May I begin with a most sincere apology about being days and days late with the update? This chapter gave me a very hard time, Dear Reader. Although I worry that it will not live up to your expectations, I'm submitting it anyway, out of sheer exhaustion and frustration. Thanks to my beta ScienceofObsession, who held my hands and told me it wasn't as awful as I thought. This week, I also had MildredandBobbin, who was immediately available for reviewing duties, bless her heart, and said I was flipping out over nothing. Poor Snogandagrope is currently swamped with assignments and finishing her thesis (Yay, Snog!) so feel free to go give her some love and support.
Chapter 10: Tiny Jewels
"We should look up Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock announces into a contented morning silence as they enjoy their tea.
John looks over at him, eyebrows raised. Sherlock sprawls elegantly on the bed, just barely upright enough to drink, the laptop balanced on one knee. John holds his mug in both hands, equally appreciative of the warmth and tableau in front of him. "What, now? D'you know how to find her?"
"I expect she's still in Westminster at 221 Baker Street. We can call up a cab and be there within an hour."
While John is impressed with the evidence that Sherlock has already memorized the modern maps of the city, he still has to snort. "Sherlock, we cannot take a taxi to Central London. It'd cost a bloody fortune. Which, it may surprise you to learn, I don't have." His mobile face folds into a frown as he ponders the state of his finances. Not only does he not have a fortune, he's pretty sure he doesn't even have enough to pay for cover charges and a couple drinks at the club tonight. Actually, he knows nothing about the club and its prices: it could be high end, or Harry slumming. He pulls in a corner of his lip and chews on it.
Sherlock stares him over, eyes glinting sage in the morning light. "We haven't enough money," he states.
John is uncomfortable. Sherlock is a guest, although an uninvited (and atypical) one, but nonetheless, British manners dictate that he not discuss money problems, or otherwise be anything but a welcoming host. He worries the crease in his trousers, eyes sliding sideways.
"The five pounds you gave me yesterday was the last note in your wallet," Sherlock observes.
"I have more in the bank," John protests. He doesn't add that it is barely enough for rent and utilities.
"Do you wish for more money, John?" Sherlock is peculiarly intent. "However much you want. You know that you can."
John's heart stops beating, and an unexpected surge of adrenaline floods his body, such that he almost spontaneously chokes. The idea is... abhorrent. It translates, in the more emotional depths of him, to a cold-hearted trade: this warm, amazing, beautiful man for a pile of cold money. What good will money do me if I'm all alone again? a quiet part of him whispers. That thought is too much, goes too far, and John glosses over and ignores it. But. "No! No. No, I do not wish for money. Stop asking me these things. Are you trying to get rid of me?"
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, but says nothing more, and John thinks he looks relieved. He does not answer John's question, but leans over to set his empty mug on the floor. As he comes back up, he straightens further, until he is lifted up on his knees, scooting around until he is centered on the bed, back facing John at the desk. And he bends over.
Oh, jesus fucking christ, what are you doing? John's mouth goes dry, and he clutches convulsively at his mug to prevent himself from reaching out to touch where he has no right. Sherlock's body curves like a sine wave, crested by the lush contours of his arse, and a golden, slanted ray of morning light shines on him like a bizarrely pornographic christian postcard. John can see straight through the gauzy pants, for once, lit as they are. See the mysterious, inviting crevice dividing his buttocks, and the heavy weight shadowed between his legs. Fucking hell. What. What? Jesus, Mary, mother of god, help me.
Sherlock, head inclined to almost touch the mattress, runs his long fingers through soft curls still disarrayed from sleeping, and shakes them vigorously. He uses a sweeping motion, ending with a decisive flick, and from his hair spill the tiny jewels that flashed there. Although John has a hard time moving his hungry stare from Sherlock's round arse, from bone-white skin, peppered scantly with little moles, stretched over knobs of vertebrae; he realizes that the display is not put on for him, but rather for practicality in assembling the precious stones.
"Guh," is the most articulate thing John can muster.
Sherlock sits back on his heels, knees spread wide around his treasure, and tosses his head, looking over his shoulder at John. He has a small smirk on his face, but it is also slightly flushed, and his eyes are turquoise again, darkened with something. Perhaps it isn't all for practicality, after all.
John swallows nervously. "Ah. What's this, then?"
"We'll find a pawn shop," Sherlock says, and if his voice is deeper and perhaps cracking a little, John is in no shape to notice.
"Ah. Right. Yes?" John is sure his blood pressure is fluctuating dangerously, namely because all of that commodity is currently plummeting towards his groin.
"Come see if I've missed any," Sherlock commands.
