A/N: Hello, people!
I don't own Sherlock.
I have no beta.
ENJOY! *There is some naughtiness at the end, but not full on what everyone is hoping for, sorry.*
John Hamish Watson refused to let it go without a fight. He'd seen how Sherlock had been eying it, but he wasn't giving up. He wanted it and it was the only one left. And why should Sherlock want it anyway? Sherlock didn't even care for food. He fussed and moaned every time John forced him to sit down and partake in that which kept him healthy. So why was he sending the doctor a challenging look over the last pot sticker in the bloody pan?!
"You don't even like food!" John protested.
"I like your food and some of Mrs. Hudson's food."
"Fine, but why must you have the last pot sticker?"
Sherlock employed use of the pout.
"I like the taste of your food...John."
John gaped and pulled his fork away from the pot sticker, letting Sherlock gleefully stab it and shove it in his mouth quickly.
"That was unbelievably sweet, Sher."
"I am not 'sweet'."
"That's what you think."
"How is it that we got chained together?!" John asked as they ran.
"I may have made...a small miscalculation!" Sherlock answered.
When John easily began to overtake Sherlock in the running, he grabbed the younger man's hand and linked their fingers before dragging him along.
"How can Sherlock Holmes make a mistake?! I thought that was below you!"
Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not omnipotent, John. Even I have faults and can admit to the very few failures I have committed."
"So humble," John mumbled under his breath.
They cut through alleys and shadows. Yelling and gunshots spurred them into running even faster.
It was dark and cold. Right on the cusp of Autumn.
They cut a corner and John suddenly pulled Sherlock down, rolling them both under a large black van. He slapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth to muffle his loud breathing. In the process, he regulated his own breathing almost instantly, his lungs burning for air and yet he managed to remain quiet. Something he had learned in war time.
He watched as several footsteps pass by the vehicle, but stay relatively close in the vicinity. With a free hand, he withdrew his Browning from his holster and aimed it at a car across the street. It was a Rolls Royce. He felt a small amount of regret, but knew it was worth it. He shot the window out.
A loud car alarm filled the street and John aimed for another car, taking that window out. Once both were blaring loudly, people began coming to their doors and one man screamed in horror at the state of his window.
The men who had been chasing John and Sherlock all cursed and started running down the street with the owner of the expensive vehicle running after them, threatening to have them jailed.
John and Sherlock both sighed in relief, even as curious neighbors filled the street.
"Good thinking," Sherlock huffed in his ear.
John restrained the urge to moan. Sherlock's hot breath ghosting across his ear and neck. It was perfect and yet odd in a twisted way.
"I know," he whispered back.
John slipped the gun back in place and rolled out from under the van, Sherlock following him slowly. The van provided some form of concealment from the busybody neighbors who were speculating on what was going on.
The two slowly backed up and moved around the corner, until the people were out of sight. They both turned and began printing in the opposite direction. They needed to hail a cab.
"Do you have some sort of magical item at the flat that'll get these off us?"
Sherlock scoffed, "'Magic', John?"
"Hey, for all we know, it exists. How many people can read minds like I do?"
"The possibilities are endless, John. As for removing the cuffs, I have a hack saw and various pairs of Metal Cutting Snips. There should be no issue."
"I hope so."
It was only after the finally got a cab, that John spoke again.
"Did you get it?"
Sherlock smirked and pulled a small flip phone from inside his coat pocket. "Of course I did."
"All that for a bloody phone."
"It was entertaining at least. I enjoy watching your mind at work when you're thinking of ways to escape unharmed. It's rather intriguing."
John placed a hand over his heart and smiled at Sherlock. "That has to be the most sentimental thing anyone has ever said to me, Sherlock! I didn't know you were such a rakish fellow!"
"You become too excited where sentiment is concerned."
"Only if it has to do with you!"
No answer.
Sherlock was facing the window now, but John saw the flush. He was kind enough not to mention it though. Out of respect for Sherlock's feelings.
He hummed quietly to himself as the ride went by, wondering vaguely, how long it would take them to break the cuffs holding them together.
And he noticed, through the whole debacle, that he and Sherlock never once unlinked their fingers.
John didn't know why he was doing it, but he couldn't stop. He was sort of twitchy and really needed something to keep his attention caught, but there was nothing to do. He didn't feel like reading or watching crappy soap operas on the telly. He wasn't hungry and didn't even want tea and biscuits!
And then John got his hands on it!
Why Sherlock thought putting it on top of the fridge was going to keep John from finding it, he didn't know. But he found it. And it became his new toy.
The world's only consulting detective was rather obtuse a lot of the time. It took him three hours and fourteen minutes to notice John's new toy.
John had been sitting on the couch, completely enraptured by what was in his hands. He turned it over, running his fingers over the leather. It was of moderate length. Thirty inches. He smiled to himself as he waved it around, hand tightening on the handle just a bit.
For three hours, he sat there, until one small lack in reflexes had him forgetting to move his hand, thereby accidentally hitting himself, causing a loud 'whack' to resound in the flat. It burned slightly, but what was even stranger, was that the burn felt...good?
That caught Sherlock's attention and he looked over.
"John…..why do you have my riding crop?"
He looked up slowly and said, "It's my new toy."
"Riding crops are not toys, John."
John barely paid attention. He was reminiscing about the past. One of his escapades. It had involved flogging and whipping and it was hotter than fuck.
If he wasn't so worried about what the last thing the riding crop had touched was, he would have licked it.
"John?"
"Hm?" the doctor mumbled as he rubbed his cheek against the leather.
"John you are very nearly frotting against my crop."
John's gaze slid to the younger man and his brow raised questioningly, "Why do you even know what Frottage is?"
Sherlock was flushing suddenly, making the doctor smirk. "And now the mental picture of me frotting the crop is now going to be in your Mind Palace until you've deleted it. And you haven't gotten rid of it yet, interesting."
Sherlock's head snapped downward and he hunched slightly, trying to hide his eyes from the telepath.. And the most humorous part of it all, was that Sherlock still had yet to remove it from the Palace. Interesting.
