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.
FINALLY!
I am sorry for the giant delay. This bit was hard, real life and loss of internet aside. And it was supposed to be longer too, but I couldn't take it anymore (and you'd probably have seen this sometime in July instead, if I'd gone on to the point I intended to reach). I'll do my best to get back to my old pace. Thank you for your patience!
The Seduction of John S. Willoughby
Part Sixteen
"Sherlock, I have had enough. I like you. You're the most brilliant, most fascinating person I've ever met, and living with you has been amazing even if you never do the housework or clean up after yourself. I hardly limp anymore, and I honestly do not know what I might have ended up doing to myself if I hadn't met you. I'm grateful for everything. Really, I am. But this has got to stop.
"I don't mind your being gay. It's fine. I wouldn't even mind if you brought boyfriends home. I don't even think I should mind that you seem to be attracted to me. I guess I should be…flattered or something, I thought you were married to your work and I didn't think you'd be unfaithful. But I mind very much that you ignore that I have told you, in no uncertain terms, that I am not interested.
"I mind the harassment, and that you don't seem to be inclined to stop, or even act the least bit guilty. I mind that you, with your extraordinary intellect, think that it's all right to force yourself on me. On anyone. That kind of forceful is very much not good. And I won't put up with it, Sherlock. I don't have to. I'm moving out."
It sounded good in John Watson's head. The snatches of it he muttered aloud – he didn't dare try to practice the whole thing walking about on the streets, he was already attracting stares as it was – sounded firm enough. The tricky part, he thought, the real tricky part would be saying all of it without Sherlock getting a word in edgewise. If Sherlock said anything, and he paid attention to it, he'd end up arguing with him, maybe even shouting, and he wouldn't even be able to leave with his dignity intact.
It had taken him quite a while to come up with that, which is to say most of the time he had spent seething in his upstairs bedroom until he was sure that Sherlock had left (his upstairs bedroom had a view of the front of the house – it was easy enough to periodically glance for a sweeping black coat making its way down the street). And he took a little more time to polish it over a meal that he supposed counted as brunch, even if it was already early afternoon. And he went over it as he walked back to Baker Street.
He was right to be angry. He knew that. It wasn't just the surprise and shame at being caught – literally – with his pants down. He'd been justifiably angry since yesterday morning.
And it wasn't that he'd been caught with his pants down while he'd been thinking of Sherlock, because that was definitely who the last thought had been about, and he before he admitted it out loud, but there was no way Sherlock could know about that, so that bit was all right.
Ha. No way for Sherlock bloody Holmes to know. Right.
John wanted to die.
Or he wanted to kill Sherlock.
He'd never get away with it.
Or he might, because if Sherlock was dead, Lestrade would have no consulting detective to, well, consult. He'd just have to be very, very clever.
No, that was just stupid. Walking in on someone having a wank was horrible, but it shouldn't be motive for murder. Maybe Sherlock hadn't meant to walk in on him. Maybe he hadn't known what John was doing.
Ha.
John had to stop at an intersection, and bounced on his heels while waiting for the light to turn green. He would have liked it better if he was sure where he stood on all this.
Well, no, he knew where he stood. He was furious with Sherlock, and moving out was very much an option, because, at this point, he didn't know if he would stop being furious with Sherlock.
He crossed the street thinking that Sherlock would know exactly how many times he had bounced.
And that was the problem right there. It wasn't that he was actively attracted to Sherlock. But the thought was always there at the back of his mind: What would Sherlock do? What would he think about this? I bet Sherlock could see right through that. I can't understand this blasted thing, what would Sherlock make of it? Does Sherlock even know about this, I should make him watch the DVD. What the hell is this, Sherlock is going to hear about it when he gets home!
There was a Sherlock-shaped space in his universe now, and that surprised him, as did the realization that he didn't quite know what he'd do if that space stopped being occupied. John recognized that this was probably an unusual sort of attachment, given that he had only known the man for a few months. It had been some years since John had seen My Fair Lady (Sherlock had apparently watched it the other day though, if the DVD case in the living room was anything to go on), but if Professor Higgins had grown accustomed to Eliza Doolittle's face, he had grown accustomed to Sherlock Holmes and all his strangeness and brilliance. He wondered if his being accustomed to his flatmate ever could, given enough time, turn into something else, although, to continue the parallel to the Audrey Hepburn movie, it would end with Sherlock shouting at John to fetch a mobile instead of his slippers.
