Author's note: Wow. The response to this fic surpasses my expectations. You are wonderful, wonderful readers.
Btw, I know that by now, there've been, and will continue to be, some hints (but just hints)at Johnlock (though, considering what this story is about, it's probably more Sheriarty). I can't help it. After all, sexual promiscuity is, according to my research, one symptom of psychopathy. That's right. This is totally not an excuse to indulge my crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. Not at all.
And, while it's random rambling time, I hope my English is good enough for the story I'm trying to tell. Until I started with fanfictions, less than a week ago, I'd only ever written English stories in my English class at high school... and it's been a while.
Well... On with the story and hello Irene Adler. I hope you continue to like it, and please review.
Turns out that Irene Adler isn't going to provide their next case after all, because while the information she has is worth a lot – codes from Mycroft's office generally are, the man is too important for his own or his brother's good – he's not really sure what it means. John's always been good at reading people's wishes, and he can crack a code once he knows how the message was encrypted, but he doesn't know what to do with this.
Idea: let Sherlock do it for him. Let Sherlock betray his brother. John has time, after all – this is the first thing he's heard of a new plan of Mycroft's, and the good old perfectionist never plans something less than six months ahead, another reason Sherlock is much more amusing.
He also decides to keep the photos of the Royal Highness back for a while; he tells Irene Adler to get more and even more explicit ones, because he has to be sure Mycroft will turn to Sherlock for help, and Big Brother only does that when he's particularly desperate. Or too lazy to get up from the sofa in the Diogenes Club (do they really think nobody knows about that? They certainly don't try to hide it). But the second option won't do in this case; even Mycroft Holmes comes when the Buckingham Palace calls.
That doesn't worry him though, because for the first time in a long, long time, he is actually enjoying himself. Of course, he sent an anonymous e-mail to Sherlock right after the pool – "I am coming to get you", this time in the pigpen code – but that's more for show than anything else; right now, he is content to keep living as Sherlock's best friend and flatmate. Oh, and take care of his business in the night and whenever he can slip away. He should never have stopped leading a double life after university; it's a wonderful distraction.
He continues to pester Sherlock about sleeping and eating, he keeps awake on danger nights, now and then Mycroft talks to him about his brother – really, in a way it's sad they never got over their differences, they would be a fascinating team to fight – and he takes Sarah to New Zealand (he's been upgraded from the sofa, at least). The sex isn't that good, in fact, it's unfair of her to have held back for this long for such a normal experience, so he breaks it off after their holiday. There are plenty of other potential partners in London (except, it's still a great pity, for Sherlock).
There's the case of the Tilly Briggs cruise; there's a case with a melting laptop (John has quite a lot of fun watching the face of the technician who's holding it while it melts); there's the case where Sherlock "borrows" a bus full of tourists so he can follow a suspect without being observed (John realizes two important things during this case: 1., Sherlock can actually drive a car, who would've thought, and 2., he looks even better as a bus driver, and he curses once more the detective's asexuality – really, what's the point of being born human if you don't have fun with your body every once in a while?). Mycroft takes care of the charges, like he took care of John's ASBO (he was appropriately grateful, of course, but he'd have taken care of the ASBO a lot quicker).
Summer comes and goes, and they are busy; John especially loves the case of the Geek interpreter, because when does a man get to dress up like a ninja nowadays, if not to fight for a comic book geek? The speckled blonde certainly has her charms too, of course, but her stepfather was rather stupid; if he'd only asked John – he knows which poisons don't leave traces and marks on the skin. Pity too, she was rather pretty.
Along comes the dead man in the car booth, who was supposed to crash in Mycroft's plane; the shame on Sherlock's face when he realizes he has no idea, the comments on the blog, John's secret delight at once again knowing everything without anybody suspecting – it's delicious, just delicious.
His blog actually makes Sherlock kind of famous, something John hasn't foreseen, but which delights him nonetheless. Hatman and Robin... Thank God for overworked news reporters.
He's a bit disappointed he's not there for the aluminium crutch, but the voicemail Sherlock left on his phone makes up for it, because he can't help it, he isn't asexual, and he has a thing for the detective's voice. Plus, the sex he gets out of the date he spent the entire case on (Sherlock seems to be getting faster, must keep in check, don't want to get caught after all this fun) isn't bad either. He goes through a string of girlfriends, in fact, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, though, as long as John is available.
There are other cases too, some of which John arranged especially for Sherlock's benefit, because he can't let him forget about Moriarty, now, can he. After all, he's supposed to be his archenemy (number two after Mycroft, but still... the man's got too many enemies and too few friends, even if John counts himself as one of those for the time being). Richie's doing surprisingly well; he does as he's told, because he doesn't have a choice, and yes, now and then John has to threaten or drug him, but that's just to be expected. He has his people keep Richie in a bunker with every comfort available; he can't allow a clue to walk the streets of London. So it's no wonder neither Sherlock nor Mycroft manage to find Moriarty, really.
By the beginning of September, he's almost forgotten about Irene Adler, he's having too much fun to think about every little criminal that crosses his path. But then she contacts him again, and this time, it's not only worth a lot, but also immediately useful. He won't get better photos.