John stood suddenly and moved into the kitchen. Repeatedly hitting himself with the crop was making his mouth dry. He needed some tea.
"John. I want the riding crop!" Sherlock's voice called out authoritatively.
John sniggered, "Are you going to switch me with it?!"
"What?! No!"
"Then no," he said with finality.
"Sher, seriously is this going to become a habit with you?"
"I do this when you aren't in the flat. And you weren't in the flat. I don't want to change."
"So you just wait for me to leave so you can strip naked and wrap yourself in a sheet?
…
…
…
…
...
"You're a bloody tease, Sher."
"I am not doing anything remotely provocative or amorous."
"Sher, just being yourself is alluring enough for me."
The consulting detective flushed.
John groaned and mumbled, "And once again, no pants."
"Ow!"
John's cerulean blues rolled as Sherlock proceeded to whine.
Another dangerous case and Sherlock had been injured. His face had suffered a bad hit with a metal pipe. Though it didn't fully impact, it still left a large cut from brushing across his brow.
Sherlock kept wincing at the peroxide.
"I wish you'd be more careful, Sher. Thank God they got you here and not on the cheek."
"You shouldn't be happy that I was hit at all."
"No exactly. Let this be a lesson to you, stop running off on your own!"
John reached over and smacked said attractive man upside the head.
"Ow! I'm injured, John!"
"Yes, an injured idiot. I swear, sometimes you try to kill me with worry. It's a good thing I have the Browning."
"I would have been fine," Sherlock grumbled.
"Sher, I've been hit with all manner of things and have treated various wounds. I know that if your head had been an inch more forward, he'd have bashed the side of your skull in and your chance of survival would have been less than forty percent. You are lucky. Very lucky."
John's serious manner, made Sherlock stop pouting. Instead, he seemed to understand how close he was to nearly dying.
"But why are you so angry?"
John sighed, "Because I care about and I don't want you to be hurt. So shut up and let me fix you up."
Sherlock probably didn't know, but he was smiling just a tad. John could see how happy those words had made the man.
It was smile reserved for John only.
John smiled in return.
"You have a crush on the Doctor."
Sherlock whipped around to look at John in what seemed to be horror. "I most certainly do not!"
"Yes you do. He's British, he's intelligent and you really wish you had a TARDIS.."
Sherlock's heterochromatic blue orbs glared at him. "I do not find the Doctor attractive in any way, shape or form."
"You don't need to think someone is physically attractive in order to be attracted to them. You like his mind. You happen to have an intelligence fetish."
Sherlock sputtered for a few seconds and John huffed a laugh.
"Are you trying to say that you'd rather be with an idiot, instead of someone who can discuss Quantum Theory with you?"
"Of course not! I can't handle idiots and being around one always would surely rot my brain."
"Well there you go. You like the fact that the Doctor is smart. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm attracted to intelligence as well. That's why all of my relationships have been with similarly minded people. I can't make small talk about ridiculous subjects. Also, clever minded people tend to have clearer minds that idiots and are more tolerable."
Sherlock was silent for a few seconds before asking, "So there's nothing abnormal about liking intelligence as a defining factor instead of physical interest."
"Sherlock, there is no set method to being attracted to someone. A lot of people judge only on physical appearance, which I find to be particularly rude. Like if the person isn't perfectly proportioned or they have scars. I for one, have a lot of scars. Not just from certain wounds in the battlefield, but from being a prisoner of war. Several months at the 'mercy' of the enemy was not pleasant and I made it out alive, though with many additional scars. Several people wouldn't accept me, even as something simple as a bed partner, all because I'm scarred. But that's how superfluous humans can be. Appearance means more to most than anything else these days. I for one, think it's great that you find intelligence attractive. It shows that you're so much different than the mindless cattle that make up the world these days."
Sherlock's worry seemed to fly out the window. And then came back full force, but for a different reason.
"You were a prisoner of war?"
"Yes. That's basically where the nightmares come from. Three months have had a lasting impression on me for years, but I don't mind it so much right now. At the time, I gave no information over, I didn't even scream. So long as I didn't lose my mind in front of them, I'm fine with the nightmares. Being strong in the face of danger is difficult, but it's better than giving in and being a coward."
Sherlock frowned, "Why would having scars matter when sex is involved?"
John shrugged, "They're a turn off for a lot of people. The shot that got me honorably discharged, left a large scar. The flesh around the affected area is distorted and unnatural looking. Because it isn't pleasant to look upon, it can kill the mood. Then if you add all the other scars I have, well, it's difficult to get people to continue unless they have a blindfold kink these days."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, before brushing a hand against John's scarred shoulder. "People are idiots. This only proves it even more."
"I know."
The sat in companionable silence for the next half hour. Until John had to break it be saying, "So like the original argument was going, you have a crush on the Doctor."
"John!"
"John it looks as if you're writing a romance novel about us."
John looked up from his typing to find Sherlock's head right beside his own, reading what he was typing.
"Excuse me?"
"How does the current shade of my eyes have any sort of relevance to the case?"
"Sher, that has to do with when you get the right idea! Whenever you get the correct reason for a murder or something regarding a dead body, your eyes seem to shine green. Since they aren't my eyes and it's most likely unintentional, I don't really know how to answer."
John continued to type while saying, "Besides, if I was writing smut about us, your eyes wouldn't be the first thing I'd write about. Believe me. Those cheekbones call for attention first and foremost."
Said cheekbones were flushed instantly.
"Okay then."
"Calm down, Sher. There's glass in your hair and the curls make it difficult to get them all out without hurting you."
The consulting detective sat cross-legged on the floor while John sat in his chair. He had on a pair of leather gloves and was carding his finger through those black curls very gently. Sherlock was facing him, with his head bowed. There was an entire 'puddle' of broken glass on the floor between them.
Sherlock sighed. "Is it supposed feel like this?"
"Feel like what?"
"Good?" the man asked in confusion.
"'Good' as in relaxed or as in something else?"
"I'm...not sure."
"Maybe you just like to have your head massaged? How about once we're certain that you're safe from any danger, I actually give you a massage?"
Sherlock let out a low groan, but John took that as an 'okay'.
