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 a whole lot of the other Conan Doyle stories.

And 'thank you' doesn't quite cover how very much more than pleased I am that actual people are reading this and liking it. Really. Or how the knowledge motivates me to write like I haven't ever written before, in a very long-winded marathon. But I don't know what else to say. So thank you all, again, and pardon me for waxing sentimental here. (And the reviews made me laugh as well – to TheLadyLilith, I am sorry about that flying house slipper. XD)

(And I think I have just made it obvious that I have had my nose in the Conan Doyle books and out of the real world for much too long, ahahaha.)

The Seduction of John S. Willougby

Part Eight

It took John Watson an understandably long time to fall asleep. He would start to doze off, remember the things Sherlock Holmes had done to his mouth, and then sit up fully awake, with an almost violent urge to brush his teeth. The third time he tottered back to bed with his teeth, tongue and the insides of his cheeks scrubbed clean and minty fresh, it began to dawn on him that he was probably being ridiculous. The fifth time it happened, he figured that he might as well give up on sleep and make himself a nice, calming cup of tea. This idea was appealing until he remembered that Sherlock was asleep downstairs, and what if he woke up? (He could hit him over the head with the boiling hot kettle, that's what. No.) So stayed in bed, tossing and turning until he finally drifted off.

He slept fitfully, with vague, uncomfortable dreams. Somewhere, though, these were replaced by nicer things, like the suggestion of the smell of the tea he hadn't made for himself, an impression of comfortable warmth, and the sensation of a gentle finger tracing lazy circles on his stomach…

Which was not a dream. Alarms, somewhat heavy and dulled with sleepiness, began to go off in his head.

"You're awake." The words were whispered so close to his ear that the warm accompanying breath tickled. "Or almost there. Finally. Good morning, John."

John's eyes snapped open. He saw the ceiling. Ceilings were good. Ceilings were normal. Ceilings, however, did not remove the not good and not normal fact that Sherlock was lying on his side, next to him, on his bed. Somewhere in his muzzy, muddled, just-awake consciousness, he supposed he should be thankful that at least Sherlock was wearing pajamas.

"I apologize for my atrocious behavior last night," he said, continuing to draw feather-light patterns on the surface of John's T-shirt. Then his finger began to spiral lower. John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock's hand trailed lightly over the front of his shorts. "And I am very, very embarrassed that I didn't finish what I started."

Suddenly his touch wasn't so light anymore, making John gasp both in surprise. Sherlock made a pleased 'hm' noise in the back of his throat. He shifted his weight, splayed both his hands against John's chest as leverage and for balance as he threw a leg over the doctor, deliberately brushed his body against John's as he positioned himself on his hands and knees over the other man.

I'm going to wake up now, John told himself. This is not happening.

What was not happening was him reading the slow, vicious intent in Sherlock's face, the dangerous flicker just behind his eyes, as he lowered his head to brush his lips against John's...

This is not happening!

And it was not happening because John realized that he was awake now and it was real, and, acting more out of a deep-rooted sense of self-preservation than anything else, he gave Sherlock a violent shove that sent him over the edge of the bed.

"No! Just, God – no!" He sat up, glaring at Sherlock who was still in the process of picking himself up off the floor.

"While I'm flattered by your interest, Sherlock," he said, and he realized as he did that he'd been longing to use that line for months and had just been waiting for the right opportunity, "you should know that I – oh, fuck it, I like women, Sherlock, women! You know – two X chromosomes, no Y, boobs and a vagina!"

John realized belatedly that that did not sound good at all. He was thankful that Sarah wasn't there to hear that. Or Harry for that matter, even if she was into the same thing. Then he remembered that Mrs. Hudson was probably somewhere downstairs, and he hoped to God and all the saints that he hadn't shouted it loud enough for her to hear.

"And if I saved your fucking life, well, maybe I just figured I needed help with the rent." That was low, and nasty but he didn't care much about that. "Consider that maybe I'm still here because I can't afford to be anywhere else! Self-absorbed, presumptuous bastard, nowhere in the bloody heliocentric scheme of the universe does anything and everything have to revolve around you." He stabbed a finger in the air towards Sherlock for emphasis. "Things go around the bloody sun, all right, and even then, even then all it has is helium, and, and gravity, and nowhere is it assumed that just because the damned planets, the damned bloody Earth included, stick around does it have the right to go and snog them against the bookshelves!"

"Oh? It does that then, go around the sun?" The question sounded genuine, if very uninterested, and John found it maddening that Sherlock would go and focus on that one completely irrelevant point.

"Just get out, Sherlock! Out!"

"Right then." Something changed in Sherlock's expression, and it was so subtle that John wondered if he had imagined it. The eager, heated look seemed to bank and dull, and while some semblance of it was left on the surface, something had slid and shifted so that you could see the calculating, measuring mind working underneath. And there was something about the pleased look in Sherlock's eyes which said that the calculating, measuring mind had just gone 'Aha!' "I'll be off out. Don't wait up."

And he left, just dodging the pillow John heaved at him as he went.