John rises like a puppet and moves awkwardly over to the bed. Oh, jesus christ, the long inward curve of his lower back, the two dimples glowing with light and shadow. John bites his lip, holding his breath as he slides his hands into Sherlock's hair.
The scent of sandalwood and tobacco is shaken loose, rising in the warm air, as John's fingers comb through, seeking out other small bits of amethyst, ruby, tourmaline and emerald. Sherlock rises under his hands, pushing into what is quickly turning into a caress. John steals a glance at his face, and sees that his eyes are closed, relaxed, a pleasured, contented expression on his face. He dumps his small handful onto the bed between Sherlock's spread knees, and lets his other hand drift down Sherlock's neck, bumping down the hillocks of his spine to rest on the fabric of the vest, between his shoulder blades. Is this an invitation? It looks like an invitation. But he cannot make a move until he is certain. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock opens his eyes and drops his head back, eyes mercuric and slumberous, lips slightly parted. He blinks slowly, like a cat, and draws himself up to his knees again, which makes him a few inches taller than John. "John," he twists his upper body so that they face one another, and John takes a deep breath, as if about to dive off the high board. He flattens his hand on the nubby embroidery of the vest, but refrains from guiding the genie closer to him.
The genie does that all on his own.
Bangles softly chime as he lifts his arm to the back of John's head, bringing him in for a kiss. Sherlock hums right away, an almost bass vibrato that John can feel through his lips as a bold mouth descends on his own. This is no tentative kiss, such as they shared last night. Sherlock does not waste time with subtle explorations, but licks his way into John's mouth without hesitation, hands firm on either side of his face, tilting his head as he deems necessary to heighten his pleasure.
John feels slack, at first, lovely and loose, and the confident, wiggling heat of Sherlock's tongue fills his mouth, bullies his own tongue aside, and explores the cavity as if checking it over to move in. He sucks and nibbles, bites John's tongue when he tries to reciprocate, and hums the whole while, a resonant soundtrack to a kiss.
John sags against him, hands going immediately to Sherlock's waist. He is obsessed with that waist, the supple, lengthy torso, where henna designs ripple and shift with every sinuous movement. Breathless, moaning grunts escape him, as Sherlock sucks on his tongue, and he tries to guide the lithe body around, so that he can blanket himself in all that hot skin.
Sherlock abandons his mouth and moves on to his jaw, biting down the line of the bone, impatiently rearranging John so that he can suck under his ear, chewing a line of red marks down the sternomastoid muscle, until he's foiled by John's shirt and jumper.
John leans helplessly forward, hands whispering dry and enthralled as he sweeps them from hips to ribs, traveling over the base of Sherlock's spine to the flat, contracting muscles of his stomach, pushing aside the vest to brush against svelte pectorals, the points of nipples, fragile skin leading to the soft black hair of Sherlock's armpits. John's head has fallen back, he stares from slitted eyes; his groin is pulsing insistently, cock eager and ready. He pulls at Sherlock's hip again, to line them up, but his gentle tugs are resisted.
Sherlock delivers a last, aggressive kiss to his neck, just under his jaw, fingers tight against John's scalp, and then pushes him away. When John opens his eyes, Sherlock is staring back at him, flushed, breathing fast.
"Why-" John begins.
Sherlock scowls, and glides quickly off the bed. John spares a moment to wonder how he can be so graceful, how it is that he hasn't gotten tangled up in his own endless legs and fallen over. The gentle clink of gold bangles competes with John's shaky, annoyed sigh. "Sherlock-"
Sherlock ignores him and heads for the loo. "Pawn shop, John," he reminds him. And then he nonchalantly picks up John's toothbrush and proceeds to brush his teeth.
John fists his hands a moment, indecisive, conflictingly frustrated and amused. Finally, he shakes his head and bends to scoop up the little pile of jewels. He wraps them carefully in one of his gun-cleaning cloth patches and tucks it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
When Sherlock reappears, he's wearing a black suit, with a gray shirt, dramatic coat already on. He slings his scarf around his neck and pulls gloves out of his pocket. His analytic gaze flickers across John, in his ancient canvas coat, and he frowns a little. "Do you not have anything warmer?"
John shrugs and stands up straighter, ramming his fists into his pockets. "I'm fine. It's usually not this cold. I'll be fine." His manly projection is somewhat diminished as he grabs his cane, vaguely ashamed. He fumbles the door open before he says anything else stupid, stepping into the hall and waiting for Sherlock to pass through so that he can relock the door. Sherlock scoops up his lamp before leaving, sliding it into one of his capacious pockets, and passes through the door after John.
He glances around the shabby hallway and the visible portion of the bedsit as he waits for John to lock up and his lip curls. "These accommodations are abominable."
