John was humming under his breath as he puttered around, slicing brie and sausage and finding half of yesterday's baguette for sandwiches when the floorboards creaked behind him.
He stiffened. His guest had woken up.
Almost soundless, light feet brought their owner directly behind John. If he hadn't been a soldier and attuned to small noises he might not have noticed. As John began to turn around, knife still in hand, the man was abruptly pressed up against him.
John stifled an unmanly surprised squeak. His body was muscled and hard, and John hadn't realized how much taller the other man was, or anticipated how lovely he would smell, like ink and sandalwood, leather, and absinthe.
Wordlessly, he wrapped one sinewy arm around John's waist, and with the other hand, ran his fingers through John's short hair, tilting John's unresisting head back against his shoulder and beginning to nuzzle his neck.
John was no weak willed miss and he was honestly about to push the stranger away and disabuse him of any notions of romance, but then the stranger spoke and all rationality flew out of his head.
"Bon matin, monsieur."
The everyday greeting was rumbled in a way that sent fire shooting through his veins and ice down his spine. His knees trembled. It was too much, the purring voice and the warm body and the scent of absinthe and ink.
John opened his mouth to stammer a reply, trying frantically to get his body under control, but he was cut off by the sweep of the man's lips down his neck and to his shoulder.
The knife John had been using to slice the sausage clattered to the counter.
The man's curls tickled John's ear when he breathed across his neck and began slowly, torturously, mouthing at the pulse point there. John's head fell back with a faint whimper. As the stranger's plush lips nibbled, his elegant long fingers, so unlike a woman's, swept across John's hip bones in a distinctly seductive way.
A little voice in his head was screaming that he wasn't a sodomite, that this man was his guest and nothing more, that this was wrong, but it was drowned in the overwhelming sensuousness of the heat against his back, the torturous whisper of lips on his neck, and the strong arms, so unlike a woman's, wrapped around his waist.
The man's stubble rasped against the delicate curve at the base of John's neck, and that coupled with the slow slide of his fingers into the waistband of his trousers (his trousers my god they weren't even acquainted!) made John startle and shake the man off.
He wheeled around to face the seductive stranger and caught his breath. His jungle eyes were boring into John's, their bodies close enough to feel the heat from each other.
Slowly, deliberately, the man braced himself against the counter behind John, leaning in. John opened his mouth to speak, but found himself drowning in those fathomless blue and emerald flecked eyes. The eyes were getting closer and closer, and John registered a flicker of surprised heat before the sooty lashes began to flutter shut. The man meant to kiss him!
At this, John put his hands on the man's chest and shoved bodily. Surprised, he stumbled backward with a faint cry.
"What are you doing?" John blurted out stupidly, and instantly cursed himself.
The man's eyes flickered, a split second of disappointment registered before his smooth tones drawled, "I should think that would be obvious. I was merely thanking you for last night."
"No, that's not.. we didn't… I'm not a sodomite!"
The man cocked one eyebrow, obviously amused before clearly deciding to humor him.
"No, of course not. However, your physical arousal, dilated pupils, flushed cheeks... oh, and hiring a male prostitute speak to the contrary." He shook himself out, managing to look smooth and unruffled. "Now, about the fee for last night…"
"No!" John burst out, unaccountably embarrassed. "You've got it wrong, we didn't sleep together!"
"Mm? Were you one of the ones who desires comfort? Hires a man for emotional intimacy, but not physical?"
John didn't know you could do that. He'd spent so many lonely nights in his rooms, perhaps he would have liked to buy a connection with someone else. He considered this for a moment, before a flash of shame burned through him.
"No," John said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Not one of those, either. Here, would you like a cup of tea? Or a sandwich? I promise, I won't take advantage of you."
The man eyed him dubiously, somehow conveying scorn, wariness, and hunger with the curl of his lips.
"Here." John proffered a cup of tea. "I'm sorry, can we begin again? I'm John Watson."
"The name is Sherlock Lebeau," the man said, reaching for his tea and deliberately brushing his fingers against John's. Sherlock the Handsome, John translated mentally, with a suppressed snort. Probably not his real name.
Sherlock took a sip of the tea and leaned disinterestedly against the wall.
"So, Doctor, why am I here? Pardon, do you prefer Doctor, Captain, or Monsieur?"
"John would be fine, Monsieur Lebeau." he answered neutrally, surprised. "How did you know that I was a medic or in the army?"
The sly smile broadened, warping the edges of his carmine lips.
"Sherlock, please. A lady never tells. Tell me, John, have you kidnapped me?" Now a little pouting moue. He seemed very aware of John's purely objective fixation on his lips and was milking it for all he could, the bastard.
John mentally shook himself and snorted, retorting with false bravado, "Seems to be more trouble than it's worth, you coquette. No, I didn't kidnap you. I saw you in an alley being mauled by a drunk. You didn't appear to desire his favors, so I chased the fellow off. It was getting quite cold, so I took you home and put you to bed." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Your honor is intact."
The moue curled into a real smile for a split second, and then was wiped off his face.
"Really? You just wanted to help? A good Samaritan, hm? Or are you one of Mycroft's minions? Who do you work for? What do you want? People don't just do kind things without a reason."
"Perhaps you need better friends, then."
A small hmmph was heard. "Or any friends, I suppose." Sherlock said wryly.
John grimaced. That was a piece of unexpected honesty from a man who he was fairly certain had said nothing true up to this point. Sherlock seemed to realize this as well, visibly retreating.
"I'm not working for anyone. You just looked like you needed help." John said hastily.
