes had been replaced. It was most probably a nutcase, yeah, but he thought that hearing someone claim to know ash (even human ash) would set off Sherlock's competitive streak and at least make him carry out some analysis to prove the man wrong – or not. Instead, even that isn't enough of a challenge for the detective to be interested.
The doctor has to give it to his friend, though. When his majesty picks a case, they have fun. Like schoolboys. Even if (even more so, actually) no real crime has been committed. Only Sherlock could attract a case that requires them to dress up as ninjas. He can't stop smiling thinking about that. Why, he even got an offer to have his blog turned into a comic – nay, graphic novel, Chris would have a fit if he knew John used the word – which he refused because…well, could you imagine? Sherlock chasing criminals, maybe with his Belstaff turned into a cape? God. He is spiteful enough about the blog. (Less fun was had by John in the case of the melting laptop, but only because Sherlock bloody Holmes had melted his laptop – in the kitchen – to prove the likelihood of his solution. At least he replaced it without being prompted.)
It seems they can't deal with that level of distance, Sherlock (despite initiating it) no more than him, because as suddenly as it started it was gone, and John is left puzzling over what he'd done to deserve it and – above all – how he'd managed to placate his flatmate. Finding nothing, he decides that it is most probably all in Sherlock's head. Maybe he has answered him rudely in his mindpalace, who knows. Since apparently his flatmate keeps having conversation with him in his absence, anything can happen. Probably the sleuth has just deigned to check his working schedule and realised that John was giving flu jabs at the same time Sherlock has been so unforgivably insulted by his mental alter ego.
By now, though, he's pissed at having to deal with a moody child, and he retaliates in a not-very-adult way, himself. That is, sneering right back when his flatmate – as always – criticizes his blog posts. After all, no matter how 'romantic' he needlessly makes things, or how silly his puns are, at least someone reads it. More than someone, at that. While the only ones that have read the Science of Deduction, with all probability, are John (well, he skimmed through it while investigating his flatmate to be), a murderous cabbie because his sponsor told him to, and Jim Moriarty himself, at least during the game. And if Sherlock pouts at being reminded of this in not-so-many words, he should have thought of it before irritating John Watson. (Still, a part of John scolds him for hurting his friend. But he's too stubborn to heed it. The sleuth has been difficult too long, and he deserves it.)
A part of John, too, is shamefully gleeful when mentioning the case of the dead flight not-passenger, which the world's only consulting detective has not (yet, as the great git insists) been able to solve. And how his flatmate gets pissed (again) when John exposes him. But he's made Sherlock into his genius madman and he's allowed to share what he wants on his blog. You know, the one people actually read.
1895 readers in less than eight hours…he'd never thought he'd come to eight readers a day. This is all thanks to the charm Sherlock exerts – on him and, through his painstakingly chosen words, on his fans. But it doesn't mean that he can't point out every now and then that his friend is not an infallible superhero (especially after the ninja-dressed case, that might need reminding). And it's true that his readers want the human side of the genius detective. Dame Agatha recounted a failed case of Poirot (though the man manages to be unsufferably smug about it too) and if literary detectives can accept their own failures, Sherlock should learn to, shouldn't he?
And it's more than that. They're starting to cross the border from internet-only phenomenon (which leaves John in awe already) and attract the interest of actual journalists. It's flattering, of course it is, but scary at the same time. It's a thing if the world's only consulting detective pisses off co-workers or prospective clients. But if he attacks the press, they'll both end up shredded.
John has seen it happening. He just wishes James – well, Major Sholto – had responded to his attempts to contact him. But if the Major was anything, he was proud, and he didn't want to risk garnering an old friend's pity. John finally got it after he was invalided home and felt the same. Pity that, from the little he knows, Sholto has found no Sherlock of his own. John honestly hopes he will soon.
But nevermind Sholto (which he won't mention to the detective because, honestly, the sleuth would not take well to being lectured and whatever happened in Afghanistan does not concern him anyway). The point is, John has to train proper interaction with the media into the consulting detective. Sherlock grumbles, of course he does, because how will he be able to work undercover if he's on all the gossip papers, but the best they can do is wait it out and let the journalists tire of them and latch onto a new scoop. Even Sherlock I-have-no-idea-of-pop-culture Holmes gets that causing a scene is the perfect way to attract even more attention, so he looks at John with that expectant, frustrated look, that clearly says, "You caused this mess and you have to solve it."
