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.
Took me long enough.
The Seduction of John S. Willoughby
Part Eighteen
This was going to be one for the blog.
John Watson took a moment to review his life, and decided that , yes, this was one of the strangest things he had ever experienced, even including that night with all the funny lights in Afghanistan. He went over the situation one more time to see if it would get any better.
He was sitting in the back of a taxi with Sherlock Holmes. (Nothing odd there, he'd done that loads of times).
Sherlock Holmes who was – and he had to go through the list again to make sure he was getting things right – male, an erstwhile smoker and drug addict, a confessed sociopath, the only consulting detective in the world, and interested in neither women nor men because he was in an absorbing, complicated, exclusive relationship with his work. (Admittedly highly unusual, but he'd sort of gotten used to most of it.)
Sherlock Holmes who had just, while not under the influence of alcohol or any drugs, come as close to confessing his undying love for John Watson as he was ever likely to get.
Sherlock Holmes who had just given him his second gay kiss of his life, after also having been responsible for the first one, but he meant it this time.
Sherlock Holmes who he was not going to move out on just yet because apparently things like friendship and being able to laugh together counted for more than anger at having been used as a convenient guinea pig for the practice of seduction. (John felt that a serious review of his priorities was due.)
Sherlock Holmes who, even after all of that, he was going to help commit a morally justifiable but still highly illegal burglary, and out of whom he was trying to wrangle more information about said burglary without actually saying anything incriminating that the cabbie might remember later on.
Yes, it merited a 'strange', even for a person whose standards had been raised by having to bypass the jar of slimy, hairy things ("Bezoars, aren't they supposed to show you in medical school?" "Yes, but not as things to watch out for while I'm looking for breakfast!") when he reached for the jam in the morning. John wasn't wondering if it was all a dream, but he was wondering how to extricate himself from this when he finally came to his senses or if, God forbid, they got caught.
Upon further reflection, this was not going to be one for the blog, unless he made a new one, something anonymous, like The Diary of a Middle-Aged Housebreaker or There and Back Again: An Adventure into Lawlessness in Modern London.
"Er, Sherlock?"
The man ignored him, as he had been ignoring him for the entirety of the taxi ride so far: his attention remained fixed on the apparently riveting view of the London streets as seen through the window of the common cab. John resisted the urge to reach over and poke him.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, it has to be tonight."
"Sorry, what?"
"It was obvious what you were going to ask. And it has to be tonight because the house will be empty with the occupants conveniently occupied on the other side of town. I have the security codes and duplicates of the keys and I know how to crack a safe, even an antique safe, so there's no reason to put it off."
John cast a nervous glance at the driver, but he didn't seem to be listening. At least he hoped not. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to be worried.
"And while I could keep up my little ruse," he continued, "it would no longer serve any practical purpose, and if I have to sit through another one of those conversations, I just might kill something, possibly myself." John could see the face Sherlock made reflected in the glass of the window. "You cannot imagine those conversations. I nearly started smoking again."
"Ah." John thought of pointing out that smoking would have been tantamount to a suicide – a slow, drawn out suicide involving years and a colorful variety of diseases – but decided that he didn't need the inevitable snarky retort. "Is that what you were watching all the movies for, then? The conversations?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards in a half smile. "At least you're not completely hopeless. I doubt my 'fiancé'" – the inverted question marks were audible - "could have reached that painfully obvious conclusion with a well-drawn map and a stepladder. You have no idea how lucky it is that you have the same name."
"I, uh, think I want to continue having no idea, thanks, if it's all the same to you."
"You're not even a little bit curious?" The tone was taunting-amused-smug all at once.
John pursed his lips. Maybe he was. But it was in the macabre way that people like a delicious scandal (No, he didn't, oh God, that's horrible – what happened next?), and given what Sherlock's "practicing" had seemed to be leading to, he figured that it would be detrimental to his development as a happy, well-adjusted person to find out. For one thing the telling of it might involve imagery that John could only think of as more mental porn with Sherlock in it, or preludes to such. For another – and John was surprised to realize that this bothered him – it would be mental porn with Sherlock in it with someone else. "Nope."
"Hmm." Sherlock turned his full attention back to the window and raised his voice a little to address the cabbie. "Just here, please! We'll walk from here, John. Pay the man, will you?"
John hurried after Sherlock after counting out the fare. They were in an affluent neighborhood where the houses had nice architecture, large gardens and five bedrooms apiece, and there weren't many people out on the sidewalks. He suddenly felt very obvious and exposed.
"We're doing this," he said, as he drew even with his flatmate. "We are actually doing this."
"Yes, we are. I've often wondered what it would be like if I turned my mind to crime, and I had the idea that I'd have made a highly efficient criminal. We'll find out tonight, eh?"
John fell silent at the thought of Sherlock Holmes, consulting criminal. The world would have been a much scarier place. "Thank God you didn't feel the need to experiment."
