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.
Sorry for the major delay. Real life caught up with me in a very, well, real way. Bit of a long one this time.
And, wow, thanks for the reviews and things! Always makes me happy to know you're reading. : )
The Seduction of John S. Willoughby
Part Thirteen
John Willoughby opened his eyes and immediately wished that he hadn't. It was nearly proper daylight, and he was awake, which meant he was alive, which meant that last night had been real and he had to deal with it. The date had been wonderful, but – it had to be said – the ending had been a little lackluster. A drunken, unconscious Stephen Escott whom he had to drag to the sitting room (he'd given up on getting the man on the sofa – John Willoughby was not built for putting taller, very unconscious men on sofas) ceased to be endearing. In spite and perhaps especially because of the very heated kissing that had gone on just before he dropped.
And then the phone call. The godawful, unholy phone call from his stupid, vile, unfeeling, thrice-damned ex. John had ended up shouting, and almost in tears, and the one good thing about Stephen passing out was that he hadn't been awake to see that. When it was over, he had thrown the phone against the wall in an uncharacteristic act of rage and violence. He could only hope that he hadn't broken it. He'd be needing his phone today.
He really didn't want to be awake right now. If it was at all possible, he wanted to hang a sign on his door saying 'I don't feel like being alive right now, I'll deal with it later, leave me alone' and sleep in. He sniffled. The arm around his waist tightened in a way that was clearly meant to be comforting.
John's sleepy mind seized on this and followed it up.
The arm around his waist.
The arm in the red silk sleeve that was attached to the red silk shirt being worn by the man who was breathing softly onto the back of John's neck and holding him as if he was a very large plush toy.
He tried to come all the way awake, blinking rapidly.
"Stephen?"
"Morning." Stephen snuggled closer, and the word tickled John's ear. "I'm sorry about last night. It must have been horrible, if my waking up on your floor fully clothed is any indication. Thanks for the cushion."
John felt himself turn red. "Oh God. Sorry. I couldn't get you up on the sofa." He attempted to make more sense. "You, uh, passed out." You passed out after what was possibly the best kiss ever, which should have been a prelude to other, dirtier things, which was, yes, horrible, but you're a sweet man, so I won't say anything more.
Stephen made a frustrated noise. "No. How much did I have to drink? No, never mind, don't tell me, I don't think I want to know. But you, are you all right? I found your phone in pieces next to the wall. I hope I didn't have anything to do with that."
John's shoulders tensed, and he squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself not to cry. "That wasn't you."
"Hey. Hey. You're not all right. What was it?" Stephen propped himself up on one elbow, the better to see John, who had half-turned to face him. "No, never mind, if you don't want to talk about it, never mind. You're sure it wasn't me? Right. Look, I made you breakfast, will that help?"
"You can't have. There's no food in the flat." It was a fact of life that John spent so much more time in Mr. Milverton's house than his own that buying food was a futile exercise in hoping that things would keep in the refrigerator. What he did was buy food to keep in Mr. Milverton's kitchen, and eat it from there.
Stephen looked smug. "I know my city. Come on, you've got work. Spit-spot!"
There was breakfast. Damned if John understood where Stephen had gone and found everything, but there was breakfast. Real breakfast too, such as John hadn't had in a long time. He helped himself greedily to the mushrooms while Stephen had an austere cup of tea (with lemon – no dairy at all).
"You're not eating?" he asked.
"Hm? No, I'm okay for a bit." Stephen put down his cup, and looked pointedly at John from across the table. "Making breakfast, then, does that work as an apology?"
John laughed. "Yes. It does. Definitely. Where'd you learn to cook?"
Stephen waved his fascinating fingers in a dismissive gesture. "Here and there." His face took on a closed, distant look, as if he was contemplating something far away, but vitally important. "So it works. Breakfast."
"Yes." John, already in a good enough mood to horse around, flicked a mushroom at Stephen. "Highly effective. You can pass out on me after one beer any day. Seriously, you have no idea how rotten the world was when I woke up, and you and your breakfast have made things much better."
"Good." The faraway expression dissipated into something more fixed in the here and now. "Do you want to talk about it now?"
John stabbed viciously at an innocent piece of bacon. "No."
"Okay. But talk. About anything."
He grinned ruefully at the plumber. "All I know is work."
"Let's talk about work then."
"Are you really a plumber?"
"Of course I am!"
The indignation made John laugh. "All right, all right. And I'm just an overworked personal assistant. I've told you about the interesting stuff already."
"Tell me about the un-interesting stuff."
"You don't want to hear about that."
"I do." Stephen leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Charles Milverton. I never knew there was so much money in gossip-mongering. Had I known, I might have changed careers."
"Well, Mister Milverton was rich to begin with. It's not like he earned all of it, ha, gossip-mongering. But it does make more money than you'd think."
"Clearly it does."
John shrugged. "Sometimes people pay to have a story run, or to have a story not run. I mean," he said backpedalling fast, "it's harmless. People pay off the media to suppress news about killings and things, don't they? The worst Mister Milverton can do is say how a dinner party was deadly dull."
"Oh really?"
"Well." John began to look hunted. "There are pictures and things that Mister Milverton buys off the paparazzi sometimes. But it's not like he advertises, he doesn't ask for money to run or not to run those." This was getting a little uncomfortable for John. If he had ever wondered about the checks and money transfers, he had kept his head down, and had not asked questions. He tried to change the subject. "He's a funny old thing, Mister Milverton. He has likes antiques, has a passion for things from World War I."
"How morbid."
"I know." He grinned sheepishly at Stephen. "See, there's this old safe from the Great War sitting in his office. He keeps his really important files in there, and it won't suit him for them to be anywhere else. It's supposed to have belonged to this famous German spy."
"That doesn't sound very safe to me."
