Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.
Note: A modern retelling of The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, with various elements taken from The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez and The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.
I apologize for the delay. There really wasn't much hope between the Neil Gaiman-written episode of Doctor Who and real life. And there was supposed to be more of John Watson in this chapter, but my brain leapt ahead of itself and curdled.
Summary: To stop a blackmailer, Sherlock Holmes enters unfamiliar territory. But not before practicing on John Watson.
The Seduction of John S. Willougby
Part Six
Sherlock had apparently spent the night watching movies. John Watson came downstairs after phoning Harry to find him with his knees up on one of the armchairs, surrounded by discarded nicotine patches and DVD cases. He was also halfway throughwhat looked like Memoirs of a Geisha.
"I don't understand how people stand this drivel," he said. "There's no logic to it!"
"'Cause we're stupid and easily entertained. Did you sleep at all?"
Sherlock made a disgusted sound. "I might as well have. I swear my brain feels half dead already."
"Ah, well, welcome to what it's like in our funny little brains, then. Where did you get all these?"
"I borrowed some of them from Mrs. Hudson."
"Even Rambo?"
"Which one's that?"
John held up the DVD.
"I said some of them, John. Though I'm not sure where that came from. I wasn't paying attention. It could be hers."
John had a sudden mental picture of Mrs. Hudson spending a quiet evening watching a muscle-bound Sylvester Stallone running through the jungle killing people. He looked at the stack of as yet unwatched DVDs – which is to say the ones that weren't open and tossed aside like so many discarded empty clam shells – to purge the image from his mind. Rambos II, III and IV were sandwiched between Breakfast at Tiffany's and Gone with the Wind. Good Lord.
"Is this for your case then?"
"Of course it is. Why else do you think I'd subject myself to this, this utter nonsense?" Sherlock stopped the film with a dramatic sweep of the remote control. "God, no wonder so many people are idiots. Do you actually like any of this?"
"I like a good comedy."
"Really? And those James Bond films you feel so strongly about?"
"They're classics!"
"Which is, I take it, supposed to be an excuse for a fistfight taking place on a flying aeroplane with an open door. But I will concede that that fight in the train compartment was passable, even if a choke wire thin enough to be concealed in a watch would hardly be a viable weapon."
"Please don't try to destroy my childhood, Sherlock."
"I've got time to look through one more of these things. Pick one out for me, will you."
John fed Monty Python's Life of Brian into the DVD player. He figured that the worst that could happen would be Sherlock actually enjoying it. His flatmate sat in complete silence as the film played, brushing off John's inquiry as to whether he'd like some toast ("I ate last night, I'm okay for a bit"). Eventually, he unfolded himself from his seat, stretched, and declared he was going out. John wondered if he was imagining things, or if it really was Sherlock humming Always Look on the Bright Side of Life as he left the flat.
xxx
Charles Milverton had a meeting with the editors of the Sun that morning. Before he left, he told John Willoughby to make an appointment with his lawyer ('one of those little bit-part actresses is crying libel') and to makes sure that the plumber finished today. John wasn't sure how Mr. Milverton thought he'd manage that. Stand over him threateningly while he worked? Not that there wasn't a certain appeal to that idea…
Stephen Escott arrived a little after nine. He was, to John's mind, disappointingly quick about fixing up the sink.
"I told you it wouldn't take two shakes," he said, wiping his hands clean. "I'll just send the bill over, right?"
"Yes," said John, sipping at the tea he had made while the plumber had been working. He supposed that sort of counted as making sure that he finished up. "Make it out to C.A. Milverton please."
"I'll do that." Stephen stopped packing away his tools, looked in John's direction. "I know a nice Indian restaurant. Seeing as – if you aren't doing anything tonight, we could have dinner."
John snorted his tea.
"Or maybe you'd rather Thai. Though you did strike me as the type who would fancy Indian."
"I. Well. Er. Um. Well. Um. Er."
"You're interested." Stephen fixed him with a look, a piercing, satisfied, almost arrogant look, as if he was just daring John to prove him wrong. "I know you are."
He laughed weakly. "Was I that obvious?"