"You carried me all the way from… was it the Folies-Bergere last night?" A noise of affirmative. "All the way from the Folies-Bergere with no help and your leg injury. You put up a stranger in your own bed, fetched him a glass of water for morning, and fed him. What was in it for you?"
John shifted uncomfortably. "So maybe you remind me of someone."
"Your sister? Come now, I hardly think that saving me from a life of dishonor and dissolution would help her alcoholism."
"How on earth-"
"The letters in your parlor. A few notes from a woman. If it was your mother or fiance, your rooms would be cleaner, in case they ever came to call on you. The handwriting was shaky, ink smeared and improperly blotted. Left handed, your sister is, just as you are. The smearing is inconsistent with mere left handed ineptitude, suggesting a tremor suggesting alcoholism."
Sherlock leaned back, seemingly reflexively. He had said more than he intended to, and now he would get a beating again. Funny how people didn't wish their prostitutes to be intelligent.
"Amazing."
"Sorry?"
"Just.. that was amazing. Is that how you knew I was in the war and a medic?"
"Shoulder injury, military bearing, habit of lining your boots up next to your bed. Small rooms suggest a military pension. Pension means honorably discharged, and relatively recently, so you served in the Franco-Prussian war. You aren't advertising your military background in any way, no medals on display or uniforms hanging up, which leads me to believe you were also involved in the Paris Commune, on the side of the rebels I'd presume."
"Fantastic. And the medic?"
"Your seemingly genuine and irrepressible urge to help people, coupled with the medic's bag hidden under your bed."
John shook his head in amazement.
"Simply brilliant."
"Thank you. Now, what do you want with me? Even a decorated medic is not so selfless as to take a stranger home with absolutely no expectations of recompense."
John surrendered. Taking a deep, faintly embarrassed breath, he confessed "I want to paint you."
A delicate brow arched.
"Paint me?"
"Yes." John stammered. "I did a few rudimentary sketches just now. You have such fascinating features and I'm sorry that I did it without your permission but you are a very striking man my god-" He abruptly shut up, realizing he'd said far more than he'd intended.
"Show me." was all the stranger said.
John crossed the room, rifled through his sketchbook, and held out the drawing of Sherlock's face. A sharp intake of breath, and the paper was snatched from his hands. John waited anxiously for the verdict.
Sherlock was faintly amused.
The silly man was sublimating his obvious desire for Sherlock into a creative impetus, how interesting.
As if he could paint him, John with his diddly little landscapes and paint in tubes.
He coolly demanded to see the drawing. Perhaps he would agree, if the drawing was any good. He could use a new base of operations, John's rooms were far more centrally located than the dump Sherlock had rented. Having a trained medic and soldier on hand would be a definite plus as well.
He resolutely ignored the little voice that jeered in his head. He didn't desire John Watson, he'd just made the man's acquaintance. The flirting and unnecessary touching was purely to convince him that he was a prostitute. He didn't find him oddly fascinating, this little man with the wooden cane and kind eyes, he was merely doing what came naturally: observing and playing a role.
John held out the sketch, and all of a sudden, Sherlock's focus narrowed onto the piece of slightly crumpled paper. Outlined in charcoal was Sherlock, clearly and undeniably Sherlock. He grabbed the paper and brought it to his nose.
He'd never seen himself asleep before, or looking so innocent and vulnerable. His brow was smooth, his eyes were shut, his mouth uncharacteristically open and silent. He didn't even realize he was capable of looking that relaxed and happy.
He dimly noted that the technique was excellent, every detail of his face down to the mole on his neck was rendered perfectly and the proportions were utterly precise in every way, before an unexpected surge of emotion washed through him.
This was Sherlock, yes, but not the same man he saw in the mirror. This Sherlock was smiling softly in his sleep, lips parted ever so slightly, lashes bold against cheek. This Sherlock wasn't coarsely sexual like his disguise, nor haughty and aloof like his normal persona. This Sherlock was beautiful.
John saw the wash of emotion flicker quickly behind the stunning eyes, before being wiped away.
"This is… quite good." Sherlock said coolly. "Quite a likeness. You must have spent some time on it."
"Only twenty or so minutes past the hour." John lied and shifted restlessly. Seeing the drawing next to Sherlock's real face made him want to do one better, to paint the range of expressions he had seen from the man. "So. Would you do it? Would you model for me?"
Sherlock hesitated. Internally, he mused that John Watson was far more observant than he had credited him. He wasn't sure if he wanted someone as skilled at looking at people as John Watson was looking at him for hours, perhaps seeing behind the veneer and not liking what he saw. He glanced down at the paper again.
"And of course I'd pay you," he heard dimly. "You could take breaks often. If you're uncomfortable with being painted in the nude, I would understand, and you wouldn't have to. I would keep the studio warm and-"
Interesting, Sherlock thought, an artist willing to sacrifice his artistic vision for the sake of the comfort of the model.
"I'll do it." Sherlock said decisively, interrupting the John's nervous prattle. His face cleared instantly, and he beamed at Sherlock, who was startled to find himself smiling back.
"Wonderful! Come round tomorrow at half past noon?"
Sherlock smirked and maintained eye contact while he purred "I'll be there." Leaning around John, he grabbed half a sandwich, and slid out the door.
Notes:
Many thanks to my beautiful beta callous-and-strange!
Coquette: flirt
All the hullaballoo about making acquaintances: In this time period, if you hadn't been introduced by a mutual friend, you weren't allowed to even talk, let alone seduce them in their kitchen. It was terrible manners.
There. They've finally met. I don't think there's anything more that needs historical clarification so... Tell me what you think!