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.

I'm sorry for the brouhaha over Part 9. I had plot issues (John S. was giving me trouble), and my wrist was starting to hurt, possibly from all the typing, and then when things were finally getting underway, the BAFTA awards happened and Sherlock won Best Drama, and Martin Freeman is Best Supporting Actor, but Cumberbatch was not awarded Best Leading actor, so my heart imploded for a bit, and I'd read entirely too much NC-17 fics. The result wasn't bad, I guess, and it was where I was planning to go, but it didn't really fit, and actually made things harder to continue – things went too far, so to speak, and I couldn't pull them back. And it violated my sensibilities and burned ships (by the way, Martin Freeman totally ships John Watson/Sherlock!). So I had to rewrite. Thank you for bearing with my coffee-addled editing!

The Seduction of John S. Willougby

Part Nine

It had been a gentle, almost chaste kiss. It had been awkward too at first, when John Willoughby had yanked too hard on Stephen's jacket and had ended up mashing his lips against the plumber's more than anything else while Stephen Escott windmilled his arms for balance. There had also been something tense and spring-coiled about the way Stephen held himself, and for one wild moment John had been afraid that he would either pull away or shove him off. But he had eventually stopped flailing his arms, relaxing into the kiss, and it had been soft and romantic and sweet.

John found himself smiling when he remembered it (this caused a little awkwardness at work when he ended up smiling at Mr. Milverton while his boss was complaining about the actress with the libel suit). And he smiled at the thought of seeing Stephen again that night (and this resulted in an embarrassing misunderstanding with the lady who came in to clean). If he had been musically inclined, he would have been singing merrily while handling the bills, the wire transfers, the depositing of checks, and the fielding of appointments. He was, simply put, very happy – God was in his heaven, and all was right with John Willoughby's world.

Stephen showed up at eight o'clock sharp, wearing a silk shirt the red of crushed rose petals. The color was wonderfully warm against the black of his jacket and the fine china-pallor of his skin, and he looked very good in it, thus raising John from being simply happy to positively beatific. This state of being was further enhanced by Stephen planting a quick peck on his cheek by way of greeting.

"Come on," he said, taking John by the hand. "I have tickets for very good seats at a play, and I just might cry if we don't get to use them."

The play turned out to be Much Ado About Nothing. It had curdled John's brain when they had discussed and dissected it at school, so he was surprised to find himself enjoying it, although Stephen's low, constant commentary and the occasional brush of his hand as he pointed things out to his date probably had something to do with that. After that Stephen took him to a remarkable Italian restaurant for dinner (he was friendly with the owner – the man even got them a candle for their table, which John thought was sweet), and after that they had gone to a bar near John's place for a few drinks. There Stephen proceeded to get tipsy on a stupefyingly small amount of alcohol, though in a good-natured sort of way, so the proprietor gently insisted that they head for home instead of kicking them out (the treatment might have had to do with the ridiculously large tip Stephen had given, but then again he did nothing worse than teeter around and become extremely talkative).

He insisted on walking John home ("It's only a few street corners, I can wobble a few street corners!"), and John couldn't help but laugh as they went down the sidewalk, hand in hand, with the plumber, the Shakespeare fan plumber, singing a very loud, slightly drunken Always Look on the Bright Side of Life. They managed to get to John's doorstep without mishap, and they stood there facing each other for quite a long time, giggling (yes, that was the word) at Stephen's attempts to sing snatches of On the Street Where You Live. And then Stephen tipped forward, and John caught him by the shoulders, and it could have ended there, with John setting him upright, kissing him good night, and going inside to watch the late evening news. But he decided that that wasn't going to be the end of that.

"Listen," he told Stephen, who had rocked backwards against the iron railing on the steps, "I don't think you should go home alone."

"Oh, you coming with me then?" asked the plumber jovially. "I'd like that. I would. Be hell to explain to the flatmate, but I'd like that."

John found himself blushing, which was silly, it wasn't like he hadn't gone home with other men before. He might have had a bit too much to drink as well. Or it could be that he was just as skittish as a teenager with a crush.

"No," he said, enunciating clearly to prove to himself that he was definitely not drunk, "We're at my flat. It'd be silly to look for your place when we're at my flat. You don't have to stay very long if you don't want to. Just have a cup of coffee, sober up a bit before you go home, okay?"

Stephen nodded slowly, as if trying not to jar his head. "Okay. Sense. That makes it. Coffee makes sense. I probably don't." He laughed. "Probably couldn't find my, my head if it wasn't attached, much less my city in a flat like this."

"At least you know it." John undid the locks, ushered Stephen inside. "It's worse when people drink themselves senseless and refuse to believe the fact of the matter."

"Right."

"But does this always happen to you, Stephen? I counted, that was just one bottle."

"Very astute of you, just John. No," said Stephen, taking off his coat and collapsing unceremoniously onto John's sofa. "Usually – usually – I don't get drunk. At all. Nope. Don't have the stomach for it. One sided love affair, me and the bottle. Oh yes. But I don't usually get drunk see, seeing as I – don't – drink. Because when I do, yes, what happens when I do? I get drunk! Logic!" All this was accompanied by an expressive waving and gesturing of arms and hands.

John smiled as he took his own jacket off on the way to the kitchen. He supposed that Stephen being drunk became less endearing with further exposure, but he found what he was seeing rather cute. "How do you want your coffee?"

"Black, two sugars, please. And no wicked cream at all. Cream's evil. So's milk."

"No dairy products from the dark side, got it. You'll have to make do with instant. There's no way I'm letting you loose on the streets of London as you are, you" -gorgeous- "idiot." But you could stay…

"I think you like me."

"Yes, yes I do, actually." Cup. Coffee. Teaspoon. Sugar, two. And I would like you to stay the night. Hot water, he needed hot water. He should have taken care of that first.

"That man at the bar liked you, you know." Stephen materialized in the doorway of the small kitchen, and his voice was sharper, even if his words were still slightly slurred.

"What man at the bar?" asked John, looking over his shoulder at Stephen, who was moving closer, trailing his elegant fingers – were those really plumber's hands? – over the surface of the table.

"The one who followed us out. Wanted to get you, wanted you to get a cab if I remember right."

John did blush this time, and almost dropped the electric kettle he was trying to fill up. "He wasn't anybody."

That had been the one black point of the entire evening. Stan Wilson was a one-time boyfriend, and he'd been at the bar with a couple of his friends. He hadn't liked the look of Stephen Escott, and had told John as much in the corridor going to the restrooms. When he and Stephen had been ushered out of the bar, he had followed, obviously wanting to speak to John, but John had held on to Stephen's hand and would have none of it. Stan had slunk back into the building, and John had felt a fierce vindictive pleasure at the sight.

"Hm. He does like you, you know. Really does."

"You think so?"

"I know so." Stephen was standing behind John now, and just barely outside polite personal space. He had that look on his face again, that smile of arrogant certainty that he had had on when he first asked John out.

"Goes to show what you know."

"And you like him."

That was preposterous. It really was. If it had been anyone else saying that, John would have gotten very angry. And he refused to spend another minute letting himself be bothered by an old, very dead flame. John put the kettle down with more violence than strictly necessary, and whipped around to face Stephen, leaning against the counter as suggestively as he could manage.

"Jealous?" he asked tauntingly. Come on, come and get me…

Stephen moved in, placing a hand on the counter on either side of John, fencing him in. "I might be."