A slight Issue
Chapter 4: Epilogue.
A year or so later-established JohnLock relationship. The Fall never happened. There's also a little bit of Mystrade in this chapter FYI.
"Tell me again Sherlock; exactly what is so important what it couldn't wait 15 minutes?" I grumble, clumsily throwing on the clothes scatted towards the foot of the bed, clothes that were tossed there only an hour before, thanks to Sherlock walking into their bedroom clad only in a sheet resulting in my pouncing on him.
"A case John." Says Sherlock somewhat impatiently, black trousers un-zipped, white shirt un-buttoned, hair tousled. "I received a text from Lestrade, apparently there's a mob surrounding Scotland Yard, they've requested our assistance."
I turn to face Sherlock, immediately noting the gleam in his eyes, the gleam caused by an intriguing problem just waiting to be solved, the gleam finds irresistible.
Smiling, Sherlock zips his trousers and buttons a socially correct amount of buttons before walking swiftly over to me, kissing me promptly on the lips, running a hand through my for want of a better word: sex hair and tugs my coat down from the top of their wardrobe (god knows how it ended up there) and hands it to John.
"Come along John!" He commands, ushering him out of the room, stopping briefly to collect his coat and scarf which hang on the door-handle.
The taxi ride to the police station was un-comftable (for me at least) to say the least. Sherlock seemed incapable of keeping any space between the two of them, and was very insistent about running his hand up my inner thigh, causing me to half-heartedly glare at Sherlock through eyes with very dilated pupils, the action resulted in me unable to supress a moan causing Sherlock 'in order to cause me as little embarrassment as possible' as he will claim later, capture my lips in a heated kiss. A moment or too later this action was proved un-necessary, as Sherlock's phone began to ring, causing my cheeks to flair red.
Last Tuesday, I had gone out to the pub with Lestrade, and needless to say, showed up at Baker Street gone midnight very drunk. According to Sherlock (for I have no memory of the night after I left the pub) I proclaimed that Sherlock's phone had in the past had a ring tone of Irene's somewhat erotic moan, when in reality the only moan Sherlock should be allowed to hear is mine. Apparently I had felt rather strongly about this and had insisted that Sherlock record me on his phone mid-orgasm and set it as his IPhone's ring and text tone. I awoke the next morning in Sherlock's arms to a rather sensual sound emitting from Sherlock's phone. Sherlock had stubbornly refused to change it ever since, reminding me at every opportunity that it had in fact been the good doctor's own idea- a rather marvellous one at that.
Needless to say, the ring and text tones in question had resulted in quite a few awkward situations and questioning looks aimed at us, something that Sherlock seemed entirely immune to.
Anyway, the situation in the cab was awkward enough anyway, made worse by the fact that as luck would have it, their taxi driver is highly homophobic (due to his ex-wife leaving him for another woman according to Sherlock).
"Gentlemen!" The taxi driver shouts, causing Sherlock I to pull away from each other. "I will not have sodomites in my taxi! No matter how famous you are! Please get out at once!"
My eyebrows arch, but as I open my mouth to protest, but Sherlock gets there first.
"Ah, Mr... Davies" He says after glancing at his Taxi ID. "Yes I suppose it must be hard for you, a devoted Catholic such as yourself with a wife who has walked out on you for another woman and a son who has recently come out as homosexual. Red lipstick on your shirt. Not your new wife, look at the immaculate way your shirt is stitched where you tore it, barely visible. She would never have let you out of the house looking such a mess. The shirt's creased, as if you didn't make it home last night. Another woman then. I'm not a religious man Mr Davies, but I'm pretty sure adultery is frowned upon. I wonder what your congregation would have to say on the matter."
The drivers face shows a mixture of shock and horror.
"Sirs, I do apologize, I meant no offence by my careless statement." He says humbly, clearly terrified Sherlock really would inform the members of the church or current wife about his immoral activities.
"Yes well. Take us to Scotland Yard and forgo the charge for this journey and nothing more will be said on the matter." Sherlock demands, face remarkably straight in comparison to the smug look he would normally wear in a situation such as this.
The man nods his head meekly in agreement, and the rest of the journey passes with no noticeable events.
The taxi stops a street or so away from Scotland Yard and as Sherlock and I begin to approach it, I notice a large group of people surrounding the entrance. As we get closer still, I begin to notice the clothing that the people adorn, as does Sherlock if the puzzled look on his face is anything to go by.
The people, predominantly women judging by the length of their hair, though it's difficult to tell from the back, are dressed in a variety of costumes. Some wear long back coats and blue scarfs, some trousers and jumpers, suits and umbrellas.