"Wow, over two hundred thousand views just for today. Sherlock, prepare yourself for an onslaught tomorrow."
Sherlock scoffed, but that was his undoing.
The next morning at ten, came the first prospective client.
Sherlock turned down so many people, even someone whom John was positive was a part of the mafia. Though he strangely accepted a few computer nerds who had a fetish for comic books and something about all the scenarios coming true in real life. That one was definitely…..something else.
A man who believed that his aunt's or grandmother's - or something's - ashes had been exchanged with someone else's.
A woman who was poorly put together, claiming that he husband was cheating on her. Sherlock ended that one there with a simple 'yes'. Seriously, being overweight didn't give anyone an excuse to dress dowdy. There was no wonder that her husband was unfaithful.
Two little girls talking about not being allowed to see their grandfather's body we he died. John wasn't quick enough to stop Sherlock from telling them that people didn't go to heaven when they died. Instead, they were taken to a special room and burned. The trauma he inflicted on them. John still shook his head at the memory.
More people coming in with ridiculous questions and such.
Lestrade called them in for some cases.
Sherlock was just like always. The cops being on the scene for two hours and he comes in and solves nearly everything about the victim within a minute of mumbling to himself.
Anderson and Donovan try to gang up on him and John swiftly puts them off with a threat to tell Anderson's wife about her husband's infidelity.
"Who'd believe you two?"
"About a hundred thousand people who follow our day to day lives and the media who has become interested in us."
John motioned to his right, where several reporters were standing, cameras and microphones in hand.
"So if you don't want to face a lawsuit plus a possible loss of your jobs, I suggest you stand aside and mind your own business."
As they walked away, Sherlock was staring at him.
"What?"
"No one ever defends me. Sometimes Lestrade does, but mostly for propriety's sake. You actually do it for my feelings."
"Well one, you forget that I personally know that their words do offend you on a small level and make you doubt yourself for not being more 'normal'. You shouldn't let such worthless individuals define who you are. You are amazing and they know that they'll never match you in anything, so they try to bring you down. They have no right to judge you for what makes you who you are."
…
…
…
"Thank you, John."
"It's fine."
"Don't mention the failed ones!"
"Why not? Technically, you got it correct, even if it wasn't the reason for the murder. Besides, people like to know that you're a human like them."
Sherlock scoffed and did a double take. "Why?"
"It makes you seem more real. Like there is a possibility for them to be like you even just a tad. Remember when I told you that Molly practically worships you and thinks you're the best person in the world? These people think the same, though they've never met you. They'd possibly link you to some genius superhero if they didn't know that even you could make mistakes."
Sherlock looked vaguely disturbed at the thought. "People aren't superheroes and it's foolish to attempt to make people into them. They don't exist. Raising hopes for no reason, ridiculous."
"You don't believe in heroes?" John asked as he typed.
"I don't believe in 'superheroes', John. Pay attention. There are heroes out there, but it's still vacuous to remake the people you see into them. People are people. Some have the fortitude and others don't. Placing all of your expectations on someone, can lead to disappointment."
"I suppose you're right."
"Of course I am."
John cracked a smile, "And have you actually met any real life heroes?"
"Of course I have."
John's brow furrowed and he turned to look at his flatmate in confusion. "Who?"
"You, John."
Then came the flush.
"You've saved my life and so many others all in the two years we've known each other. You were a soldier in the military for twelve years. According to you and the reports Mycroft gave me, you were a prisoner of war for three months. You were even shot in the shoulder, a couple of inches above the heart, while you rushed out to assist your men. And even when you were shot, you continued to work on the men around you, successfully bringing them all back to safety and waiting two hours before finally getting treatment for your own wound. And because you took so long to ensure the safety of your comrades, you suffered. If you had foregone them and focused on yourself, you wouldn't have been honorably discharged. But of course you value the lives of everyone else above your own. It's that that makes you a hero, John."
John would swear that he teared up just a little. It was very sweet. Sentimental, whether Sherlock knew it or not.
"And to a lesser extent, Lestrade is one as well."
"Huh?"
"A hero. He's a cop and even though he's on a Detective Inspector, he gets into some serious situations and he personally helped me with the cocaine."
"How…" John began slowly, making Sherlock look at him expectantly. "Sentimental."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Just had to ruin it, didn't you?"
"No, no! I happen to think it's adorable that you think of Greg in such a way."
"I am not adorable."
"Yes you are."
"I am not!"
"You won't win this argument, because I will list everything amazingly adorable about you, if you don't drop it."
"Hmph."
John grinned in victory.
"Will you allow me to choose the name for this case?"
John frowned and looked at his friend inquiringly. "Uh...sure. Why do you want to though?"
"To prevent you from choosing something like, 'Belly Button Murders' or something along those line."
John snorted, "I was going to say, 'The Navel Treatment'."
"Better...but not by much. I'm choosing."
"Well fine then."
As they wound their way through the back of the theater, Lestrade caught up to them.
"There's a lot of press outside guys."
"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock stated calmly.
John coughed and shook his head, "I'm not so sure about that, Sher."
"John's right. Now you are considered a once in a lifetime phenomenon. Both of you. A lot of them specifically want photographs of you two."
The consulting detective sighed, "For God's sake."
He froze, causing John to bump into him. Suddenly, there was a hat being placed on his head by Sherlock.
"Try to cover your face with that."
Sherlock moved to put his own hat on and John halted him, shaking his head. "That doesn't match. Wait a tic."
John entered the small dressing room Sherlock had filched the hats from and found a muffler in the exact same style at Sherlock's chosen hat. He returned and began removing the man's own wrapping, before stuffing in his coat pocket.
"I refuse to have the press think that you can't match your clothing. There! You look great!" he smiled as he shifted Sherlock's collar up in that way that made him look cool.
Sherlock was slightly flushing, but he tipped his hat in appreciation, fixing John's own in the process.
"Are you two ready yet?" Lestrade asked from down the hall, where he paused to wait for them.
John huffed a small laugh, "Yeah, sorry."
"They can wait a few minutes. Besides, solving such a big case like this is good for your public image!"