Only John can't solve it. The best they can hope is to ride it out. And the failed tentative at hiding his face in that silly theatre provides Sherlock with a ridiculous hat that somehow the papers consider like a stage costume. As if detectives had an iconic getup. Well, his friend is certainly pretty to look at, no matter what he wears (and isn't that a dangerous thought), so the doctor can't entirely blame the photographers that brandish their cameras, trying to catch him. Anyway, nothing in the internet lasts long, and however annoying this persecution might be it's all free advertising. Adverts hopefully bring clients, which bring cases, which keep Sherlock from shooting the wall in boredom.
Still, when there's that conference in Dublin – even if he doesn't strictly need to attend – he breathes easier. Let's put a bit of space between the irritable detective and himself. He'll come back less incline to beating his flatmate into a pulp when he finds some experiment in the tub. (And it will give the mad scientist he lives with three days to unleash his worst projects without anyone to criticise him.) He says goodbye to his friend, with many recommendations to please restrain himself that could cause 221B to cave on itself or otherwise be unsuitable for human stay.
John thought he would not be made to pay for having a life outside his flatmate's requirements. He should have known better. Because he already knows that Sherlock talks at him when he isn't physically present, so of course after going away three whole days the doctor finds out that he has agreed to running a number of corvées for the detective. It's a thing to follow him on cases, and a completely different one to trudge through a crime scene holding a computer because the case is not interesting enough for his highness to come take a look personally, but still not easy enough to solve over email.
But it is a relief to escape the flat, which is the reason John agrees to have agreed. Sherlock has only two modes, John knows: model ready for a photo-shoot, bespoke clothes practically painted on him, or inside-out pyjamas and dressing gown, like a sick kid staying at home. But today – today his flatmate has evolved to sheet-only, because apparently even the dressing gown is too much of a bother. The sleuth wears the toga look like no one John has met in his wild days and odd toga parties at uni. He would make a rather splendid Roman patrician, which is the reason John needs to get away from him. Right now. Before his already confused soul – damn homonymy! – does something he would regret for the rest of his life.
So, if it means he has to walk around in an empty field framing random patches of grass, he'll take it. At a distance, he can breathe. He can pretend this is all normal, or whatever passes for their own brand of normal, which is insane anyway. He can even be stern with his…delectable (damn him!) flatmate and warn him to behave with the local inspector. (Though Sherlock is right, if their client had murdered someone without witnesses going to the police AND the consultant detective seems rather an excess of bother. Not even Moriarty did that, and he did pretty much everything an insane stalker with a penchant for showing off would do.)
John would get worried when the connection is suddenly cut off – the sleuth has a number of enemies, and John's not there to protect him – but the oncoming helicopter reassures him. That just screams Mycroft, and if Mycroft or his minions are anywhere in a ten feet radius from Sherlock too it is not a surprise that he needs all his attention to sulk and be properly snarky. The doctor is rather curious to know what couldn't wait the end of the case to be announced.
Sherlock, in the meantime, doesn't know what to do. He has tried anything – anything – to make John like him, possibly accept him, and nothing works. He has tried being as unobtrusive as possible, barely being in his soulmate's presence unless for a case (John likes his adrenaline, and it stands to reason that the detective is required to provide it). It just hurt, even worse than what he's come to think of as his usual torment, and it only made John tetchy. He has tried letting his intended (by fate at least) turn him into the two-legged version of a performing seal, showing off for the press. What does he care about the press? Or about what anyone else but John thinks about him? And after indulging him so much, John left for days for a stupid conference about something something.
Pretty much desperate, at this point, the sleuth has decided to let his soulmate know that yes, he might be married to his work, but John is welcome to help himself to the consulting detecting's body if he wants. Maybe acceptance will come afterwards. It almost never happens, Sherlock knows that too well from his cases, sex does not entail any sort of sentiment or acceptance, but he's willing to take even the momentary affection of an oxytocin natural high. Of course, he doesn't say as much aloud. He's desperate, yes, but not that desperate yet. And anyways, John is an expert at flirting and getting a leg over. Walking around in a sheet should be clue enough for the doctor to unwrap him. And yet, suddenly unsure of the wisdom of such a course of actions, the detective sends him away. No matter. The skype contact will be a continuous tease, and John can unwrap him when he comes home. Let's hope that by then, Sherlock will have got over his sudden attack of cold feet.
And if that's not annoying enough to live through, Mycroft can't even put in the effort to come collect his brother himself if his presence is indeed required. He sends random minions, who presume to be entitled to decide his attire. He's a grown man, and if a sheet is his outfit of choice, he very well will keep it. Anyway, Mycroft will have enough sense to collect John too to deal with him. It would be just what his brother deserves if John became suddenly affectionate where they're brought (the chance is less than 0,00001%, but still).
He cannot stop the minion from rummaging into his wardrobe and bringing along a change of clothes for him, not without attacking him (and a sheet is not what you want to be in while fighting – too easy for your opponent to make you stumble and subdue you in a very humiliating way).