"Sherlock…are those people impersonating us?"I cry out in alarm.
"I believe so John. It seems our blog is more popular than I gave it credit for."
As we approach further, a group of girls from the crowd notice us and dash to meet us.
"Oh my god, your costumes are fantastic."
"You look just like Sherlock and John!"
"God, you've even got the hair, and the cheekbones!"
Three of the girls squeal. They are all dressed as different characters, Sherlock, myself and Mycroft I believe.
"Costumes? What do you mean costumes?" Sherlock asks.
"Well yeah, you're impersonating characters from a TV show." The tallest girl answers.
"What TV show is this?" Questions Sherlock.
"Oh come on!" Another of them cries out. "How can you not know? BBC's Sherlock, starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman."
"It's won countless awards, we're all avidly anticipating season 2." She shorter girl who is presumably trying to play 'John' states.
"Right…" I say, looking to Sherlock to see if he knows quite what to see in a situation such as this.
"So 'Sherlock'" He asks "Is it a success?"
"God yes!" Cries out the taller girl before the shorter girl elaborates with "It got some of the BBC's highest ever ratings. Martin Freeman got a BAFTA for his role as John."
"I see." He says, eyes lighting up in amusement and slight confusion. "Well thank you ladies, Jo… my friend and I must be leaving."
"I didn't catch your names?" Says the shorter girl as Sherlock and I battle our way through the crowd.
Sherlock doesn't bat an eye lid before replying with "My name's Sam, this is my friend Jack."
This seems to satisfy the girl's curiosity as they wave in our direction as they wave in our direction as we battle to the doors of Scotland Yard. Lestrade waits at the door for us; it takes him a moment longer than usual to identify us, hardly surprising given the amount of look alikes situated outside the doors.
"Greg, what in the name of god is going on?" I question
"That's why I've called you in. Apparently there's a hit TV show roughly based around your lives, I was wondering if you were aware."
"What? No! Of course not. When did you find out?" I question
"Well it was weird really, this man came into the station to report a burglary, I there is nothing going on here at the moment so I interviewed him, and anyway, he mentioned how much I look like an actor named Rupert Graves. Well, I don't know about you but I've never heard of him, so I asked what he's been in and he mentioned Sherlock. I was intrigued, so in my lunch break I went to HMV and picked up the DVD" Says Lestrade, producing a DVD cover with 'SHERLOCK' embossed across the centre, and a picture of two actors who I have to admit do show a remarkable likeness to Sherlock and me.
"You can have it, I bought more than one copy, watch it when you get home, and it's scarily accurate."
I thank Lestrade and Sherlock and I make our retreat from the Yard via one of the back entrances, neither of us much fancied the mob again.
-BACK AT 221B BAKER STREET'S SITTING ROOM-
Sherlock and I lounge together on the sofa (the chairs had been full of case files and un-usable for months) watching the DVD avidly.
It even manages to hold Sherlock's attention. He seems thoroughly engaged with the show (highly unusual I can tell you), and rarely speaks through its hour and a half duration.
"I can't believe how accurate this is." I comment randomly 10 minutes into 'The Blind Banker.' By now we have adopted a new position, involving me lounged across the sofa with Sherlock curled in a ball on top of me, my hand running through his curly locks.
"True." Observes Sherlock "Though there are certain inaccuracies. Some things have been changed, to make better TV I suppose. The actor playing Sherlock, he has naturally ginger hair, his cheek bones have I suppose been enhanced, no doubt he's lost a little weight for the role. But I'll admit, we are remarkably similar."
"You know." Sherlock idly comments a little later "In this 'Sherlock' I don't believe they have the relationship between Sherlock and John correct. We are and were even when we had just been introduced, much more affectionate than these actors are."
But it's when the character of Sarah is introduced that Sherlock visibly tenses up. Concerned, I reach for the remote and pause the TV.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" I ask softly.
"I… I forgot just how easily women fall for you." He says softly "Back then even, I was terrified you'd leave for some beautiful woman."
"Sherlock, do you have any idea how wonderful you are? You can deduce everything about a person in a matter of seconds, I killed a man for you within a week of meeting you, and I can assure you I have never done that for a woman. Then there's the fact you're fucking beautiful. In fact, I wasn't sure about this… I mean, we've been a couple for a little over a year… but I can't stand to let you go." I reach into my pocket and pull out a thin black box and present it to Sherlock. He opens it to reveal two black bracelets, maybe half an inch thick with 'Sherlock and John. Flatmates, friends, lovers, husbands. Inscribed in silver.
"It's not much, but I thought we could each wear one, perhaps, they could act as engagement trinkets? I didn't think a ring with a diamond would really be up your street. No, don't say anything either way; I want to do this properly."
