The Science Of Seduction
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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
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Chapter Four: Saddle Up!
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If waking up to Mycroft engaged in a one-sided argument was bad, waking up to him sitting beside my bed with a cup of tea and a pair of invitations to a fancy dress party at his home was downright traumatic. Already feeling downtrodden, I was in no mood to look either Holmes brother in the face for the duration of a party, but I couldn't help but smile a bit at the thought of Sherlock dressed as Madonna. Maybe I really was going crazy...|
"Oh, he's already refused to come," Mycroft said off John's soft expression. When John blinked at him, confused, the elder Holmes brother allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch into a smirk. "In fact, he refused to speak to me at all, and simply whacked me 'accidentally' with his bow as I passed."
John would not laugh at the sight of Mycroft doing air-quotes, he simply would not...
When the man left, his umbrella tapping against the steps as he saw himself out, John rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He hadn't expected Sherlock to agree to go. He couldn't imagine his friend even going to a regular party, let alone one where he'd be required to dress up.
Sherlock Holmes in costume? Ha.
By the time he'd managed to drag himself out of bed and into the shower (and he paused there for longer than he should have, having a brief interlude with the image of Sherlock dressed as a catboy), he'd decided that, regardless of what Sherlock did, John was going to the party.
It wasn't that he liked Mycroft, or parties, or dressing up in general. It was a statement. He wasn't attached to Sherlock at the bloody hip, after all. He could go where he damn well wanted, and if Sherlock wanted to stay home and pout, that was fine. It's not like John expected Sherlock to want to be beside him twenty-four/seven, and John certainly didn't want to stick by Sherlock all day, every day.
Except that he did.
Grumbling, John dug through the several boxes still left unpacked. They contained the sorts of things he would have put in the attic, if they'd had an attic. Items from his Army days (they were all in a sealed up box that he still wasn't ready to open), toys and books from his childhood that had sentimental value, old letters from friends and lovers. In one of them was a battered hat and a pair of boots he'd had since Bart's, left over from a particularly enjoyable graduation party.
Placing the cowboy hat on his head, John looked in the mirror and winked at himself.
It was easy enough to put together the costume - the hat and boots went nicely with a light blue button-down and his most worn pair of jeans. It was a good thing he had kept these, since Mycroft evidently had no trouble inviting people last minute. Digging further into the box, he unearthed his joke shop pistol, his grin turning a bit self-depricating. If only he'd known then that there would be a time that his sidearm would be almost an extention of his person.
Trudging downstairs, he spotted Sherlock, curled up on the couch facing the fireplace. He was staring into space, rubbing the hem of his dressing gown between his fingers as he did when he was thinking about something that bothered him. Sunlight stubbornly pierced through the curtains, seemingly making the recumbant man glow. His skin shone pearly white, his dark hair lightening to chocolate brown, his eyes seeming impossibly pale. How had John never noticed how incredibly beautiful Sherlock was? How had he not noticed how much he loved this adorably frustrating man?
When the detective glanced up, John tipped his hat exaggeratedly with a smirk. "Howdy."
Blinking, Sherlock's lips twitched. "You're actually going?"
"Of course I'm going," John said, crossing his arms. "I like to have fun once in a while, you know. Relax, get out of the house, socialize."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and refocused on the fireplace. "Have fun socializing with the insipid masses, John. I shall be here, enjoying the peace and quiet."
"You've never enjoyed peace and quiet in your life, and you know it," the doctor retorted, reaching for his jacket.
"Hmm."
As he shut the door, he couldn't help but feel a tiny bit disappointed. Really, what had he been hoping, that Sherlock would go, if only to please John? Like that would ever happen.
No one gave him a second glance as he hailed a taxi, and if that was simply because they had deduced that he was going to a party by his appearance (most likely, because people weren't that thick, no matter what Sherlock believed), or because it was London, and people didn't give anyone a second glance here.
Mycroft's house was actually the old Holmes family residence. From what John had already figured out, the Holmes' were a well-to-do family; public schools, cotillions, summer homes, that sort of thing. He was therefore unsurprised to see the sprawling mansion, surrounded by a foreboding wall, looming up as the cab pulled up outside. He was equally unsurprised to see the burly security guard towering before him, demanding his invitation in a deep, gravelly voice.
As he handed it over, he tried a friendly smile. It was not returned.
Right. So Mycroft doesn't employ genial people. I'm stunned.
The ballroom (of course they had a ballroom, John thought, feeling more than a bit off-kilter) was full of light and glittering crystal and hundreds of chattering voices. It was a stunning display, the swirls of color and sequins and smiles. As a passing employee dressed as a Viking offered him champagne, he thought that he might actually have fun.