The nameless idiot even interrupts him during a case (never mind that it is a long-distance case, Sherlock is still working). He seems to believe that they have precedence over anything. Given that he's sent on such errands, Fourth Small Dog (he has three, and given that he's playing fetch for Mycroft the detective feels justified in his nickname for such small fry) should really not overestimate his own importance.
He's finally brought to a random hall in Buckhingam Palace and left blissfully alone…until John arrives. John, who looks possibly more out of place here than a sleuth in a bedsheet, and apparently feels the urge to check about the presence of pants on the detective person (why would he have them?). The incredulous, very pointed stare Sherlock's answer gains is enough to make teen!Sherlock hope. Maybe he can seduce his soulmate, after all. That would be a start. He does not blush, and that's a small victory. John's interest in the matter is…flattering. Yeah, very flattering. And thank God that the thought of Mycroft – who's certainly soon to arrive – is enough to stop him from reacting in any embarrassing way.
But truth is, even the consulting detective knows that here he looks rather more incongruous, ridiculous than the seductive creature he hoped to be at home. And when John looks at him, with a decidedly not libidinous look in his eyes, he can't help it. They both burst into giggles like naughty children. His choice of attire might not have had his intended effect – not entirely – but even only hearing his soulmate's laugh is enough to warm the detective's heart in a way he has sorely missed since he discovered his true status. Maybe this could be enough – if he found a way to have it every day.
The giggles last through some not-really-jokes. Not really because if John wants an ashtray, despite his hatred of smoking, Sherlock will make sure to give him one. Anything to make his soulmate happy, so he will be more appreciated. And Mycroft is a queen – both a drama queen (oh yes, he would say Sherlock is the one, but you should have seen him a few years ago) and a queen bee, letting everyone else do all the work while he only gets fed and fucks (or in his case, mostly mindfucks) people.
Of course, his brother – who finally deigned to show up – thinks he can start scolding (John too, and that's unacceptable! Luckily his doctor is not easily cowed) and belittle his work and all the bubbly happiness disappears in a second, to be replaced with stubbornness that hides age-old hurt.
So maybe the case wasn't that engaging, the sleuth himself hasn't found it worth visiting the crime scene, but it's still his work. How would Mycroft feel if someone told him that the Koreans would sort themselves out, and that they do not need his supervision during elections, which is entirely useless meddling, only to keep himself busy?
Also, John seems to find his whole expedition superfluous, based on his brother's words, and will probably protest the next time the detective will ask him to be his proxy at a crime scene. What is he supposed to do then? Send Mycroft? Ah! That would be a scene worth seeing, if his brother didn't hate legwork so much.
Of course, his brother insists about his 'unacceptable' attire. As if Sherlock cared about making a good impression on him or whoever asked his help. He's not awed or intimidated by being in Buckhingam Palace. After all, the royal family's only merit is descending from their ancestors, which means that if anyone deserved Sherlock's awe he or she is dead by some centuries at least.
As if Mycroft wasn't annoying enough, he brings in reinforcements. Not one of his minions, but a colour-coordinated (do they do that on purpose?), balding, annoying equerry which he is on first-name basis with. They see each other often, do they? Mycroft's supposedly 'minor' position brings him all the time here to discuss…what? The best pastries for the Queen's next reception? With an hussar, if so-called Harry's tie is to be believed?
The two gits are so on the same wavelength that having double the annoyance almost makes Sherlock grit his teeth. Mycroft 'apologising' for his little brother, as if they were still children, and Mycroft should be able to control his troublesome little brother better.
The other man's sarcastic, "Full time occupation, I imagine." You'd think Sherlock is unable to do anything right. If he is, why have they summoned him, uh? They need him now. The least they can do is stop behaving as if they are making him a favour by accepting to deal with him. He had a job going before they so rudely interrupted.
It doesn't help 'Harry' curry favour with the consulting detective to praise his blogger's work. After all, it's not like the man knows that they're soulmates, so that complimenting the one will naturally be thought as a mean to appeal to the other. And John really does not need any boasting about his blog. Sherlock will never hear the end of it, now that it is proven that the Queen herself like his soulmate's romanticised accounts of their cases. Then again, she has no uses for ashes' examination, the sleuth is ready to admit that. and the jibe at the difference with his media image does not help them to go along any (then again, anyone who is friendly with Mycroft is automatically the consulting detective's enemy) – and if to repel that, he has to mock John a bit…well, it will bring his blogger down a peg. After refusing him, John deserves it.