"Why should I care what the public thinks of me?" Sherlock murmured to John.
"You shouldn't. However, a popular kind opinion gets you more cases."
"Hm. I'm a private detective, that last thing I need is a 'public image'."
Lestrade led them out the door and they were assaulted by cameras and ridiculous amounts of flashes and questions that they politely ignored. Well, John politely ignored and Sherlock just swayed past the people, not giving them his attention.
The two shared a knowing grin and when a flash went off, they knew that it was captured.
"Tomorrow morning's headline is going to be, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson: Partners or Partners?" John laughed as he thought about it.
"People truly have nothing better to do. And that name was actually good, John."
"Thank you for your glittering support, Sher."
"Hmph."
"Must you wear those jumpers?"
"I like them."
"But they're so...bland. They don't fit your character."
"True, but hey are comfortable which I love and they make me unassuming and hide my holster rather well if I do say so myself. Underestimation can be a man's greatest weapon after all."
Sherlock paused as he attempted to (illegally) split an atom.
"That's actually ingenious of you, John. Good show."
"Thanks."
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…
…
"But could we possibly get you better jumpers at least? Maybe ones that match your eyes or at least bring out the color in them?"
"Perhaps."
"Good."
Their very next case came in a very interesting way. A portly man with dark, short hair appeared in their flat, looking for them.
Sherlock placed him in a chair in the center of the room and made him explain without being 'boring'.
Next thing, John is being forced into a taxi and told to go with the man to the crime scene.
John arrived in time for the man in charge of the case to assume that he was Sherlock. He had to tell the man that Sherlock business to handle at the flat and sent him to hook up the video chat on his laptop.
The man accepted his assistance without a problem.
And so John went through the rigorous process of setting everything up. When he finally saw Sherlock on the other side, he flushed.
"Of course you get naked as soon as I leave. You couldn't do that while I was there?"
"Oh shut up. I obviously cannot with you threatening to bend me over the sofa every time I do, can I?"
"I hate you."
"No you don't. Besides, we agreed that I won't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. No go back."
"When did we agree to that?"
"Yesterday. Show me the grass. Slowly…..stop!"
John angled the laptop for the ma and waited for the deductions to come.
"Closer to the grass, please."
"Sher, you do realize that I was at the store yesterday, shopping for food and fighting with the chip and pin machine, don't you?"
"Hm."
"Do you just keep talking when I'm away?" John asked, curious.
"I don't know, how often are you away?"
"How you even miss my lack of presence?!"
Sherlock sighed on the other side of the chat. "I don't. It's a joke. Now show me the car that backfired."
John shifted the laptop around so that it was facing up the grassy slope.
"That's the one that made the noise?"
"Yes," John said firmly.
"Pass me over to the Detective Inspector."
"Fine, but if you're too rude, I will use the mute button."
"I'll behave…..maybe."
"And that's as good as I'll get from you."
As he walked, he heard Sherlock pretty much degrade the man who came to them in a worry. Telling the DI how it was impossible for him to be the killed an raffling off everything about him that meant that he wasn't. John's hand held his head as he hoped beyond all hope that Sherlock didn't dig himself a hole.
The laptop was passed back a moment later, with Sherlock telling the DI to check the stream for the blunt instrument that John had mentioned a few moments prior.
He placed the laptop on top of the cab that was still waiting for him to be done with everything, when he saw Mrs. Hudson come into the background of the camera.
"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is behind you with two unknown and well dressed men."
Sherlock turned and all that John saw was a dark hand closed the laptop and his connection was off.
He frowned and turned to the DI, "Whoever that was just cut the connection, sorry. I think you should still do as he suggested and check the stream. The attack came from that direction, judging by the wound on his head."
Before John could say anything more, one of the Sergeants working with the DI came over, saying, "Doctor Watson, it's for you."
John had assumed that it was the phone he was holding, until the man said, "No sir, the helicopter."
John gaped for a moment, before shutting the laptop off and closing it. He fetched his bag from the cab, paid the driver a good sum and headed off down the grassy hill to enter the Westland aircraft. He'd seen enough in his time to recognize which helicopter was which.
This whole situation spelled, M. Y. C. R. O. F. T.
The man flying it did not say a thing to him and he didn't ask questions. What was the point? When Mycroft wanted something, he got it.
The ride was slow going, at least, it appeared that way. Distance from high above the ground was always hard to judge. Thing that looked to be miles away could be a mere hundred feet.
When they arrived at their destination, John was greeted by a primly suited man with a clean haircut. The man greet him as 'Doctor Watson' and shook his hand firmly.
John looked around as the man led him into the very large and very old building and all he could wonder while they walked, was what the bloody hell did Mycroft need with him at Buckingham Palace?
Paintings, statues, suits of armor, high ceilings and gorgeous chandeliers. Everything a palace should be on the inside.
When he saw Sherlock in the drawing room the man had led him to, sitting there in only a sheet, he flushed a little. Of course he couldn't even get dressed for Buckingham Palace. And there was a pile of neatly folded clothing resting on the coffee table before him!
John actually walked on over and sat beside his friend on the lovely sofa.
He calmly folded his hands on his lap and looked around for a moment before turning to Sherlock and giving him a once over. "You net even wearing pants, are you?"
"No."
"Okay," John nodded and looked away from his attractive friend who was only covered from the world by a white sheet.
He couldn't help back look back at Sherlock, only to see the man staring at him expectantly. Humor in his mind. They both burst into a fit of giggles. They were always giggling at the most inappropriate of moments.
Once he calmed down, John asked, "Why are we at Buckingham Palace? I'm seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray." That got him a snicker from Sherlock. "What does Mycroft want? Or are we here to see the queen?"
There were footsteps at the Sherlock answered, "Oh! Apparently, yes."
John turned and saw only Mycroft, but the humor hit him instantly and again, they were reduced to obnoxious laughter.
Mycroft did not appreciate their humor, if his scowl and his words were anything to go by. "Just once can you two behave like grown ups?"