"Oi," John says, straightening up and dropping his keys into his pocket. "Don't knock it while you're stuck here."
Sherlock twitches, as if he's repressing a rebuttal, but says nothing as they head outside.
They walk to a pawn shop near the tube station, and when John lays out the stones Sherlock adds his earrings and bracelets to the pile. Disconcertingly, John finds he has to stifle an uncomfortable, hot surge of possession which makes his fingers twitch to grab the bracelets back. He likes seeing them shift up and down slender forearms, exotic, masking and revealing the brown tattooing that so fascinates him. He averts his eyes. It's not his business, is it? Besides, he comforts himself, the leather cuffs remain. And for just a second, he allows himself to remember last night, and the feel of the stiff leather under his fingers.
They walk out with £3,200. John tries to hand it over to Sherlock, who gives him a disdainfully amused look and whirls away. "Let's get a cab, John," is all he says, flagging one down as soon as the doors jingle closed behind them.
Sherlock holds the lamp on his lap once they are settled in the cab. They slouch in their seats, watching London cross the windows. John relaxes into the heavily heated air, and the musty, human smell of the taxi hardly bothers him. Sherlock strokes the lamp, long fingers gentle and nimble. He turns and lifts it, cradled in his hands, stroking the spout with both thumbs.
John swallows. It's erotic. And he knows his response is inappropriate.
Sherlock's face is expressionless, and John is suddenly shaken by his tragedy once again. He folds his hands in his lap and thinks about wishes. Whatever shallow thing it is he might want for himself, how could it possibly hold a candle to having freedom, having a life, having the ability to pursue your passions? Can money stack up against that? Losing a limp, or a scar? Curing his alcoholic sister?
He picks at a hangnail, licking his lips and glancing sideways at the black lamp, held so carefully in gloved hands. A tiny, beautiful prison, crafted of iron, made up of designs instead of bars, and guarded with a snake. He should be free.
John's gut clenches as he thinks of the ways he's taken advantage of Sherlock in the past few days, and swoops when he considers that Sherlock could possibly decide to stay. If... If. But then, his thoughts present with painful logic, why would he possibly stay if he's been liberated? Why would he stay for John? Average. Old. Broken. Why would he stay where he was reminded of his past? He is so smart, so talented, so beautiful - and young, really. He can go anywhere and do anything. And likely will. He should. He deserves it.
But the id in John vehemently protests that outcome, whispers insidiously that he must keep Sherlock. That it's not his responsibility to undo the spell. No one in fairy tales does that; they take their wish. What if he wished for Sherlock to stay with him? Does that make him no better than Moriarty?
He's abusing his thumb with his teeth when he returns from his thoughts. He raises his eyes from the lamp and sees Sherlock staring hard at him, analyzing everything from the arrangement of wrinkles on his face to the set of his body.
John bites the proverbial bullet. "Sherlock," he says quietly. He drops his gaze to his hands, twisting the handle of the cane. This is final, and it hurts, and he already feels so lonely and dull and gray that he wants to weep. "Sherlock, I wish-"
"John!" Sherlock says, startled, and he swings around fully, lifting a hand to stop him.
"I wish you to be free." And John shuts his eyes, in case Sherlock is going to disappear in a puff of smoke or something similarly cliched; and if his lashes are wet, he ignores it.
A leather-covered hand shoots out and clamps over his mouth. "Mon Dieu, John!" The hand jerks his head around until they are face to face, Sherlock staring at him with shocked, angry eyes. They are a deep, roiling silver now, framed by short sooty lashes and thick eyebrows. "Shut up," he hisses, as John lifts his arm to pull away the silencing fingers crushing his mouth. "You idiot!" He is white with horror, and breathing raggedly.
"Two things, John, and heed me well. The first, and this is the most important, never make a wish without discussing it with me. I am compelled to grant it, no matter how poorly it may be phrased. Bad things have happened. Do you understand?" Sherlock's brows are drawn down, and his expression is truly fierce.
Adrenaline is rushing through John, and he knows his own face must reflect his trepidation and surprise. He has one hand wrapped defensively around Sherlock's wrist, cold fingers just brushing a strip of warm skin. He nods.
Sherlock's hand loosens, but remains across John's mouth. He slumps back a little on the seat, and his voice returns to its normal rumbling tone. "The second thing is that, no matter how well-intentioned (and I do appreciate the sentiment, John) wishing to unbind me will not work. Mrs. Hudson... We tried that. Mrs. Hudson and I. There is no way."
"Oh," John says weakly.
