Author's Note: Have been supremely excited at the positive reviews I've received. Keep them coming, and I promise, my lovelies, I will keep writing. As always, please review, good or bad. Reviews are love wrapped in cupcakes.
TWO DAYS LATER
WHERE ARE YOU? - SH
STILL AT THE SURGERY. COULDN'T BE HELPED. - JW
IT'S 45 MINUTES AFTER YOUR SHIFT - SH
12 YR. OLD. BROKEN ARM. - JW
SEND THEM TO THE A&E. - SH
MINOR BREAK. JUST SET THE PLASTER. - JW
FOR GOD'S SAKE, HURRY. I'M DYING OF BOREDOM. - SH
TALK TO MYCROFT. - JW
AND HASTEN MY DEMISE? NO. HURRY. - SH
HAVE ANOTHER MARTINI AND BE NICE. - JW
"Is John on his way?" Mycroft asked over his shoulder as Sherlock tucked the mobile away.
"Yes," the consulting detective replied. "He was detained. Something about a broken arm."
"That's John," Mycroft intoned lightly. "A slave to the Hippocratic oath."
"Yes. Noble," Sherlock ground out. "And can you step back please? I'm concerned that at any moment that ridiculous beanie on your head is going to take flight and slit my throat with that damned propeller."
Mycroft chuckled, his face breaking into an uncharacteristic smile. "Concerned, Sherlock?"
"More like wishful thinking," he murmured. "Where is John?" he hissed under his breath.
Another half-hour passed (a half-hour in which Sherlock had contemplated no less than eighty-nine ways to put himself out of his misery, minus the pesky dying part), and the party at Barts was in full swing, with raucous laughter echoing throughout the halls. Costumed characters milled about happily, drinks in hand, with several people taking advantage of the makeshift dance floor, gyrating to the latest pop hits piped in through the speakers.
Mycroft had long since left his side, seeking out Lestrade, who was dressed as Tweedledee (or was it Tweedledum? who cares, irrelevant), on the other side of the room. Across the dance floor, he caught a glimpse of Molly Hooper, smiling brightly in her blue pinafore and long blonde wig. She waved emphatically at him. He nodded in return, surprised to note that the smile that crossed his face was genuine. He was also surprised to discover that even though he was feeling a bit out of place without John at his side, deep down he was glad he came. The happiness in Molly's face touched him briefly. Interesting. John's way of thinking was definitely growing on him. He relaxed and took another swallow of his martini. Doctor's orders.
"Hello, freak. Where's the good doctor?"
Sherlock groaned inwardly, not even attempting a smile. Sally Donovan was dressed in an old woman's gray wig, complete with horn-rimmed glasses and what had to be the dowdiest frock Sherlock had ever laid eyes on. Anderson stood next to her, grinning like an idiot in a ridiculously hairy dog suit.
This time Sherlock smiled coldly. "Old Mother Hubbard, is it? The dog still giving you the bone then, Sally?"
Sally's pinched face and Anderson's deep frown pleased him greatly. Her sharp retort trailed off as her eyes swept past Sherlock.
"Good God, John Watson," she purred softly.
Sherlock's neck turned involuntarily in the direction of her gaze and a rush of blood pounded with a fierce echo in his ears, causing the rest of the world to fall away as he ceased to breathe.
Good God, John Watson, indeed.
Captain John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers (because in that uniform he suddenly stopped being "John") entered the room, flush with command, head held high, back stiff, eyes straight ahead, their point of focus directly on Sherlock. Yes, breathing was no longer an option.
It was as if he saw no one else in the room, despite the crush of people in his way. Power radiated from the doctor, rolling off him in silent waves, its very ripple causing the crowd to part under the sheer force of his presence. Donovan and Anderson must have felt it; they suddenly found somewhere else to be as John made his way with great purpose toward Sherlock. A hush had fallen, discreet whispers filtering through the air, the same questioning surprise as Donovan (Is that Dr. Watson?) on their minds, but Sherlock could hear nothing over the thunderous pounding of his heart.
John stopped directly in front of Sherlock, peering up into his lover's stunned visage. The doctor's eyebrow rose slightly, compelling Sherlock to lower his head to John's face. That face. That tanned, focused, demanding face. John's voice was authority personified as he whispered into Sherlock's ear.
"Captain John Watson reporting for duty, as requested." John's warm breath was a moist tickle in his ear that shot electricity straight to his groin. "And don't get any ideas, 007. As a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, I still outrank you."
Sherlock finally remembered to breathe. "Yes, sir."
John's eyes sparkled, but he did not smile. "Captain will do," he said firmly.
Sherlock's eyes flitted over John, drinking him in. Broad, muscular shoulders Sherlock knew so well were defined by the outline of the black coat, resplendent with its blood-red lapels, the light glinting off the medals pinned to John's breast. The white waistcoat underneath tapered daringly, slimming John's waist and hips to a near point (a very dangerous point), leading his gaze downward to expertly tailored black trousers. Trousers pulled oh-so-snugly across a pair of rock-hard thighs Sherlock had long appreciated. God, there were rooms in the Mind Palace dedicated to those thighs.
Desire was instant and he sighed, "'O Captain, my Captain'."
The corners of John's mouth quirked. "And don't you forget it. You're under my command this evening, Sherlock."
His brain struggled to function at the delicious thought, which brought all sorts of tantalizing words to mind. Command. Demand. Domination. Obedience. Submission. Sherlock's mouth went dry. "Yes, sir."
"Oh, we're off to a fine start, aren't we?"
Sherlock could only nod, unable to piece together coherent thought.
"Good," John whispered. "Now, here are your orders. You are going to smile and you are going to mingle. You are going to be polite and engaging to everyone. Everyone, Sherlock. You will spend this night being the absolute pinnacle of social grace, all the while keeping in the back of your brilliant little mind that at some point in the evening, you will be rewarded for your obedience and I will ride that tight arse of yours across the fucking Channel and back, and there's not a damned thing you can say about it, except 'Oh God, Captain, yes please'. Are we clear?" John pulled back with a devious glint in his eye. "I didn't hear you, Sherlock? Are. We. Clear?"
"Crystal, sir," he choked.
John's dark smile slid across his face like a snake. "Excellent. Now," he sighed, linking arms with Sherlock, "shall we?"