John snorted, "We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants . He's a High Functioning Sociopath and I'm an Undiscovered Ocular Telepath. I wouldn't hold out too much hope, just so you know."
Sherlock was glaring at his brother, "We were in the middle of a case, Mycroft."
Mycroft scoffed and said that the answer was obvious. He then grabbed the bundle of clothing and held it out to Sherlock, who sneered.
Mycroft sighed in a very fashion and said, "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."
"What for?"
"Your client."
Sherlock stood, matching his brother in height and said, "An my client is?"
"Illustrious!"
The three men turned to see another man enter the drawing room.
"In the extreme," he continued.
John stood immediately, seeing that the man before them was important, despite his job as an assistant.
"And remaining - I'll have to inform you - entirely anonymous."
He then turned and smiled at the older Holmes. "Mycroft," he extended a hand.
"Harry," Mycroft smiled uncomfortably, shaking the man's hand politely. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother."
"Full time occupation, I imagine," the man smiled lightly.
John had his full attention then, the man's eyes lighting up instantly.
"And you are Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, former Brigadier of the 1st Armoured Infantry Brigade. It's a pleasure to meet you. I have heard many stories about the medals that you've earned and I must admit to being impressed, sir."
John smiled congenially and shook the man's hand.
"My employer and I are tremendous fans of your blog."
John nodded with an interested look, though he'd pretty much seen everything in the man's eyes already. Including who the 'employer' was and who they were looking for, An old flame from the past. He felt excitement fill him instantly as he thought of the riding crop.
"Your employer?" he asked interestedly, as was probably expected of him. Mycroft's knowing gaze nearly had him snickering.
Harry nodded, "Particularly the one about the aluminium crutch."
John smiled and turned to wrinkle his nose at Sherlock who rolled his eyes. That had been a name they had disagreed on.
Harry then moved in the Sherlock. "And Mister Holmes, the younger. You look taller in your photographs."
"Yes, the precaution of having a good coat and a short friend."
John glared halfheartedly. He wasn't that bloody short. He was perfectly average at 170 cm and it wasn't his fault that Sherlock was seven inches taller!
"Mycroft, I do not take anonymous clients, I like mystery only on one end of the case, not both, it's too much work."
He bade Harry a 'good morning' and turned to leave. Mycroft then did something that John swore he'd be internally thanking the man for-for the next decade. He stepped on Sherlock's sheet, causing it to unravel and fall to the floor, Sherlock barely managing to catch enough to cover his deliciously firm arse.
"This is a matter of national importance, grow up!" the older Holmes hissed.
"Get off my sheet!"
"Or what?!"
"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock shrugged, though John could tell he didn't necessarily like that idea very much. That didn't mean John didn't however.
"Please do," John said, the same moment Mycroft countered with, "I'll let you."
Sherlock turned slightly to give John a narrow eyed look and the doctor shrugged. "What? You know my sexual orientation and I have warned you countless time not to waltz about in only a sheet when around me. You're practically advertising that which cannot be obtained. And that is why I call you a tease."
Mycroft was giving John an appraising look and John rolled his eyes.
"Who is my client?!" Sherlock asked suddenly, to which Mycroft told him to deduce it.
"Sher, drop it and I'll cook your favorite meals for a week."
…
…
…
"Two weeks."
"Done."
Sherlock turned around, still clutching his sheet to himself and grabbed the bundle of clothing. "Well, turn around!"
The three men did so, though John was reluctant and wished there was a mirror somewhere in the room.
Once Sherlock was properly attired, they all sat down and began to discuss the 'special case'.
Sherlock had crossed his legs in an imperious sort of manner, keeping his stiff upper lip in place. John rolled his eyes at the theatrics.
Tea was requested by Harry and soon, they were delicately sipping from fine china.
Harry cleared his throat, "My employer, has a problem."
Mycroft took over then, "A matter has come to light that is extremely delicate and could potentially be criminal in nature. And in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."
Sherlock pointed out that Mycroft had an entire police force and the Secret Service at his beck and call, so why did he need Sherlock at all?
Harry sighed, "Don't people come to you for help, Mr. Holmes?"
"Not anyone formally of the Navy."
"This is a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust," Mycroft pointed out.
John couldn't help but ask, "You don't trust your own Secret Service?"
"Naturally not! They all spy on people for money."
John grinned at the answer. It was true.
Harry turned to Mycroft and said, "I do think we have a time table."
Mycroft cleared his throat and pulled a picture from a suitcase on the floor. "What do you know about this woman?"
Sherlock took the picture and said, "Nothing, whatsoever."
"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft chided lightly. "She's been the center of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants, separately."
"You know that I don't concern myself with trivia," Sherlock stated.
"She's professionally known as, 'The Woman'. There are many names for what she does but she prefers the term, Dominatrix."
Sherlock repeatedly the word disinterestedly, looking bored.
"Don't be alarmed, it has to do with sex," Mycroft teased calmly, making his brother glare minutely.
"Sex doesn't alarm me, Mycroft."
"How would you know?"
John scoffed, unable to help himself. "May I remind you that you have no business to bring up anything regarding sexual experience, Mycroft Holmes," he said with a meaningful look, making Sherlock snorted and giggle into his fist.
Mycroft glared at him, though he could tell that the man was embarrassed. "Her name is-"
"Irene Adler," John finished.
Mycroft assumed that he had gotten her name from his mind, but Harry leaned forward, "You know of her?"
"Know of her?" John asked incredulously. He gave a chuckle, "I know her!"
Sherlock'd head whipped around and he stared at his friend in shock. Mycroft and Harry had similar looks of astonishment on their own faces.
John chuckled, "I used a name I have earned during my 'vacations' with my mates. We'd get together and visit other continents. America, Canada and Mexico for North America. China, South Korea and Japan for Asia. And we stayed in Europe the last time, going to Madrid, Rome and France, before coming back to London. During those three different 'vacations' I was the only person to get a leg over on each continent and on multiple occasions too. They gave me the nickname John 'Three Continents' Watson and I used that moniker on the last night of our last 'vacation', in a fancy club in London where I met one, Irene Adler."