"Believe me, I've been tempted. Somehow it just didn't seem as sporting. You've seen how Lestrade and his team work. It'd hardly be fair if they found themselves up against someone who was truly brilliant."
"Right. And I hoped that you might have a conscience in there somewhere."
Sherlock didn't toss his head as much as give it a sharp, disdainful, tilt. "Please."
"I'll admit that I'm curious as to how you came up with this."
"Would it surprise you to learn that this was the back-up plan?"
"Oh?"
"Yes. I'd hoped to walk in, take the files, and leave. With the proper embellishments, of course, it wouldn't have been that simple. I came prepared with an alternative, which was just as well because I wasn't expecting the security measures. While doing research on Charles Milverton, I learned that he employed one John Smith Willoughby, and it was pitifully easy to find out all about him." Sherlock snorted. "Facebook. And Twitter. Everything was there, pictures, employment history, sexual orientation, his thoughts about breakfast…I hardly needed to think, he supplied everything for me." He nodded good evening to a passing woman who was walking her dog. John, mindful that you gave people more cause to remember you if you were visibly nervous, made himself do the same.
"I knew I could use him." Sherlock went on after the woman and her (huge, enormous, giant) Alsatian were a safe distance away. "But I needed more than a quick look at his keys, and a man like that wouldn't open up to a stranger in spite of posting things online for the entire world to see. The possibility of a romantic attachment, however, I had him there. He'd recently split up with his boyfriend and had been spouting sad, sentimental drivel all over the Internet. It was just possible that he'd be looking for something on the rebound. So I dropped by Milveton's house-"
"Hang on, you just showed up there?"
"Well, I didn't. Stephen Escott did." He smiled at John. He didn't do anything, there was just a subtle shift of expression, but quite suddenly it was no longer Sherlock Holmes walking with him. It was someone nicer, more open, more ordinary, even if there was a dangerous hint of mischief in his eyes. John found the experience a little unnerving.
"I've used him before," said Sherlock, his features snapping back to normal, "although never in this capacity. I knew I'd never pass if I pretended to be a journalist or a photographer, not to Milverton, and collecting for charity would get me nowhere. So I borrowed the tools and truck from a friend of Angelo's who owes me a favor, and Escott became a plumber. You know of my other preparations.
"I first showed up under the pretense of being lost, and blocked up the kitchen sink after making myself memorable enough to be called back to fix it. Then I asked Willoughby out for dinner, and to spare you the details, I spent the night at his place and got what I needed from there."
"You. Spent the night. At his place." John tried not to imagine what might have gone on there. He tried very hard.
"Nothing happened." His voice was even enough, but he spoke just a little too fast, at near-defensive speed. "You should know that that can happen, you spent the night at Sarah's didn't you? I didn't even let things go as far as I planned – I made breakfast instead. And was proposed to for my pains."
"Okay. And, er, it doesn't bother you at all that another person is involved? An actual person, with actual feelings, who will be very hurt by what you've done? It bothers me, and I haven't even done anything."
Sherlock waved a gloved hand impatiently. "He'll be all right, I told you! Or he'll get over it. By now he's probably realized that proposing was a magnificently stupid thing to do, and regretting it because it's actually likely that Escott will be frightened away by what he's done. Which is actually what Escott will do. You can be bothered for the both of us, if you like, because I certainly won't let it bother me." Sherlock stopped in front of a large, tastefully designed house with two trees growing in the small front garden. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't let it trouble you until after we're done here. This is Milverton's place. We'll use the back door."
John followed Sherlock down a path that led to the more extensive private garden at the back of the house. There was another thing bothering him that had nothing to do with the poor bloke's – Willoughby's? – feelings.
"Won't he suspect anything?" he asked as he ducked down beside Sherlock next to an impressive specimen of shrubbery that kept them just out of view from the house. "I mean, he gets a new boyfriend under, let's face it, rather odd circumstances, at his boss's house, and then his boss gets robbed?"
"I told you, he's thick as lard. Here, put this on."
Sherlock handed him something soft, woolly, and black, at least in this light. It took a while for John to recognize what it was.
"A balaclava?" Jesus and all the saints!
"Suit yourself," said Sherlock, pulling another one out of his coat pocket. "But there are security cameras, and if someone from the Yard recognizes you from the footage – Milverton'll be bound to report this – it won't take a genius to realize I was involved. I'll greatly resent it if I go to prison for so petty a charge as housebreaking." He pulled his balaclava over his head, and his blue-grey-green eyes looked at John through the holes, utterly recognizable, at least at this distance. "Though it will be the greatest of ironies if we end up sharing a cell, don't you think?" The knitted material muffled his voice but John could detect a smile in the tone nonetheless.
"Hell's bells." John pulled the thing on. "If I end up sharing a cell with you, I will kill you, do I make myself clear?"