"Safer than you'd think. It's got this tricky double lock – you'd need both a word and a number to open it. And it survived the Blitz in World War II, so I guess that means something." And there are alarms and video cameras all over the house, too. It's pretty damn safe, but I probably shouldn't have said that. John tried to smile his way out of it.
"Hm, a German, you say?" Stephen seemed to have spaced out on the last sentence. "I have an ancestor who was supposed to have caught a famous German spy before the start of the war. Interesting."
"Oh? Espionage in your blood, eh? That's cool. Like a movie."
"Nothing so spectacular. Spies have progeny too."
"I guess. James Bond must've knocked up at least one of those girls, once you think about it."
"Hm." That came out as a little amused snort. "I guess so. What time do you have to be at work?"
A quick glance at the clock on the wall told John that he had to be at work almost now. "Christ! I have to go!" John stood up in a panic, nearly knocking over his plate. Shave. Toothbrush. Change. Pack things away. Call a cab. Oh, Christ, and clean up too.
"Go on, I'll take care of things here." Stephen practically waved him out of the kitchen like a very handsome mother hen. "And I'll pack up your food too, we can't have you running off half fed."
"You're wonderful, did you know that?"
"I try. Go!"
And so John was sent rushing around his flat, getting ready for work. He was barely aware of saying yes to Stephen when asked if he could use the shower (and borrow a towel), which led to an awkward moment in the bathroom when Stephen stepped in and started to undress while he was shaving. The plumber genuinely seemed to be unaware of John's presence – he'd efficiently gotten down to his shorts before realizing that someone else was in the room. John wondered if it had anything to do with a hangover, and asked as much when Stephen realized he had company, pausing like a deer in the headlights with a thumb in the waistband of his underpants.
"Hangover? Yes, certainly, is that what you call one of those?" he asked, distractedly. "Bloody things. Awful." And he doffed the shorts anyway before stepping into the shower.
John stood blinking for several full minutes afterwards, listening to the hiss and patter of Stephen Escott taking a warm shower. He was prepared to admit that he'd have leapt in after the man – though the size of the shower would have made this both uncomfortable and impractical – if he hadn't been running late. As things were, he contented himself with asking Stephen if he'd like as aspirin ("What? No! I'm perfectly fine!") and thanking whatever God there was for the view.
Whatever John may or may not have done had he not been dangerously close to tardy (or whatever he was tempted to do regardless), he and Stephen were soon out on the curb waiting for a taxi. In addition to his usual work paraphernalia, John was holding a greasy paper bag of hot breakfast.
"You really didn't have to do that, you know," he told Stephen as he scanned the street for an empty cab.
"I know. Will I be seeing you tonight?"
John bit his lip and shook his head. "Afraid not. Mister Milverton's having a party at the Park Lane Hotel tonight, and I am going to be a glorified lackey during the entire damn thing. Making sure the drinks don't run out and all that." A taxi passed. The light was off, but he waved at it anyway in sheer desperation. "I wish I could get you on the guest list. You might like it – it's going to be pretty stellar."
"Ha! I don't think so. I can just imagine it. 'And what is it you do, Mister Escott?' 'Why, Dame Judi Dench,'" said Stephen with a sweeping bow, "'I am a plumber, my good lady. I am a plumber by virtue of my wrench – I wrench therefore I plumb.'"
"Oh, stop it!" John laughed helplessly as he tried to flag down an occupied taxi in the hopes that it might just be joking. "I'm going to be late!"
"That's probably my fault. I should've just made you a sandwich."
"No, shut up, it was nice. Better than nice. I loved your breakfast." John gave up on taxis for a while and turned to face Stephen. He meant to say 'thank you.' But he thought of how warm, wonderful, well-mannered, and cultured he was; he remembered how last night had been perfect up until Stephen had passed out; how he had more than made up for it that morning. And he remembered Stan Wilson, steady, honest Stan, and how wonderful things had been with him until he had started going on about John's wretched, all-consuming job. He remembered last night's phone call, how Stan had said he was sorry for everything, that he wanted to get back together, and Please, John, I love you. He remembered how angry he had been, how sure that Stan had just wanted to spoil his night, how he had shouted And that's supposed to make everything better, is it! before throwing his mobile at the wall, and how he had wondered afterwards if that had been a mistake. And he didn't want to think about that anymore, or that he was spectacularly late, or that he was going to be spending the evening watching other people have a good time. He just didn't want to think. And he looked at Stephen – warm, wonderful, incredible Stephen – and what came out of his mouth was…
"Marry me."
Stephen blinked. "Sorry, what?"
John knew that that wasn't what he was aiming for. He tried again. "Marry me, Stephen."
"You hardly know me!"
"I know." Did he really mean it? He supposed he did. John barreled on. "I don't even feel like I've known you all my life, like they do in the movies, but I think I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know you. It doesn't have to be immediately. But marry me. Eventually."
The plumber quirked his head to one side, regarded John with an expression that was surprise well on its way to alarm. "I was not expecting this."
"Neither did I. Was I." John smiled recklessly. In for a penny, in for a pound. "But will you?"
An empty taxi came up the round, and the timing made John certain that the universe must be conspiring against him. He gave it a little wave, a half-hearted wriggle of his fingers, and it pulled up docilely in front of him.
"I have to go. I wish I didn't. And if you won't say anything," he added as Stephen continued to be dumbly silent, "I'll assume that means 'yes.'" He rose a little on his toes to plant a quick kiss on the corner of Stephen's mouth. If his arms hadn't been full, and if they hadn't been out on the street, he might have done more. "Call me."
John looked out of the cab's window as the car started on its way. Stephen was walking in the opposite direction, hands stuffed in his pockets, and John refused to look beyond the delicious fluttering hum in his head and heart that his rashness had brought on.