John was smirking at the memories. Before he'd gotten so scarred and sex as easier to have. Also, there were no strings attached and he didn't have to worry about never seeing anyone ever again, because they were all strangers. Though Irene and he had gotten a little closer than John had with any of the other women.
"Can you part with the information you have on her?" Harry asked, snapping out of his shock pretty easily.
John nodded.
"Irene is intelligent and plans several steps ahead for different scenarios. In her line of work, she can attract negative attention and needs to be able to save herself at a moment's notice.
I say 'work' because she is literally registered as a BDSM Practitioner, for a certain price. She doesn't take just anyone and isn't some simple prostitute. Half of the time, her exploits don't even involve intercourse. And her price range, depends on the services selectively rendered.
The Dom in a BDSM relationship, must have a good solicitor and must have contracts. Irene herself, has ten different contracts with limitations on each thing. For example, Contract 1 deals with light bondage. That is it. Simple tying of the hands together behind the back with simple rope or a silk scarf, nothing particularly intricate about it. Contracts 8-10 however, all deal with bondage, gagging, flogging, whipping, role playing, picture play and humiliation.
Contract 10 is the most serious. Bondage, gagging, flogging, whipping, role playing, picture playing, public humiliation, blood play, suspension, torture, wax play, cock and ball torture and going so far as to use erotic electrostimulaion and forbidding sexual release.
Irene always has her clients sign the contract that involves that which they are looking for. She is very precise in the wording of her contracts and depending on how serious the chosen contract is, she can do what she wants once they sign. If a member of the royal family has indeed signed one of Irene's contracts, there may be no way out of it."
The two government officials shared a horrified look.
"The member in question signed Contract 8 as you have stated. You are sure there is no avenue to use in order to procure the evidence from her?"
John thought about what he knew about Irene. "She took photographs, didn't she? That is the only thing that could be considered 'evidence'." John already knew he was correct especially since he saw the answer in both men's heads.
"Irene can be compromised with. If you give her something she wants in return, she'll return the photos to you. Though to be honest, she doesn't use the photos for anything bad. She pays a PI to find information on possible clients for her, using that information against them if they try anything unsavory. The pictures are just for stimulation if you understand the meaning. A compromise can be made but she has to choose it and it could be anything. And I do mean anything. She would never choose money or sex, she's gets enough of either on a daily basis. She'd wisely choose something that keeps her safe or benefits her in some way. Like immunity from certain laws. She has garnered some negative attention from certain individuals and having the laws bent in her favor, would be highly preferable for a woman like her."
Mycroft and Harry turned to deliberate with one another. As they did that, Sherlock poked John in the arm.
"Did you pay for her services?"
He smiled, "No. At the time, I was only a Captain and it was my last 'vacation' before things became heated. We got talking in the club and it was legitimate talking, not made up rubbish. She didn't lie once and was very straightforward about her profession. When I didn't react negatively or immediately attempt to get in her knickers, she offered to 'reward me' - you could say - for all of my hard work. And of course I looked into her eyes. She is almost as organized as your brother. Almost."
"How many, exploits did you have to earn you your...title?"
Sherlock was looking at the tea set on the table, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Too many. You don't want to know."
"I do!"
John huffed, "Eighty-three altogether."
"Men and women?"
"Yes."
"And were you in charge all the time?"
"Do you mean to ask if I did the fucking in regards to the blokes I was with?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Yes."
"Oh."
There was a clearing of a throat and both flatmates looked over to Mycroft, who was looking serious.
"John, since you seem to know Ms. Adler on a personal level, would you be willing to be the intermediary for us? Requesting an exchange would be much easier if she were comfortable with the representative posing the proposition."
"Sure. I have nothing better to do at the moment and it's be nice to catch up with an old friend."
Sherlock was pouting again and John placed a calming hand on his shoulder, "She's very engaging. I think you'll like her."
"I'm married to my work."
"I didn't mean like that and you know it."
Sherlock huffed.
"Of course she lives in such an affluent neighborhood," John commented as they stepped out of the limo that escorted them to Irene's home.
Sherlock straightened out his coat, lifting the collar in that oh so cool way and demanded, "Punch me in the face!"
"What?"
"I said, 'punch me in the face', didn't you hear me?"
"I hear a multitude of things when you speak and sometimes 'punch me in the face' is among them, though it's usually subtext."
Sherlock's armed lashed out and John spun instantly, catching the approaching appendage and twisting it slightly while lifting Sherlock off the ground and flipping him over his shoulder. The consulting detective hit the ground hard, all air leaving him in one quick breath. He blinked up at John and managed to say, "I wasn't expecting that."
"You tend to forget that I was a soldier, as well."
"But you were a doctor."
"I had bad days and I patched up just as much as I injured. Never forget it, Sher."
"Right!"
John helped the younger man to his feet and proceeded to brush his off, removing leaves from his curls and dirt from his coat.
"I'm just going to knock on the door. No need for such lies. She already knows that we're here, after all."
John waltzed on over to the door of the appropriate home and knocked three times as customary. A red haired woman answered and she towered over John in her high heels, but he smiled anyway. Young Kate was certainly spry and energetic.
"Good afternoon miss, is Irene in?"
Green eyes narrowed, 'You know mistress? Have you ever signed her contract?"
"I signed Contract 5 about six years ago, under the name Captain Watson."
Kate's eyes widened and she stepped aside, "Mistress was expecting only Mr. Holmes, she'll be thrilled to see you again. She talks of your encounter frequently."
John smiled and gestured behind him to the still gasping man. "That's Sherlock."
Kate led them to the fanciful drawing room and John asked if he could get Sherlock a glass of water for his throat, explaining about their little altercation outside in the street. She showed him to the kitchen and filled a small glass up and retrieved a napkin.
When he returned to the drawing room, his mouth dropped. Sure, he'd seen it in Kate's mind, but in person was so much better. Irene stood before Sherlock who was sitting on one of the sofas, completely bare as the day she was born. She turned and her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open and letting the white strip of cloth that had been caught between her teeth, to flutter to the ground.