"The extra cup of tea was a bit of a giveaway. That and other things." The plumber suddenly smiled, effectively erasing all traces of his previous, frankly alarming expression. "I'm kidding. It's good you are interested, otherwise I'd have to be very ashamed of myself."
"And," said John, hardly daring to believe it, "you're – you're actually interested back? In me, I mean?"
"Obviously. Or I wouldn't have asked." Stephen flicked his case of tools shut, fastened the clasps. "I'll have to skip the tea, though, thank you. I have work to see to. But I'll see you tonight. Around eight, if you'll be free by then. You are? Good. I'll text you. Good morning, just John."
xxx
A blatant assumption of mutual interest was hardly the most flattering way to be asked out by a near-stranger, even if the near-stranger in question had already been seen shirtless. John Willoughby was, however, not going to let that dampen his spirits. He hadn't been out in a while, and, shallow truth be told, it had been a very long time since he'd been out with someone as positively scrumptious as Stephen Escott.
And he cleaned up nicely, too. Very nicely. When they met, as arranged, outside the restaurant, Stephen was wearing a smart black jacket over a purple silk shirt and impeccably tailored black trousers, and he looked more at home in them than he did in his ordinary clothes. John suddenly felt very shabby in comparison, and he found himself shuffling his feet in their rather expensive – and what now felt like rather shoddy - shoes.
"Ah, John, there you are." Stephen's face broke into a smile, and he put an arm around John's shoulders. "I was starting to think you wouldn't show. Come on, it's a small place, we might have to fight for seats."
They didn't have to fight for a table, though it might have been a near thing given how full the place was. The food was good (John was partial to Indian cuisine, damned if he knew how Stephen had guessed), and somehow the crowd wasn't a deterrent to conversation. They talked about work. Stephen was very keenly interested in what he did for a living, even if, as John put it, he was just a sort of glorified errand boy. Well, he supposed that it was rather interesting to other people if you worked for someone who could diss on what Keira Knightley was wearing in several publications and get away with it. He lay out the details for all he was worth, making it last, hoping he made it sound interesting. And they talked about movies (Stephen liked movies, and his favorites were the ones by Alfred Hitchcock of all things), and music (Stephen liked the classical stuff, who'd have thought?), and other, innumerable, little things. Like the infinite intricacies of curry spices. To John's mind, there was just good curry, bad curry, and acceptable, I'll-eat-it-because-it's-there curry. Stephen knew all sorts of things about the spices, and how they were put together, and how they were cooked, and presumably John was supposed to know all these things too, now that Stephen had told him, only he had stopped paying attention at some point and had simply started to listen to the perfect, dark chocolate richness of his voice.
It was almost as if he was a teenager on a first date (the very first date, the first date before all other first dates with other people who were not your first first date). He was giddy, and there was a sort of heady rush that made him smile, and laugh too easily, like when he dropped a bit of lamb that he was trying to put into his mouth, but it was okay, because it was happy laughter, not nervous laughter, and it was glorious. It was nearly like being drunk but there was hardly any alcohol involved, just what they had with dinner. It was glorious.
Stephen walked with John back to his flat. It was a rather long walk, but John didn't mind that at all, not when it was a nice evening, and he was walking home with a damn fine-looking, intelligent (who'd have thought!), wonderful man, even if he did have to hurry a little to match his stride.
"Thank you," he said, when they reached his front door. "Really, thank you. Tonight was wonderful. I can't remember when I've had such fun just over dinner."
"I'm glad you did." Stephen quirked a small smile at him. "Because I'm asking you out again. Tomorrow, if you're available."
"I'll make myself available." John felt a giddy-happy grin spread over his face. And because it felt right, he went forward and a little upward (because Stephen was taller than he was) with the very firm intention of kissing Stephen Escott.
Who gave a start and went backwards, very fast.
"I don't – kiss," he said awkwardly. Then he laughed. "Not on the first date."
John grabbed the other man's jacket by the lapels and pulled him close. Stephen's eyes went wide, and his lips parted in surprise. The sight sent a hot fluttering, knotting, unfurling sensation through the base of John's stomach. He leaned forward, amazed at how he, mousy, just mildly attractive, average him, was daring to do what he was planning to do, and he breathed his next words over Stephen Escott's skin.
"Well, I do."