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.

Once again, this has taken longer than I expected and intended (feelings are, apparently, difficult things to write, ahahaha). And I had a wee problem with ff-dot-net wherein the Captcha thingy wouldn't work, and I had a chapter all ready to post and it drove me mad for a couple of days but it's all good now. Thank you all for your wonderful reviews, and for following this story, and for your patience. :)

(And no, I could not resist putting in a Burglar Watson reference, especially since Cumberbatch will be the voice of Smaug.)

The Seduction of John S. Willoughby

Part Seventeen

"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."

There was a long silence that contained any number of possibilities. If you believed in parallel universes that split off whenever things could have gone differently, many of them were born in that moment when John could have stalked off without another word, or Sherlock could have taken it back, or the two of them could have ended up crushed against the bookshelves again, kissing as though things like breathing didn't matter, or, quite simply, the two of them could have spoken at the same time…

"There. I said it. Are you happy now?"

"What, am I supposed to be happy now?"

They glared at each other, John with all the righteous anger of the wronged, and Sherlock indignant, as if it were somehow all John's fault. They continued to glare, as if it was a contest, and John thought that it was just like Sherlock, childish and petulant, to enter into a game of no-you'll-look-away-first-I'll-be-damned-if-you-don't. Then, several seconds too late, he realized that he was playing too. He found the idea unbearably silly. And then he began to laugh. He couldn't help himself. It started as a choked giggle that he tried very hard to keep down, and eventually erupted into actual laughter that John couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. To his everlasting surprise, he found that Sherlock was joining in.

It was ridiculous, and it put John in mind of nothing so much as that first night when they had chased a taxi over what felt like half of London and had ended up laughing in the hall, high on the adrenaline and the burst of endorphins from all the running. It was good laughter, though far be it for John to fathom why Sherlock was chortling along with him, with his eyes crinkled and his laugh a deep, rumbling roll of merriment.

"I meant that," he told John when they finally stopped, composing himself enough to look and sound serious. He looked relieved though, as if the worst of it was over for him.

"Well, I meant what I said too." John crossed his arms over his chest, remembering that he was supposed to be angry, but somehow failing to call the feeling back. He had to settle for being cross.

"You're not still threatening to move out, are you?"

John had to think about that. "No. I think I can put up with you for a little while longer. But I still think you're a horrible human being. I'll have you know that I'm still mad at you."

"At least that's clear. Good." Sherlock stood, unfolding himself from the depths of the chair. "Come on now, I need you. We're going to Milverton's house."

"Just like that, Sherlock?"

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock's face took on an expression of perfect bafflement.

"Just like that?"

"I need a burglar, John."

"You're going to – a bur—what in - do I look like a burglar to you?" John spread his arms, displaying Exhibit A: John H. Watson, M.D., Not a Burglar.

"Well, more like a grocer actually, which is all to the good." Sherlock was already pulling on his coat. "And it's not like I'm going to send you in by yourself – I'll be doing the actual burgling, if that makes you feel any better. I need a look-out man. And I'd like the company."

"I won't do it."

"Please, John."

"No."

"I appeal to the 'proper human feeling' you're so proud of. Lady Brackenwell has two small children. Think of what it'll be like for them if the father reacts badly when the pictures come out."

"I thought you told her to take care of things on her side."

"A woman like that, follow my advice? I highly doubt it. If she did, she left out the worst bits. There isn't a sensible bone in her body. Or if there is, it's a very small one. Probably something vestigial." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sentimental state of the normal human psyche. "And she handles charities that benefit any number of orphans in third world countries. She'll never get another donation if her reputation is so besmirched. Think of the children, John."

"I will not help you break the law, Sherlock."

"Even if it's morally justifiable? It's safe to say that Charles Milverton is one of the most reprehensible men living in London. He coldly, systematically plots blackmail, strikes just when it will be most damaging, and he bleeds his victims dry. True, he's never targeted anyone innocent, he'd never have gotten that far in the business if he had, but he feels no compunction at all when he goes about ruining other people's lives. He doesn't even really need the money. He does it almost solely for the fun of it."

"Why does that sound familiar?"

"I really did mean what I said earlier."

"And I'm supposed to be, what, grateful enough to help you housebreak?" John leapt onto this next floe in the stream of Sherlock's argument. He refused to be beaten down. Or confused into agreeing to anything.

"I thought you'd be flattered." His flatmate actually contrived to look hurt.

"Into committing burglary? You have to be kidding. And just how do you expect me to believe you, anyway? After that, that act you've been keeping up all week?"

Sherlock grimaced, as if he was steeling himself to do something he'd much rather not. Before John could attempt to guess what was going on inside his flatmate's head, he had closed the distance between them, planted a hand on either side of John's face, and, holding him in place like that, kissed him, firm and quick, on the mouth.

"There," he said to the doctor who was still blinking in shock. "That was for me. Just for me. No artifice – though I will freely admit I only did it because I'm trying to get you to help me burgle Charles Milverton's house, which isn't to say that that is the only reason I did it, because I did like doing that, but I have excellent self-control that would have prevented me from doing that in any other circumstance. And I am sorry. I tried to apologize. With breakfast. I wasn't expecting it either." If Sherlock Holmes could be said to babble, he was babbling now. John noticed how he was skirting around saying the word 'kiss' as if it would burn. "There's the whole truth, John, if that's what you wanted."

John took a moment to look at Sherlock, at the painfully earnest expression on his face. It was almost pitiful. He thought he ought to be…sympathetic, at least. But he remembered what the past few days had been like, and decided that he was not sympathetic at all. In fact, he was still brilliantlyangry, even if he no longer felt the need to storm out of 221B carrying all his earthly possessions. Of his own volition and completely certain that he was in his right mind, he pulled away from Sherlock – he hadn't let go yet – balled his right hand into a fist, and landed a punch on the detective's jaw.

"That was for me," he said. "I can't exactly say I'm thrilled by this."

Sherlock gingerly touched the side of his face. "You could have hit harder."

"I know."

"Are you coming now?"

"You're impossible, Sherlock."

"Well?"

John pressed his lips together in a thin line as he weighed his choices. On the scale of epic internal struggles, this was almost on the level of a Hamlet, or maybe even a Jean Valjean. Or maybe not, because the answer was fairly obvious, it was just admitting it that was the problem.

"Oh, all right."

"Splendid. I'll thank you to take your Browning along. I've taken the liberty of loading it."