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: Really, really, thank you for reading, and thank you for the reviews, and I am so sorry for the fic draught (here and in a few other stories) and I'll do my best not to let the gap between things get this wide again!

The Seduction of John S. Willoughby

Part Twenty-Seven

John Watson breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's not like we could have told him anything anyway," he said, trying to justify their outright lying to the law. (No-one had actually asked him about the cabbie, you see – he'd have had a hard time of it if they'd actually asked him about the cabbie.) He shifted in his seat, pulled out Milverton's pillowcase from behind him, and threw it to the floor. "I didn't get a good look at her."

"Really? So you didn't recognize her?" Sherlock didn't actually give him a questioning frown – it was the merest wrinkling at the top of his nose and a very slight bringing together of eyebrows – but it was a close thing.

"No. No, I didn't." John racked his brains for a mental image that fit the woman from last night. None did, at least not immediately. "Should I have?"

"I thought you would. You're usually so good with pop culture. I only got it because you've been keeping the telly on so much."

And that, through the vague feeling of surprise at Sherlock admitting to having paid attention to anything on television, was when John got it. Of course you had to factor in the lack of make-up, and the effects of stress and anxiety, and a gauntness that John associated with a general neglect of health (as well as possible substance abuse), and all that half-glimpsed in profile through a gap in the curtains, but that face had been all over the news a couple of months ago.

"No," he said, in utter disbelief.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"But – but the last I heard was that she'd left the country."

"Clearly she's come back. With a vengeance, if you'll pardon the pun. I think the hat was Norwegian, and the sunglasses were cheap, tourist things, both probably bought en route at the last minute. She's cleverer than she looks." Sherlock stepped up to the pillow, and stamped on it. "If she's really smart, she'll be out of the country again by now. If I'm right," he continued, grinding his heel into the thing, "she'll be trying to see her daughter first, and that will get her into trouble. Even more trouble if Lestrade's team performs with surprising lucidity, though I doubt they will. Will you be needing the kitchen sink?"

"What? No, do whatever you like with it." It would actually be nice for the sink – for something – to go back to normal. Well. 221B normal. "Start the circle of life again over there, by all means."

"Excellent. Though there's no need to exaggerate." Sherlock's tone was reproachful, and maybe a little distant now it was just the two of them again without any detective inspectors to throw off the scent. "I'll clear it up again after this has soaked for a few hours." And he snatched up the bundle of evidence and took it to the kitchen.

There was a snapping that could have been Sherlock pulling on a pair of latex gloves, then the gurgling and splashing of a sink being filled, and then the cloying scent of bleach was drifting into the sitting room. Sherlock followed it out of the kitchen and slid the glass doors shut behind him.

"I'll just leave that there for a while. If you could take it out around three o'clock and dump it a couple of streets away, I'd be very much obliged."

"Three?" John was incredulous. "But it's just turned nine."

"We can't be too careful. I might even add a splash of drain cleaner in a bit, what do you think?" Yes, that was definitely distant. He might have been talking to the skull. He didn't seem to be expecting an answer, and he went on as he settled on the sofa. "I'll turn it over at around ten." Sherlock peeled off his left hand glove, tucked it into his right hand, and turned that one inside out. He dropped the ensuing soggy packet quite carelessly on the floor. "Actually, no, take half of it, dump that a couple of streets away, I'll dump the rest of it a couple of streets away in another direction and take the pillow case, mmm, maybe to the bins behind Angelo's . That should mess things up nicely."

"So we really are getting away with it?"

"You saw Lestrade. Yes, we are."

"And to think I got into all that trouble just for holding somebody else's can of spray paint."

"That's the police for you. Wonderfully efficient when you don't need them. You already know not to put this on your blog, I won't insult you by asking. " And with that Sherlock began to stare blankly at the television. John had almost forgotten that they still had Monty Python on.

"That's nice of you."

Sherlock's answer was barely even syllabic. John recognized this as one of the signs that his flatmate was getting ready for a good post-case sulk, though it was happening much sooner than usual – Sherlock normally stewed for one or two days first – and he had a pretty shrewd idea as to what was bringing it on. And he was going to do something about it, honestly he was, only Lestrade arriving had thrown him off track, and he had to gain momentum again.

He edged over to the desk to pick up the newspaper Lestrade had left behind, and went through the Milverton story. It was a rather sensationalized account, but then that was what the papers did.

"Says here that Milverton's driver was injured while pursuing two masked suspects."

"Probably just a twisted ankle, unless you kicked him harder than I thought you did."

"No, I don't think I did. Doesn't say how he was injured, though, just that we escaped over the garden wall."

"Ah."

"There's even a statement from Milverton's P.A."

"Hm."

"John…John Willoughby, is that the bloke?"

"Mm."

"We're not going to talk about it, are we?" It just sort of slipped out. John had meant to work his way to it carefully, but, well, he blamed the decidedly studied way Sherlock wasn't doing anything about it. Not that he, John, actually wanted him to, but there was not wanting to talk about things and there was acting like a spurned twelve year old, and they were very different.

"About what?"

"About last night, Sherlock!"

"We are talking about last night."

"You know what I mean!"

"I do?"

"The – you – of course y-" John spluttered a bit in the face of his flatmate's attempt at pretending utter cluelessness. It was all in the wide open eyes and the way his hands were folded innocently over his stomach, and the worst thing about it was that he wasn't even trying very hard. John knew that amnesia wasn't really caused by sharp blows to the head, but unless something of that ilk had happened some time during the night, it meant that Sherlock knew that John could see through his act, and he just didn't care. There was nothing for it now. John, still standing, spread his hands on the table, leaned forward, and prepared for battle.

"The kiss, Sherlock," he said sharply. And then he realized that he had a number of those to choose from, and he had to pass a hand over his eyes as he tried to qualify it. The first one, that had been the pretended drunk, what-the-hell-was-that, for-the-case-didn't-mean-anything-sorry-for-the-trouble kiss. The second one had been part of Sherlock trying to prove that he was in earnest, and to get him to come along to burgle Milverton's house. And the third one. Well. That had actually felt like a series of kisses with indeterminate starts and debatable ends. He swallowed, licked his lips, regretted licking his lips with Sherlock looking at him like that, and finally said, slowly and deliberately, "The last one. We're just going to do that then, not talk about it?"

"Why? I can see you don't want to."

"Well, I don't-"

"Good. Pass me the nicotine patches, will you?"