To add insult to injury, they want him to work blind, without knowing his client's identity. Well, he's not a minion. He wants to storm off in a huff, but figures that with with Mycroft everything has to become a literal power struggle. His brother thinks he can have him bend to his will? He'll see – probably much more than everyone in the room wants to.
Until John says, "Boys, please. Not here." And even if it is not harsh, or angry, or even truly commanding, Sherlock is reminded that the one time he is going to reveal his naked ass at John he wants to have the privacy to act on it, if he can somehow seduce his reluctant soulmate. Otherwise the man is going to be desensitized to his behind's pulchritude, and that won't do if he wants to somehow be accepted in his role.
And surprinsingly, even Mycroft does not…yeld to John, exactly, on the contrary (at least on the surface) he tries to throw his weight around, but he says enough to confirm what the place implies about the wannabe client. Which means that they have reached enough of a compromise for his brother to dress himself without feeling as if he has been defeated.
The jab at Mycroft (uncalled for, maybe, it wasn't his elder brother's fault that when their parents died he had to be mother, and father, and brother…even grandma sometimes, kid Sherlock used to snicker) makes him feel a bit better, at least.
Mycroft and his…friend start – finally! – exposing the case, rather than playing around, and John has to put in his two cents. "You don't trust your own Secret Service?" Because yes, Sherlock might be a great detective, but what do they pay all these minions for if they can't even protect the royal family?
The elder Holmes points out how stupid it would be to trust people who spy for money, and John quietly preens. Yes, the soulmate Sherlock landed is better than any person his arrogant brother has at his beck and call (the sleuth doesn't doubt that the MI5 employees would sell out their parents, children and soulmates, if asked to). John is pretty much perfect. Now if he could only accept Sherlock.
The case, actually, could shed some light on the consulting detective's own private conundrum. It centres about a woman (or The Woman – how arrogant), which has apparently been involved in some recent scandals. Really, Mycroft should know that he has no brain space for idle gossip. But she's specialised in sadomasochism and with Sherlock's head full of hurting one's (supposed to be at least) loved one – even if he's tried to rationalise that John didn't mean to – examining her (even if she deals in the lesser field of pleasure rather than love) might prove enlightening.
Of course, his brother has to take a jab at him after his earlier scene, insinuating that sex scares him and – at his denial – practically revealing his virginity to all and sundry (what business has 'Harry' knowing it?). But it's true, Sherlock is not scared of sex. Just because he did not see the need to involve himself in something emotionally and physically so utterly messy for a few instants of pleasure (because there was no way that someone who wasn't his soulmate would stay on the long haul – hell, even his own soulmate doesn't want to!) it does not mean that he ignores the theory or is 'alarmed' by the practice.
At first it seems something barely worth his time. Yes, the pain-pleasure clusterfuck might be interesting to explore, but he does not need his brother's pushing. And straight (or not very much so) blackmail is easy to deal with. (Actually, the important – annoying – bit is John being so shocked by a gay kinky relationship that he gets stuck with his tea in his hand. Given he's so very vehemently not gay that he refuses his own same-sex soulmate – though it's probably not just that – it's no surprise that he cannot conceive of seeking such pleasures.) But this is not blackmail, it's someone trying a power play with the royal family AND Mycroft – and if only for that, he wants to see the woman.
Of course, he expects that it'll take him a few hours to solve this (it's not like Irene can distract him by seducing him, and he doubts she has any other talents). And Mycroft's acquaintance dares to doubt him! Why exactly have they called him in then? Obviously there's only a way to deal with such a challenge. Deduce the man – or, in this case, deduce his employer. See 'Harry' squirming about having other royal little secrets uncovered is worth it. (And really if they didn't want a nicotine addiction to be known they shouldn't be this obvious.)
Victorious, with John – as usual – making not-exactly excuses for him (his blogger sounds far too fond for his apologies to sound convincing), the consulting detective storms out. And, as from war law, to the victor go the spoils. One lighter from the annoying equerry…and, naturally, the ashtray John had coveted since setting foot here. Thank God that Lestrade is annoying often enough to keep Sherlock's stealing skills always sharp.
John awaits to be in a cab to request his due – the explanation of the deduction (it's clear that, shockingly, he still looks forward to these mini shows). The sleuth is only too happy to comply, with a gentle tease at his blogger's unobservant nature, and he shows off his loot. His soulmate laughs, happy, incredulous and proud all in one, and the detective joins in. It might be a handful of precious seconds, but now he's forgotten John's refusal of him, he's forgotten anything but how delighted the blond is, and how delighted and warm-hearted this makes him in turn. Just a sliver, but he's tasting a soulmate's supposed-to-happen perfect happiness. And God, but he would steal much more than a measly ashtray if it got him John's sweet laugh. He would do anything for John. His soulmate just needs to say the word.