"Howdy, Sherriff," said a cultured voice behind him. Turning, he smiled politely at Mycroft, decked out in his customary suit. It was starkly black, and the ever-present umbrella was gone, but beyond that small detail, it didn't look as though he'd bothered to dress up for his own party. "I'm James Bond, obviously," he said, smiling at John's confusion.
"Oh. Of course, how silly of me."
"I'm glad you came, doctor," the older man said, tipping his own glass of champagne in a vague toast. "I was rather hoping you could convince my brother to accompany you, but I suppose that was silly of me. Sherlock avoids parties the way most people avoid morgues."
He shouldn't have found that endearing, but he did. Covering his wide grin by sipping his own bubbly, John nodded to the gathering. "It's a shame, it's quite a party."
"Thank-you. Yes, we do try to make a big splash at this time of year here at the Holmes estate."
"Er, sorry? This time of year?" Blushing a bit, John felt distinctly left out. Was it some sort of holiday, and he'd forgotten? Or, worse, a birthday of a family member?
Mycroft noticed his discomfort and waved one hand airily. "We've always had a celebration of sorts in the summer. A sort of informal affair."
John glanced at the crystal punch bowl and silver serving spoons and wondered what a formal event at the Holmes estate was like.
"We always save the more...extravagant affairs for the colder months."
"And Sherlock never goes?"
Mycroft paused for a moment, regarding John over the rim of his glass as though judging him from the very core of his being outward. It was eerie, really, how both Holmes men could see so much more in a single glance than the average person could imagine. "You don't know much about how Sherlock grew up, do you, Dr. Watson?"
This seeming nonsequitur made John pause for a moment. On the one hand, prying into his flatmate's personal life when he quite obviously didn't want to talk about it would be incredibly hypocritical of him. On the other hand, there wasn't much in his past that Sherlock hadn't already pried out, even though John had never talked about it. Was it wrong to want to learn more about the man he loved?
John winced internally. It was still odd to think of being in love with Sherlock. Not wrong, just...odd.
"He was always bright, of course. I suppose a lot of his childhood is my responsibility. I had denied my parents so much, they turned to him to fulfill those duties. Mummy, especially, was so proud of him."
John stared at a couple dressed as Zorro and Wonder Woman whirl across the floor in an intricate waltz, wondering what Sherlock had looked like as a child. Dark curls, rosy cheeks, those same inquisitive eyes peering around at the world in wonder...
"Father was much stricter with Sherlock than with me. I was a fastidious child, very withdrawn, I suppose, and not really needing discipline. Sherlock, though, never really understood the concept of self-control. Father tended to be rather more...heavy-handed with Sherlock, especially if he disappointed him."
Watching the pair wander over to the punch, John tried to listen impartially, tamping down his outrage on Sherlock's behalf. It was years ago, he told himself, and therefore didn't matter.
"Everyone in the household was loyal to Father, of course. He paid their salaries, they would never betray him. Sherlock got used to being watched, being judged, being betrayed by everyone around him. He eschewed friends, never quite believing that they weren't working for Father somehow. Even if they hadn't been, Sherlock was quick to learn that there were always people out there who would try to get close to him simply because he was a Holmes."
All in the past, John told himself firmly. Even if it wasn't, Sherlock wouldn't want you butting in, fighting his battles for him.
"My brother doesn't come to parties at his childhood home because of the memories, you see. He left this home and this life behind as soon as he could, shaking off our father's controlling chains and our mother's overbearing clinging and undoubtedly promising himself that he would never allow himself to be controlled again."
John thought of Sherlock's wild, pacing anger at Lestrade's manipulation, his cold fury when his brother checked up on him.
He thought, too, of the way Sherlock would do the shopping for them, of him following John to the crime scene even though he hated the idea of doing Mycroft a favor.
As the couple made their way back to the dance floor, John wondered where he'd gotten the idea that Sherlock did anything for his benefit. He wasn't that special...was he?
As if reading his mind, Mycroft leaned a bit closer, watching the same pair John was staring at. "Sherlock Holmes does not trust anyone, Dr. Watson. Anyone except you."
John's heart clenched. This was partly because the thought that Sherlock trusted him when he trusted no other gave him hope that he shouldn't indulge in, but did. But mostly, it was because as his eyes tracked Zorro and Wonder Woman across the floor, they stumbled over the disconcerting image of...
Mort?
But why would someone be holding Sherlock's skull? Unless...