She turned immediately and launched herself at John, who barely managed to save the glass, though some of the water did spill over the edge and onto the smooth creamy skin on Irene's back. She gave a small squeal at the sensation and looked John in the eye.
"It's been a while, Captain Watson."
Her voice was suave, sultry. She was trying her hardest to get him hard.
"It has, Irene. I see you met my friend/flatmate/employer/child/consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes."
She smiled, "Yes I did. I wasn't expecting to see you, Captain."
John frowned slightly, "I was invalided home two years ago and I was Brigadier by the time I was honorably discharged."
Irene's eyes lightened considerably, "More power, hm? I noticed you didn't say lover in regards to your Sherlock."
John shrugged and whispered, "It's a small hope I have. He's being slowly seduced into sentiment, whether he knows it or not."
"Good luck. Those cheekbones," she moaned.
"I know. And that hair that I just want to wrap my fingers in."
"Brigadier, I wish you all the luck in your seduction," She smirked with an added wink.
"Thank you, Irene."
She pulled away, completely comfortable in her own skin and gave a small pose, before taking a seat on the sofa adjacent to Sherlock's, who was staring at them in horror.
John handed the man the glass. "Drink it slowly."
Sherlock accepted the drink, staring at John with those penetrating eyes. Then came the bloody pout.
"Sherlock, if you're so against my flirting with others, I'll make sure to flirt more often with you."
For some reason, that actually made Sherlock's mood lighten immediately.
John silently patted his curly head and gave Irene his attention once more.
"I'm going to be blunt, I was asked to compromise with you over the photographs you have on the member of the royal family. Technically, they were going to hire Sherlock, until they found out that I knew you and about your contracts and how you have everything perfectly worded and only a compromise of your choosing will make you give the photographs over."
"I knew that Mr. Holmes would come and I had an entire game planned out, but since you're here, I don't feel like my plan now. So...how far are they willing to go, to get these photographs back?"
"They already know that you have to choose. So, what'll it be?"
Irene looked at the mirror and John saw it in her eyes, he safe, which held a small phone. And the phone literally held her life. He'd also been shocked to see that she had been in touch with Moriarty and had yet to learn that he was dead.
"There are some Americans who have been following me around. The last month, they've been following me and I know what they want, however I will not be returning it to them. Their boss signed Contract 10 after all."
John's eyes went beyond wide as he saw the very encounter in her mind. It was detailed and definitely humiliating. How many men would be willing to let something like that go? Even though they signed a contract?
John stood from his seat beside Sherlock and casually went to open the window on the far side of the room, eyes surreptitiously scouring the street and houses. He spotted a black vehicle that wasn't there when he and Sherlock arrived. He also noticed the stillness.
He moved away from the window, pulling his Browning from his holster and backing himself against the wall near the door. He motioned for Sherlock to begin his deductions of Irene, while he prepared for the assault.
Sherlock turned on Irene and began grilling her like he was at a barbecue. He pointed out her measurements, her real hair color, her shoes size, how she was bisexual like John, her height, weight, what she during her last 'session' and even going to so far as to tell her that her monthly was coming the next day.
They began to banter heavily, Sherlock aiming invasive questions at Irene and the Woman easily sidestepping them and unnerving Sherlock with brilliant deduction of her own. Some of them regarding John.
They made a game into finding out where the safe was and John smirked, because he already knew it.
Sherlock sent him a glower and when John nodded his head toward the mirror, Sherlock grinned and hopped to his feet.
"At least it isn't a swinging painting like so many cliched people have," Sherlock commented as the mirror moved up by technology.
"You've always worn gloves while entering the code, so it's nearly impossible to determine which buttons you used. However, numbers five through nine are completely untouched."
Irene nodded, looking impressed. "I can understand the Captain's attraction to you now. Why is goes far beyond the physical."
"It's a six digit code. I wonder what it could be, with only number one through four being used."
Irene folded herself comfortably on the sofa and said,"I've already told you the combination."
"No you haven't."
"Deduce, angle face."
A small noise outside the room alerted John to the intruders. Three men, judging from the footsteps. The door slammed open and he waited for the third man to enter the room, before charging him. Good thing the door opened in a way that it blocked him from the attackers.
John quickly wrapped his arm around the last man and shot him in the back with his Browning, making him scream. But he was already in action, ignoring the man's screams and shooting the second man somewhere in the torso. The last was trained on him now, but he was using the man's friends as a meat shield.
"So you're the American?" John asked conversationally.
"I believe hat we are at an impasse," the American stated clearly.
John smirked and shook his head. "Not in the least. I'm not the only armed person in the room. Turn around."
A scoff, "I'm not so foolish to turn my back on the enemy."
"You already did," Sherlock's condescending tone rang throughout the room. He moved to the man's side with his own gun, which he had gotten under advice from John. Irene was armed with a small pistol of her own and syringe in the other hand, standing behind him very closely.
"Drop the weapon, or we all shoot," John threatened.
The man's eyes went wide, before the gun moved upward quickly, toward his own head. Irene jumped forward and shoved the syringe into his neck before he could blow his own brains out.
Sherlock removed the gun from his grip and they watched as the man fell to the floor with a thud.
John shoved his captive away from himself, letting the already dead man fall to the floor. Shot to the lung apparently gone awry.
Irene stood fully once more, smiling to herself. "I'm glad I got to use that still. I had originally planned to use it on your man, Captain."
"Well aren't I just tickled to know that things changed," John grinned back.
"Hm...quite."
And they just stood there, grinning like idiots. Sherlock began to giggle and John followed suit, until soon all three were laughing uncontrollably.
"God, we laugh at the worst of moments, I swear," John shook his head.
"I don't think so," Sherlock's head shook. "If you find something humorous, laugh. Why should the moment matter?"
"Because there are three dead Americans on the floor who were here to kill us all and to steal Irene's livelihood."
Irene moved back and sat down, "So, you pretty much just did what I was going to ask for. All on your own. I must admit Captain, seeing you in action...has me rather hot. Contract 5, you and I for the evening and you can have any pictures you want."
John returned the heated gaze and said in a very low purr, "Where do I sign?"
