SHERLOCK HOLMES:
The safe-cocoon like place that John is probably imagining wasn't exactly what I meant by 'home', but of course the man has promptly gone starry eyed and is staring at me from across the room with his mouth hanging open, and I find that I do not have any desire to clarify my meaning. He stays this way for at least five minutes before Mycroft enters the flat, his irritating umbrella twirling in a manner that almost knocks a rack of test tubes containing an extremely delicate experiment from the coffee table. I am not completely surprised to see Lestrade following in his footsteps; occasionally my brother pulls him out as some kind of wild card to see if it would help me see reason in regards to his government cases. The interruption is expected, thanks to a 6am phone call, but irritating, because I was making note of exactly how many times John Watson licked his lips nervously as he wracked his brain for something to say in response to my meticulously planned endearment, and how many different shades of pink and red he blushed (though none are quite as deep as the particularly salacious beet red color he radiated directly after he was describing me ranting about the flat in my dressing gown).
As Mycroft enters, I begin to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in the manner of an accomplished preschooler, if said preschooler was drunk. I mentally apologize to Lestrade, who seems taken aback by my choice of music (I tend to play sonatas around him, if he is occasionally impressed by my "humanity" he lets me in on more cases) but grin when John gives a snort of laughter. I have started playing, of course, so that he breaks his focus on me; his face was beginning to vaguely resemble a goldfish. My scheme is moderately effective, though I can tell that Mycroft is aware that John is glancing in my general direction with a frequency that is unusual, even for the attentive blogger of the World's Only Consulting Detective.
John sits back down on the couch, and Lestrade next to him. The DI leans forward with his arms resting on his elbows. Mycroft, of course, commandeers my chair, and I, rolling my eyes at his presumption, sit in John's.
It sinks deeper than mine, and smells warm, as though someone has drunk tea and eaten toast on it with remarkable frequency. The arms of the chair are also rubbed to a shade of brown lighter than the rest of the chair, and carry the scent of antibacterial soap. My nose twitches slightly. The chair also smells mildly of blood that had been refrigerated for about a week before drying at room temperature for eight hours.
Oh, right, that was the remnants of "Larry" (John was so unimaginative with his names for my experiments) who fell on the coffee table at 4am this morning before John woke up and had to be chucked in the bin as it upset the gestation of the maggots in his nostrils and hippocampus.
I glance at a red blotch on the coffee table that looks a bit like dried plum jam. I should probably clean that up.
I shift and throw my legs over one of the chair-arms, trying to both sulk in Mycrofts general direction and look mildly interested in Lestrade's. John, who often chooses to disentangle himself from the crossfire when Mycroft is involved, apparently decides that his best course of action is to go and make tea. I chose not to notice the playful look on his face. Playful for John usually means he is going to sneak in a little Sudoku.
Mycroft begins assaulting the room with his dry, pompus voice: "Little brother, the situation is very serious. Last night, several bombs went off in the tubes at a nearby station, and we have evidence that it is an Afghani faction. A few disparate supporters of Osama have been drifting slowly but surely into Britain since America started the war, and it seems that the bomb scare several years back was only a precursor to what they might have in store for us."
Lestrade casts an irritated look in my brother's direction. Probably he has been "kidnapped" for this meeting by my brother. I glace at him, taking in his appearance and thus his interrupted morning activity; sweatpants, long sleeved shirt, an MP3 player peeking out of his pants pocket… it is still fairly warm outside for early October, so he must have been jogging on his day off. He nods, begrudgingly though as he turns to me. "It's a serious situation, Sherlock. We don't have any members in custody, only an anonymous note on a government website and some hypothetical evidence of bomb making activity in a deserted apartment just outside of London. We need someone to help us find the leader of the group."
There is absolute silence from the kitchen. The case sounds interesting, yes, but I'm not about to jeopardize how far I've come with my long standing obsession with a case. "I can't work without John, and I need an assistant." I said, narrowing my eyes at my brother.
"What about John? He goes with you on every single case; how is this one any different?" Lestrade looked skeptical.
"My brother is referring to Dr. Watson's service in the 3rd Regiment Fuslillards as an Army Doctor. He was in Afghanistan for 3 years, and if I understand correctly still occasionally has nightmares."
I sneer at Mycroft's reference to the nightmares; he didn't have to go that far, could have just mentioned the psycho-somatic limp. It makes an impression on Lestrade, however, who apparently is still adjusting from thinking of John as my lucky rabbits foot to thinking of him as some Sherlockian lion tamer, if the intake of breath and gentle oooo is anything to go by. I mutter, "Right."
"I didn't… right." Lestrade looks a little sheepish. People seldom realize there is much of a fighter behind John. He told me once he occasionally plans it that way. Bloody jumpers.
Hang on, was this warm in here before? I note that Mycroft is beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable in his three piece suit, and I lick sweat off my upper lip. I blink, and focus on listening for a moment. Yes, the fans are whirring. Why the hell had John put the heating on?
It dawns on me as I see Lestrade struggle out of his sweatshirt. Ohhhh, John is brilliant!
"John, is the heating on the blink again?" I call into the kitchen.
"Yeah," He calls back, sounding half sheepish. "I might need to call the gas men again." He strolls out into the living room, unbuttoning his shirt casually. In relief, Lestrade grins and pulls his t-shirt over his head with the easiness of a bloke who's been married to a woman for 15 years and has no interest in masculine muscle structure. 0 on the Kinsey scale for him. Mycroft, on the other hand, is studiously looking at the mantelpiece.
"Sherlock." I look up at John and with the appreciation Lestrade lacks take in a muscular but lithe body with golden hair running from between his nipples to below his waistline. He flushes at the directness of my gaze, but he's a soldier, he's been half naked around other half naked men before, so he doesn't look away. "Don't molly-coddle me. Digging out a terrorist faction with you is much different than watching men die needlessly in Afghanistan. There's only one of you, and you're much easier to keep track of. "
"I suppose I can be." Of course, I have to remember that with Dr. Watson Queen and Country comes before his mental health.
My shirt is a little tight, so it takes me longer to unbutton it, but when it comes off Mycroft is thoroughly uncomfortable. If he were 30 years younger he would be making exaggerated gagging noises behind his hand.
"Does that mean you're taking the case Sherlock?" He asks, looking faintly ill. His gaze flicks between myself and John, probably thinking that this is our version of sexual foreplay. Perhaps it is? If so, John is far more interesting than any of my other 'lovers' have ever been. Baiting my older brother is one of the few romantic gestures I will ever concede to.
"As long as my blogger's willing, I suppose I am." I try and sound bored, but I'm not really. John is staring with interest at my nipples, and from the look on his face is adjusting his sexuality accordingly.
"Lestrade will fill you in on the details then." Half shielding his face with his hand, Mycroft leaves, clearly disturbed with the lack of propriety in the room.
Lestrade watches him go, a puzzled expression on his face. "Sherlock, is your brother gay?" He is painfully unaware that the two other men in the room are relatively-comfortable-with-being-very-close-to-gay-with-each-other.
John shrugs, and the three of us start to giggle almost manically with the air of three men who have been kidnapped by the British Government with a long black car once too often. I sit down on the other side of John on the sofa. A corner of my mouth twitches upward as he very pointedly doesn't look at me. I brush against his arm. John's lips are going to be incredibly chapped if he keeps licking at them like that.
However, Lestrade pulls out a file and is wearing his "please do include me in your eccentric lifestyle" face, so I lean away from my flat mate and mentally schedule his molestation for a later date.