No, thought John, as he turned a corner into Baker Street, he knew he wouldn't mind if he found out he was gay (he'd mind having to tell Harry, he'd never hear the end of that), and he actually wouldn't mind finding out he was gay for Sherlock Holmes. Eventually. In the fullness of time. But Sherlock's behavior, as if it was that easy for him, as if all he was after was a quick shag now and to hell with the other person involved – that put John off.
Given everything, though, he wondered if it would be a stupid, angry, impulsive mistake to leave. Faced with the reality of it, John suddenly couldn't think of anywhere else he'd rather be, mad Sherlock involved or no.
But.
He had moved in with Sherlock practically on impulse. It was only fitting that he leave the same way.
Nothing for it then.
John took a deep breath and unlocked the door to 221B. He strode purposefully up the stairs and into the sitting room. Sherlock was lounging in the armchair facing the door, looking for all the world that he'd been waiting for John, with his fingers steepled just so under his chin.
The sight annoyed John, and annoyed was good. Annoyed helped. He would not be swayed.
"Sherlock," he began, "I-"
"John, it will interest you to learn that I am engaged."
"I have had enough, and I will not allow you to distract me, shut up, please, for once - what did you say?"
"You heard me. I'm engaged."
"You?"
"To Charles Milverton's personal assistant."
"Charles Milverton's…? Dear God, Sherlock, please tell me this isn't for your case."
"I needed information."
John sagged. "Don't you think that's going a bit too far?"
"I will admit that it was unexpected, but it was a necessary step. Besides, legally, it wouldn't be marriage. I believe the correct term is 'civil partnership.' Not, of course, that I intend to go through with it. What? Don't look at me like that, John, do you think I'm the marrying type?
"Just like that then? Some poor sod thinks you'll marry – him, right, if it's civil partnership you're talking about, it's a him? – good Lord, and what do you mean to do, disappear on the man?" John looked ceiling-ward but found no answers there. "That is cold, Sherlock, even for you."
"It never ceases to amaze me how you can show such concern for people you don't even know."
"It's called proper human feeling, Sherlock!"
"He'll be all right. He's still in love with his ex, and his ex is still in love with him – if they're not too stupid, they'll work it out eventually."
"And how are you so sure? No, no, I don't want to hear how you deduced it. I don't even want to hear how it happened." And there it was. It clicked slowly into place in John's head, like portentous gears of clockwork. He stared at Sherlock. No. "It. It wouldn't. I utterly and sincerely hope that it had nothing to do with…with…"
Sherlock inclined his head. "I was out of practice. It's been a while since I've had to" – he made a face – "romance anyone."
"It was practice."
"If you want to put it like that, yes."
"You practiced. On me."
"Who was I supposed to practice on – Anderson?"
"All that – God, you weren't even drunk, were you? All that was fucking practice?"
"Are you mad because I practiced on you? Or because I practiced on you and didn't mean it?"
"I'm mad because you did it at all. I was going to tell you that I was moving out because you were harassing me, which I thought was a good enough reason, as much as I like the flat, and now you're telling me that you've had me doubting my bloody sexuality just for one of your damn cases, well, I think that's an even better reason to leave." John took a step backward. He wasn't even going to think about it anymore. He was going to go straight to his room, pack his bags and walk out the door.
"Will it make you feel any better if I tell you that there is no-one on whom I'd rather have practiced?"
John rocked back in mid-stride, because he couldn't help himself. His temper – already alarmingly loose – had taken the reins and run away with the horses and the baggage. He would have hit Sherlock if the man would just give him an excuse – like standing or something. "That's supposed to make me feel better? Because you'd have had a worse time snogging Anderson?"
"John." Sherlock began to take on an uncomfortable, harried look, rather like a toddler who had been caught at something and refused to admit it, or someone who was coming to terms with being force-fed lemon juice. He also began to speak to John's knees. "I told you I considered myself married to my work. I still do. But if there was anyone with whom I would be unfaithful, it would be you."