John peered over at the man dressed in a doublet and tights. The hair was dirty blond and hung limply, the nose far too large, and there was a fine beard and moustache, trimmed close to the face, also blond. The skin was a familiar, pale tone, and the eyes...
The man dressed as Hamlet toasted John with the skull in his hand, and ever so slowly, winked at him.
Sherlock?
"Oh, very good, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, sounding quite pleased. "I wasn't expecting you to notice him for at least another half an hour."
Numbly, John set down his champagne and crossed the floor to stand before Sherlock. Sherlock, who was wearing tights. And a jerkin. And a puffy hat with a feather in.
And a false beard. A very good false beard.
"Er..."
"How eloquent, John. Aren't you happy to see me?"
John shook himself out of his stupor. "You came. In costume."
"Yes and yes. Really, such sound deductions. I must be rubbing off on you," he said in that low tone that made John's toes curl.
Please, sir, can I have some more?
"Why?"
At this, Sherlock's eyebrows soared. "What do you mean, why? I like to have fun once in a while, you know. Relax, get out of the house, socialize."
"Ha ha. Seriously, Sherlock, why are you here?"
Pausing, Sherlock glanced down at Mort. "I felt like testing my ability to blend into a crowd."
"Dressed as Hamlet."
"Were it not for the presence of my skull, you would not have noticed me," the detective huffed, stroking his beard absently. John chose not to mention that, had he locked gazes with Sherlock from the first, there would have been no doubt in his mind who it was.
"So you just decided to plop on a wig and...is that a false nose," John queried, curious despite himself. "And you thought that bringing Mort would be a good idea?"
"Mort," Sherlock snorted derisively, "completed my costume. I would not be recognized as Hamlet without poor Yorick's skull."
"And it has nothing at all to do with the chance to frighten passer-bys."
"Passers-by."
Bewildered, John frowned. "Sorry?"
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock gestured at the crowd with Mort. "The plural of passer-by is passers-by."
"That's just...odd."
"No, it's grammar," Sherlock said, sounding caught between irritation and amusement. "The 'by' is not plural, John, the 'passers' are, do you see?"
"Yes, I see. That doesn't stop me thinking it sounds ridiculous."
"Grammar often does."
Chuckling, John accepted another glass of champagne, taking one for Sherlock as well, who rolled his eyes again and took it somewhat reluctantly.
"If you don't want it, don't drink it. I can handle a couple glasses-ful of champagne."
Sherlock pursed his lips. John stifled another chuckle.
"I was pretty impressed, you know. Mycroft knows how to throw a party."
"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, turning his narrowed eyes towards his brother, who was busy chatting up a socialite dressed as a go-go dancer.
"The again, it'd be hard not to impress, what with the house being this grand. Nice ballroom. But then, I imagine most balls-room are this nice."
"You're doing that to annoy me, aren't you," Sherlock said, relenting enough to take a sip of his champagne as he reclined against a pillar.
John grinned at him. "I have no clue what you mean. I'm just complimenting our host on his taste. Although, I already knew he had impeccable taste; just look at his places-holder."
"John..."
What John thought was, oh, don't growl like that, it makes me want to do naughty things to you, beard or no beard.
What he said was, "Don't get your cods-piece in a twist."
"Now I know you're doing that to annoy me," Sherlock grumbled. "What sort of man would wear more than one codpiece?"
John giggled, waggling his eyebrows and wondering why the room was tilting oddly. "Take it as a compliment," he said lightly as he stumbled back to lean against the wall. He looked over to waggle his eyebrows again, but Sherlock had slid down the pillar and was now sitting on the floor.
What a lovely idea. I think I shall sit, as well.
The last thing John saw as everything around him faded was Mort, now cradled in Sherlock's limp arms, smirking at him conspiratorially.
Traitor...
Being drugged at Mycroft's party was distinctly unpleasant. If it weren't for my informative chat with the elder Holmes prior to my tranquillisation, I would have said it was an entirely hateful day. Even so, it was not at the top of my list of best days ever. What was worse, though, was the waking up...
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To Be Continued...
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A/N - Backstory FTW!
So now we know a bit more about Sherlock. Hooray! Virtual!Cookies to anyone who can guess where they wake up. Go on, guess.
Well, work will be taking over my life for the next few days, so I shouldn't expect an update until probably sometime on Wednesday. I wasn't expecting to get this chapter done so soon, though, so who knows?
Anyway, thanks to all who have reviewed thus far. I hope I'm living up to your expectations. Or down to your expectations. I have no idea what you expect from me. =3
I can has reviewz?
Songs for this chapter: 'Stuck' (Stacie Orrico) and 'Let's Be Friends' (Emily Osment).
Peace.
Akiko