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.

As always, thanks for reading, and for the reviews! Never ceases to amaze me that people like this, really, and bother to keep reading. Thank you!

And, point of interest, as far as I've been able to tell, the John Watson jam thing seems to have its origins in this comic: www_dot_harkavagrant_dot_ ?id=210

The Seduction of John S. Willoughby

Part Nineteen

Charles Milverton was a small man of fifty, a little on the plump side, who tended to remind people of the Earl of Emsworth from the P.G. Wodehouse stories. He was exactly the right shape for peering benevolently at the world and being endearingly absent-minded.

Neither of which he was in the habit of doing.

John Willoughby whistled through his teeth. He could have done with a bit of benevolent peering. Or a stiff drink. Or for Mr. Milverton miraculously not to notice that they had been supplied with the wrong kind of champagne. John cast a worried eye towards at where his boss was greeting his guests with a warm handshake, a friendly smile, and an appraising gaze that passed instant judgment on their wardrobe and jewelry. He wasn't going to ask that Mr. Milverton not mind about the drinks, because he would mind, so his best hope was for his boss to remain ignorant. It was all very stressful.

Things were made so much more stressful by the fact that he hadn't heard from Stephen all day. Not a text. John was starting to think that maybe he'd made a mistake in not passing off the entire 'Marry me' thing off as a joke. It wasn't that he regretted asking Stephen Escott to marry him. He rather enjoyed the prospect of marriage (and good sex, though not necessarily – and preferably not – in that order) but it had occurred to him during the course of the day, while herding caterers and making last-minute changes to the guest list, that it might just be possible that Stephen didn't feel the same way.

And silence meaning 'yes?' God, where had he gotten that juvenile idea? If the proposal itself hadn't scared Stephen away, having been proposed to by a twit with the mentality of a primary school kid might have done the job.

John hadn't called Stephen himself because, well, things had happened. Minor things, yes, but they had kept happening in a continuous, inexorable stream ever since he realized what a fool thing it was that he had gone and done some time after he had polished off the rest of his breakfast. Between one small, immediate emergency and the next he hardly had a quiet moment to himself, and when he did, he took too long deciding whether or not calling would be seen as a clingy or desperate, or if maybe he should text instead, so he ended up not calling or texting at all. (Except for when he phoned the caterer's. And the florist's. And the hotel. And texted the driver. But that was different, that was easy, that was business.)

Things were going well smoothly enough now, though (barring the champagne, please, God, let Mr. Milverton not notice the champagne, please let him stick to the sparkling water the entire evening, thank you, Jesus), and John decided that it was now or never. He meant it this time. He would call Stephen because it was perfectly all right to call the person to whom you may or may not be engaged. It was, actually, the decent thing to do, seeing as things weren't entirely clear. And he would…not apologize, apologizing would imply that he was taking it back, he didn't want to take it back, it wasn't as though he didn't want to be engaged to Stephen, but he would apologize for putting the man in a difficult position. Because it was a horribly unfair thing to force on anyone, a marriage proposal, you know, especially if they'd just cooked breakfast with a hangover. He might have been hung over himself, hence the asking. So it would be perfectly all right if Stephen decided that he didn't want to marry him, John Willoughby, not that he, John Willoughby, didn't want to marry him, Stephen Escott, but he didn't have to, not immediately, he'd live, I mean, he hoped that Stephen wanted to be married to him as well, but no pressure and all that. Um. It was all right. Whatever Stephen wanted. And maybe John could make it up to him with coffee. Or something. Um.

Yes, that sounded pretty clear. Right. Now or never, wasn't it? Right.

John took cover behind a convenient potted palm as the guests sat themselves down for dinner, and thumbed the buttons that would make the call happen. (Why, yes, he did have Stephen's number memorized, and, no, it wasn't strange at all, he memorized phone numbers, truly he did.)

He waited.

Stephen was not picking up. There might have been any number of perfectly good reasons for it, but he wasn't picking up.

"Is something the matter, John?"

John Willoughby nearly leapt out o f his skin. "Ah, no, Mister Milverton, not at all," he said hurriedly, spinning around to face his boss, his hands doing a little juggling act as he tried not to drop his phone.

"Good." Mr. Milverton took a sip of his drink, frowned at it as if it wasn't what he had been expecting. John cringed inwardly, even though he knew, he knew, he knew that it was the right kind of water, because it would have been entirely in keeping with his boss's character to decide that he had wanted something else all along. Mr. Milverton, however, went on to say something that was much more alarming to John's jangled nerves. "I need something from the house. Keep the guests occupied while I go back for it."

"Sir?"

"You heard me, John. I expect to be back in time for my speech."

"But how -?"

"You'll think of something. What else do I pay you for? Now call the car, or is that beyond you as well?"