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: And I would like to apologize for the apparent abundance of cliffhangers that I seem to be leaving all over the place. Thank you all for reading, and for the wonderful reviews!
The Seduction of John S. Willoughby
Part Twenty-One
Milverton flicked on the lights.
Through the gap in the curtains, John Watson could see him peering about the room suspiciously, his sharp expression oddly incongruous with features that could easily have belonged to the better class of village clergyman. And he had every right to be suspicious too. Sherlock had had to open the office door with a key from his ring of duplicates and, as far as John knew, neither of them had taken the trouble to lock it again.
After his cursory inspection of the room revealed nothing, Milverton took the time to look behind the small sofa and under his desk. He even – and John could probably be forgiven the quickly-suppressed impulse to tell Sherlock 'I told you so' – threw open the doors of the wardrobe to look inside it before settling down on a red leather armchair with his back to them.
Next to John, Sherlock shifted slightly so that he could see too, his shoulder leaning against his flatmate's, and the side of his face brushing the top of John's balaclava-ed head. By this time, Milverton had produced a newspaper from somewhere and was flicking through the pages with a preoccupied air. Every so often, he would look at his watch or pull out his mobile phone, and it was clear even to John that he was waiting for something and waiting impatiently.
Whatever it was didn't involve the phone calls the man was getting. His mobile rang several times, but he kept opting not to answer, rejecting the calls with an irritated flick of his fingers, and when whoever it was tried the landline, he waited till they were done trying before taking the phone off the hook and leaving it that way.
This went on for an insufferably long time. John eventually noticed, to his horror, that they had left the safe imperfectly closed. A mere glance in the right direction would tell Milverton that something was afoot. In the event that that did happen, John decided that he would tell Sherlock to grab the stuff and run, and either pinion Milverton in place or knock him out with the butt of his gun. One or the other. Though the latter choice seemed to be the more practical thing to do, and any feelings of guilt resulting from that could always be assuaged by getting ice from the kitchen for the ensuing lump on the gossip columnist's head.
It was at this point that John Watson realized for certain that he wasn't cut out to be a criminal.
Eventually, Milverton tossed the paper down with a frustrated sigh and walked – or rather, John thought, flounced – out of the room.
He let out a long breath. "Bother burgling and everything to do with it."
"I think," said Sherlock, "I understand how you feel."
"Let's finish this, then." John made to part the curtains, but Sherlock grabbed his hand before he could manage it.
"He's coming back," he said. "He left the lights on, he's probably just gone to the loo or to get a drink. We just have to be" – and John could hear the abundant frustration in his flatmate's voice – "patient."
"Virtuous, eh?" He meant it as a bad joke, and he smiled ruefully at Sherlock from behind the mask. From the way Sherlock's eyes crinkled, it looked like he appreciated the irony of it all too. John suddenly realized that he hadn't let go of his hand yet, and he wondered whether or not he should shake himself loose. He wondered, actually, if he wanted to. It was strangely…comfortable. He was still wondering about this when Milverton came back, carrying a glass of water and – to Sherlock's dismay if the way his back stiffened against the window glass was anything to go by – smoking a cigarette.
John rearranged his fingers to give Sherlock's hand a squeeze. He was reasonably certain that he meant it to be sympathetic and reassuring more than anything else. At any rate, whatever it was construed to be, Sherlock exhaled quietly and relaxed a little as Milverton resumed his seat. Just to make things clear though, John tightened his grip until he nearly had the small bones in his flatmate's hand grinding against each other.
In case you get any ideas, I'm still mad at you, he wanted to say. And If this goes pear-shaped, I will do everything in my power to get you out, but I will kill you afterwards.
Sherlock wriggled his fingers in protest. At that particular instant, Milverton looked up sharply, the single perfect smoke ring he had just blown drifting lazily away in the air in front of him. For a brief moment of cold, vicious clarity, John thought that the columnist had heard the scritching of Sherlock's glove against the heavy material of the curtains. He almost, almost rushed out then, to Hell with everything, he was going to try to get Milverton unconscious, it wasn't as if he had never done violence before, just that it was never, as far as he could tell unprovoked or undeserved, but Milverton wasn't a nice man anyway, think of the kids, Sherlock had said…and it was Sherlock who stopped him by giving his hand – they were still holding hands, sweet Jesus, they were committing robbery and holding hands, it was like a bad romance novel gone worse– a small backwards tug and a slight reassuring squeeze of his own.
Wait, he seemed to be saying. I've got this. Or maybe even I've got you.
It was a good thing that he had. Milverton hadn't noticed them at all. What he was paying attention to was a light tapping on the French window that opened out onto the paved walk on the side of the house that led to the back garden. He sat up, and as the tapping grew more insistent, stood, strode purposefully to that window, flung the curtains on them apart (John was beyond glad that he hadn't chosen to hide behind those draperies), and scowled at whoever was waiting outside before pulling open the double panels to let them in.