I lower myself onto the ground, kneel with one knee on the floor and take Sherlock's hand in mine.
"Sherlock Holmes. Would you do me the honour of marrying me?"
Sherlock's face erupts into a smile and he carefully takes one of the bracelets and attaches it to my left wrist and watches as I do the same to his.
"Of course John. Of course I'll marry you."
In similar fashion to Sherlock's I smile broadly and quickly stand up, sit back on the couch. Instinctively, Sherlock lifts my body onto his and grasps my head to pull me into a heated kiss. Lips and Tounges collide, clothing is quickly and as efficiently as possible removed, a shoe is thrown at the door in order to close it should Mrs Hudson walk up the stairs as her role as 'not our housekeeper'.
Necks and collar bones are marked with love bites, each sending the message that the other belongs to someone. Lips meet again as lube is located (condoms are no longer necessary, the moment we entered a sexual relationship Sherlock demanded we were both tested to save time- one of his brighter decisions). My slick finger is positioned at Sherlock's entrance, soon to be joined with another, preparing Sherlock for the intrusion to come, curling at just the right angle to hit his prostate, causing moans of pleasure to emit from the taller man.
My fingers are soon replaced with my penis, Sherlock rocks against me, causing us both to call out the other's name. We both know this can't last, I feel myself on the brink and use my hand to tentatively stroke Sherlock's shaft, causing us both to fall over the edge at more or less the same time, crying out in the pleasure of the act and being loved by another.
In post-orgasmic bliss, neither one of us realy has the energy to move to… well do anything really. I gently pull myself out of Sherlock and tug the blanket we keep on the back of the sofa over both of us, smiling as Sherlock pulls my body towards his and wraps his arms around me, keeping me close.
I see the bracelet on Sherlock's arm and the matching one on my own and can't help but sigh in wonder. Sherlock Holmes is mine. It's inevitable that things will come between us, we'll still argue, he'll still refuse to buy the milk and generally be an annoying prick. We'll still solve crimes; I'll still blog about it, I'll continue to be the doctor while Sherlock will always be the detective... Sorry: consulting detective. But at the end of all that, we'll have each other to come home to, to lie in bed with, to make love to. Grow old together. Flatmates, friends, lovers, husbands.
-Mycroft's house (Mycroft's POV)-
"Yes Mr Moffat, the show has served its purpose to me, but if you and Mr Gatiss wish to continue it you have my blessing. I'll look forward to season two." I speak into the phone.
"So you're seriously telling me you're going to let them continue 'Sherlock' despite the fact that it's served its point?" Gregory asks, face looking amused.
"I don't see why not." I comment, slipping my hand into Gregory's "It really has done remarkably well; people really are interested in the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I must say, Mark Gatiss and Stephan Moffat really are remarkable writers.
"The characters are remarkable!" Laughs Gregory "They really look like us."
"I know. Terribly lucky. It seems money really does buy anything. I gave the necessary people's photos to an agency and they found these people. Obviously, hair colours have been altered and minor details have been altered, but we do seem to have look-a-likes." I say, sounding no doubt pleased with myself.
"I still can't believe you went into all that trouble for your brother. First you pay Irene Alder to make Sherlock think that it was her who put the news of their 'relationship' in the papers, then you kidnap John, then you produce a whole TV show based on his life to encourage a proposal!" Gregory laughs disbelievingly.
"God, I dread to think what lengths you'd go to if you ever wanted to ask me to marry you." He laughs, leaning in for a small kiss. I eagerly respond, wrapping one arm around my boyfriend's waist while composing two texts inside my pocket with my other hand.
To: Doctor John Watson
Congratulations. Look after him –MH
To: Anthea
I believe I will be requiring a ring in the near future, could you please recommend a jewellery shop? -MH
Hours later, I lie on the bed typing up an official document while Gregory reads a book by a man named Arthur Conan Doyle. I hear the tell-tale PING of a message received on my phone and reach for it with mild interest. No doubt a MP declaring another recession. I can't help but smile when I see what the message actually contains.
To: Mycroft Holmes
Thank you. –SH
A/N Hello there! I'm so sorry it took me so long to update, I… actually I don't have an excuse, I got caught up in re-watching every version of Sherlock Holmes I could find. Well, this is officially the end of this fanfiction. I really hope you enjoyed it, and a massive thank you to everyone who's reviewed etc this story. Still, reviews on this chapter would be lovely. I could be persuaded to write a sequel, if anyone's interested in seeing one or has any ideas, please, send me a PM or write it in a review. So, bye for now. Laterz!