Then the cab veers over to the curb, and John juggles his cane and pays the driver from his newly fattened wallet, while Sherlock eels out to the pavement. He stands there, looking around, his lamp resting on his palm like an offering. His face is blank and controlled, but John can feel leashed energy emanating from him. He's looking intently at everything that has probably changed from the last time he was on Baker Street, from new storefronts and modern vehicles to the CCTV cameras on every corner, which seem to swivel and stare at him from their square black eyes.
With a start, Sherlock pulls back into himself and closes his fingers around the lamp. "Still Speedy's," he mutters, and sets off for the black door to the side of a red awning, with the gold numbers 221 on it. He clatters the knocker with authority then steps back to wait with John, rocking on his heels, hands clasped around the lamp behind his back.
It is almost a full minute before the door is opened by an elderly lady in a purple dress.
Sherlock smiles, honest and open and happy, an expression John has never seen before, and shows her the lamp. She catches her breath and stares at it, arrested, and then throws her arms around him. "Oh, Sherlock." She clutches him tightly for more than a moment, and John can see that Sherlock is getting restless, but he waits patiently, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.
When she lifts her head again, her eyes are wet, and mascara is smudged on her cheeks. She holds Sherlock's face in both hands and wags it gently. "I thought I'd never see you again," she tries to scold, but her voice wavers. "Come in, come in." She looks around Sherlock to see John, standing at attention on the pavement. She holds her arm out to him as well. "You, too, love. You, too. Come in and have some tea, and tell me all about it. I've just taken biscuits out of the oven, so we can have a nosh as well."
Once inside, and settled in a fussy little parlor, Sherlock concisely brings his old master up to date.
She keeps dabbing at her eyes and patting his hand. "I was simply heartsick when I lost you in that robbery, Sherlock dear. Just heartsick." She turns to John, who has been quietly observing their reunion. "I made my wish, you see," she gestures to encompass the flat where they sit. "And I just couldn't send Sherlock back into that lamp. He was to stay with me. But there was a break-in only a few weeks after that. And... his lamp was stolen." She wrings fragile hands together and looks at Sherlock remorsefully. "You were out when it happened, dear.
"And you never came back."
"I believe that is part of the power of the lamp," Sherlock muses, objective and dispassionate. "To be impelled to move on once a wish has been granted. There have been many occasions where an owner intended to hold on to the lamp, to pass it on to progeny, or some distant kin. But something always happens, once the wish is granted. I move on. I may not be used, but I always move on."
They are quiet for a minute, pondering that, and John sighs. Well, there goes his alternative plan. Sherlock meets his eyes, and a corner of his mouth turns down. Of course he knows what John was thinking.
When Mrs. Hudson has drunk her last sip of tea, and the chocolate biscuits are no more than crumbs on a plate, and memories of the old days have been thoroughly hashed over (mostly by Mrs. Hudson and John; Sherlock leans back in an overstuffed floral armchair, hands together against his chin)... when a silence falls at last, Sherlock leaps to his feet.
"Well, Mrs. Hudson. I see that you are feeling a financial pinch and thinking of letting out the flat upstairs. If you had discussed your wish with me prior to voicing it, of course, I would have suggested the means to support yourself in addition to the building." He pulls his mouth to one side and gives John a pointed look. "However, since you did not, and are currently in need of tenants... John and I will take it."
Mrs. Hudson at first looks defensive, but then says fondly, "There's your amazing brain at work again, isn't it? I'm not even going to ask how you knew that. But really? You'll take it?" She looks speculatively between John and the genie. "I - I need the income, or I wouldn't ask -"
Sherlock impatiently grabs John's arm and pulls him up so suddenly he lists to the side on his bad leg. "Come along, John. Why don't we look it over?" John grabs his cane and taps up the stairs behind the man; an impatient, mesmerizing force of nature who has turned his life upside down in less than a week.
John is very impressed by the flat above, already furnished, spacious and grand yet successfully projecting cozy and unpretentious. He couldn't dream of renting such a place in Central London. Sherlock reaches into John's back pocket, cool as you please, and pulls out his wallet. He hands £2,000 pounds to Mrs. Hudson, who twitters and flutters, but tucks it away in her pocket nonetheless.
"There's another bedroom upstairs," she says. "If you'll be needing two." There's an element of vulgar curiosity in her eyes, veiled as best she can, but Sherlock ignores her entirely.
"We'll be back this afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, to move in," he states. And pulls a dazed John behind him, to get a taxi back to the horrid beige bedsit for the last time.
It only takes John an hour to pack up everything he owns. Sherlock carries one bag, and the lamp, while John packs his army duffel and uses his cane with his free hand. Now it is done, and they are back in 221B Baker St. by the time the sun sets.
John successfully doesn't think about the risk in leaving his seedy, stable bedsit to go live in a flat he can't possibly afford without magical assistance, to live with a man who could vanish at any moment.