So he uses the information. The photos are... certainly nice to look at. He has a lot, and he means a lot of fun looking through them; her Royal Highness never seems that happy on television. Doesn't hurt that he hasn't had sex for a few weeks either; he's still trying to get anywhere with Jeanette (really, what happened to women who like to put out?).
Mycroft doesn't get the photos a moment too soon; John is standing in the middle of a field with his laptop, a really annoyingly stupid policeman next to him, freezing and waiting for Sherlock to finally realize this "murder" was an accident, when they're both brought to Buckingham Palace.
He makes sure Irene Adler gets to see Sherlock in the sheet (he really does look delicious, John will give him that). He thinks she'll find Sherlock... irresistible, considering she seems to find brainy incredibly sexy (it's a pity he can't meet her, the sex would probably be fantastic).
They tell them why they're here. Act shocked, act shocked, act shocked... if only he could laugh. Well, at least he and Sherlock got some laughs out of Mycroft's annoyed face.
"Sex doesn't alarm me." Mycroft's answer is... interesting. So he is a virgin. No, not a virgin... The Virgin. Sherlock has certainly earned his own nickname by now.
He wishes he could thank Sherlock for stealing the ashtray by taking care of the nickname, but alas, Sherlock seems quite content with his celibate life.
Of course, Sherlock is convinced he can find and get the phone on his very first visit. John loves his plan, adores every minute of it; after all, he can hit Sherlock (but don't hit the teeth and/or cheekbones, Sherlock's too good looking for that, and the way Irene Adler interprets his actions... priceless) and see him dress up as priest; Irene Adler's body is quite nice to look at, too, while he's at it.
Oh, and apparently Sherlock values John's life more than secrets of the state or anything else. Good. Excellent, even.
The man is also quite amusing when drugged, and he's thankful Lestrade films him. Lestrade is a good friend to Sherlock, he's realized by this time ( he brings the man home in a police car, after all, and asks no questions); Sherlock simply doesn't realize it.
Isn't the new tone of Sherlock's phone lovely? John could look forever at Sherlock's embarrassed face every time he hears it, and now and then, when he can pinch it, he checks the phone for the messages. It's sad Sherlock doesn't know how to flirt back (the again, if he did, John would've done other things with him in the night than trying to make him understand the rules of Cluedo).
Life goes on, cases go on, John kills a few young wannabes who thought they could take over his enterprise. Oh, the hopefulness of youth. Now and then, he checks in with Richie; by now, the man is desperate and hopeless, so does everything he's told. He doesn't even need to be drugged anymore. Well, more drugs to sell.
He still enjoys Sherlock's company, Mrs. Hudson's fussing, Mycroft's occasional kidnappings, and Lestrade's and Stamford's pints in pubs. Somehow, killing someone and disposing of the body is way more fun when you have to pretend it never happened in a pub less than an hour later.
By Christmas, the Americans are after Miss Adler, and because he still loves the sound on Sherlock's phone, he helps her fake her death. He didn't think Sherlock would be really fooled. But that's part of the game. And he loves the music Sherlock composes because of her death. It's a little like the pieces he plays when he (as far as Sherlock's concerned) sooths John to sleep after a "nightmare". Usually, John is at his laptop or out on the streets when he does that, but he makes sure to record the performances.
As is the end of Jeanette. The sex has been good, her constant nagging less so. If only Sherlock had realized she kind of looks like a female version of him.
Also, one day, when John's really really bored, he might set up Molly and Lestrade on a date. Could be interesting.
Irene Adler has him kidnapped the same way Mycroft loves to do it – elegant, but a little dull for John's taste. She apparently thinks they are a couple (how cute, she is the jealous one for a change; John, for his part, while he knows about Sherlock's big heart, doesn't think the consulting detective has ever been, or will ever be, in love, he simply doesn't work that way).
Of course, he still has Richie maintain contact to Miss Adler as Moriarty, so it's quite easy to tell her to let Sherlock crack the code. And, as the man is a walking computer in some ways, he manages it with ease. So this is what this is all about – Mycroft Holmes is now equipping flight with dead bodies. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me, didn't think you had it in you to be so macabre. John's impressed. This is a very, very elegant solution. Well, if he hadn't found out, that is.
He's told Richie what to do, of course, once Irene Adler texts him, so Mycroft Holmes is plunged in despair.
Sherlock saves the day, though, in the end, which John is actually happy about, because he still prefers The Virgin to The Woman.
He's a little disappointed in Mycroft; seriously, the man doesn't know his beloved little brother flew to Afghanistan and back and saved a dominatrix? He must be getting old.
"What might we deduce about his heart?".
A lot, my dear Ice Man. He cares too much. He loves you more than you deserve. He actually loves me because I'm the only best friend he ever had. He loves Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too, and he cares about Molly. And that's why he'll always be on the losing side of the game. Because ' . . I just want to have fun. And I take what I want.
He doesn't say any of this, naturally, and gets rewarded with the mental picture of little Sherlock with a pirate hat. Oh the joy an imagination can bring.
He still tells Sherlock that she's in a witness protection program; it's his role after all.
And he loves every minute of it.
Author's note: I hope that didn't take too long... I'm trying to keep up with... updating.
And I couldn't help the few sentences about Lestrade... I love him so much. If you love him too, check out my oneshot about him... and this is in no way begging. Sorry about that...
I hope you enjoyed this chapter.