When the whole situation with Irene was handled, Mycroft had quite literally, gaped at John, when he explained what she had wanted in return for the large envelope of photos.
"So you actually…"
"Yes. It was great. Irene happens to find battle scars particularly appealing. One of the few women I know who do."
"I...see."
"Oh yes! She has a fetish for men in uniform and takes the 'Captain Watson' bit pretty far in the role playing."
"Oh."
Both Holmes brothers were decidedly uncomfortable talking about John's obvious sex life and experience. Since both had never done anything of the sort in their lives, they were unsure of how to proceed. Talking about sex as a whole was fine, but talking about two people having sex was completely different and they both knew that.
John just sat there and grinned through it all, reveling in their discomfort. It was fantastic! He'd have to send Irene a bouquet of roses expressing his gratitude.
"That had to be the easiest case we've ever done. This isn't making the blog."
John woke up and went through his normal routine of actually 'waking'. After five minutes of staring at the ceiling and yawning repeatedly, he manage to get himself awake enough to move off the bed.
A stop in the bathroom and then he made his way into the kitchen for make some much needed tea. Tea made the world go round.
There already a cup waiting for him and it was still warm. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he wasn't home. But he'd only left a few moments prior if the cup was still heated. There was a note on the table beside the cup and he huffed a laugh. How sweet of him to let John sleep in, even if it was only for a few minutes. And how nice to leave a note too.
And Sherlock didn't think that he was capable of being nice. John would enjoy teasing him about it later on.
"Can I please have it?"
"No."
"You're not doing anything with it as of this moment and I know you have no plans for it any time soon."
"That matters not. I do not wish to have you frotting my crop again."
"Oh, Sher, if I truly frotted your crop, you'd know!"
"The answer is still 'no' John."
"Perhaps I'll frot you then."
Sherlock's typing fingers froze and John waited with breathless anticipation for what would come next.
Sherlock shifted in his seat, pulling crop from under his arse and handing it over. "There better be no unsavory substances on it when it is returned, John."
"Right!" John nodded firmly. "No cum, got it!"
"John!"
"Sher, I think you need to have sex."
The consulting detective turned to look at him in confusion and asked, "Why?"
"It's relaxing, it feels good. Can be therapeutic for some people. I mean, you're so strung up right now and I think a little release would be good for you. At least a good wank!"
"John, do you understand the level of trust required for such a thing to occur? I do not trust willingly and I refuse to do such trivial actions that do not interest me, all for transport."
A slowly, naughty grin spread across John's lips and he couldn't help but lean across the table and purr, "Now we both know that's not true, Sher. In the last year, you've taken up the need to relieve yourself of some of your own frustrations. You forget that I see everything."
Sherlock paled instantly and John could see the embarrassment entire his thought process, completely scribbling across all the well written notes the man had been taking in his mind. Sherlock's face flushed and his eyes dilated. He was remembering his latest session and what he had thought about while doing it.
John smiled coyly and trailed his fingers across Sherlock's hand, drawing insignificant little doodles on the man's soft skin.
"I must say Sher, you've got quite the imagination. That Mind Palace of yours is just so...inundated with visuals of me of all people. Flattering, I assure you."
John was leaning in closer, enjoying how Sherlock had gulped audibly as he entered the man's personal space.
"Does this mean that my little virgin doesn't want to be a virgin anymore?" John breathed, smiling when Sherlock's brain went crazy.
Yes! Please yes! I want it! John! Please, John!
And yet the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth were more along the lines of, "Not yet."
John sighed a little in disappointment, but he wouldn't push. Sherlock wasn't ready for such as of the moment, but he was getting there. One step at a time. However, just because he wanted to remain a virgin for the time being, didn't mean they couldn't do...other...things.
"At least let me help you with that problem you're having. It must be so difficult to concentrate when you're so stiff."
John of course was referring to the growing bulge in Sherlock's trousers, making the younger man flush even more.
"Y-you'd actually do that?!"
"I have given head to men and women before, Sher. I'd be happy to assist you," John winked, trailing his finger over his friend's arm and down his chest, stopping when they brushed the zipper.
"What do you say, Sher?"
"S-sure."
John's eyes widened in shock, before lowering in pleasure. He pulled Sherlock's seat away from the table completely, before dropping to his knees and undoing the fly quickly.
Sherlock never got another coherent word in, because John had taken him in after a few seconds of appreciating the size. He purred happily, enjoying what he was doing.
Fellatio on men had always made him hot. He didn't understand, but he probably got off more than the recipient did. Something about the smooth texture and the ridges and veins. The flavor. He shuddered. He had a bit of a cum fetish too.
Sherlock was moaning above him. Something else he loved. The noises that people made when he took them, were unforgettable and enough to sear inside his mind. Sex was always something he had enjoyed to have on the mind.
Sherlock's long, delicate and beautifully pale fingers clenched at his hair and he panted John's name over and over.
It made John's own erection stir. To hear the man he truly cared for, possibly even loved, say his name like that, was just bliss.
He shoved down fully and sucked as hard as he could, making Sherlock jerk and scream as he came down John's throat. And John didn't move until he'd swallowed everything. And it was perfect.
He pulled away slowly, enjoying how Sherlock's cock glistened from his actions. He then glanced up to see dark eyes. The color was completely gone and the pupils where blown wide all the way. He was panting heavily and there was just something in that gaze that just begged for him to continue, but he knew it was just a high from what had just occurred. Sherlock wasn't ready until he could verbally say so.
John tucked the young man back into his trousers and stood quickly.
Before he moved off to the bathroom, where he knew he'd need to take care of his own problem, he leaned into Sherlock and whispered in his ear, "You taste amazing."
He sauntered away then, leaving his friend stuttering behind him.
John smirked in victory. Just one of many soon to be escapades. He could see it and he knew that he could wait patiently.
He definitely had Sherlock now.
A/N: Another one done!
Remember, this is BAMF John. He's awesome.
Check out my cute little, John/Sherlock O/S. 'According to You, I am Beautiful'. Sherlock reflects on his feelings for John. Fluffy.
How was it? Let me know in a constructive, respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.
See ya! :D