I would like to offer my thanks to 8of9, birdie7272, oatniel, KaKiJo, The Lord Writer, ENTWolf, snapletonius, jenpix, Drunken Strawberries, EJ 12212012, and all those who have favorited/followed this story. I've mentioned once or twice that things aren't so stellar in real life at the moment, but writing this story, and seeing your enthusiasm for it really helps.
Chapter 17: Trust
John sipped at the dregs of his tai iced tea while he waited for Sherlock on the corner. Sherlock had nipped into a local grocer for a cheap loaf of bread. John hadn't been quite done with his tea yet and had stayed on the corner to get some air. He knew that Sherlock would be back quickly, but it gave him a little time to think.
For the past few days, in the quiet moments when they weren't subtly tailing Albert and Trevor, John found himself fighting a growing sense of dread-like he was at the edge of a deep precipice with strong winds all around him. Of course, the metaphor didn't help; it just brought his mind to entirely separate, and equally unpleasant memories.
John swallowed, shook his cup, and listened to the ice rattle as he tried to pin point the cause of his distress. He was frustrated, sure. Even with opportunities which John was beginning to suspect were planned (by Sherlock), he still hadn't been able to achieve satisfaction. Sexual frustrations aside, there was something else nagging at him, some larger concern he couldn't seem to pin down.
John's feelings for Sherlock were...well, they were his own feelings, and he would deal with them appropriately. Sherlock and he had already (kind of) talked about that (not really) before the wedding. So what was it?
John summoned the memory of a conversation long past. It was, in fact, not long after Sherlock's 'return'. Sherlock had given all appearances of focusing on an experiment when he straightened, suddenly, and turned to face John. "When did you decide you trusted me?"
John had lifted his head from the book he'd been reading, his face the picture of confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"
"When did you decide you trusted me?" Sherlock repeated. "Things have, for all intents and purposes, returned to normal. This indicates that you trust me, that you forgive me. Why?"
John's eyes had softened then, and a slow smile formed on his lips. "I've always trusted you."
Sherlock raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Always?"
John smirked and replied, "I don't shoot serial murderer cabbies for just anyone, you know."
Sherlock had smiled at that and seemed reassured He had just begun to return to his experiment when John added, "Also, telling me that Irene Adler was still alive helped a bit. Are you going to try to track her down again now that Moriarty's web is destroyed."
Sherlock made a face. "Why would I want to do that?"
"I dunno," John had replied with a shrug, "I always figured you had a thing for her or something."
Sherlock rolled his eyes then, and gave a derisive snort. "Please. She was a worthy opponent for the game, I grant you. But...romantically? I believe the saying is 'We would kill each other.'"
John had raised an eyebrow at this. "Oh? You wouldn't choose someone as smart as yourself for a romantic partner?" Sherlock had given him such an intense, and such an odd look then that John was forcibly reminded of Sherlock's first comments on love. "Right, sorry, not your area." John had lowered his head, resolved to return to his reading when, just barely, he heard Sherlock speak again.
"If I ever did...I would want to do it properly." John had slowly raised his head from his book and glanced carefully at Sherlock, half suspecting his flat-mate to run when he realized he was under observation. He'd only ever hear Sherlock talk about love derisively, and never seriously. "I would have to trust them completely."
And there it was. The one reason the great Sherlock Holmes may never be moved to love. There was only a handful of people he trusted at all, and that was somewhat begrudgingly. Perhaps he and Mycroft both saw too much of the dark underbelly of the world to make themselves that vulnerable except in a case of absolute trust. And how could one trust when they saw the truth behind so many lies just by walking down the street? Didn't say much for the state of humanity, that's for sure. Even so, John had, and did feel honored to have what trust Sherlock felt he could still give.
John had allowed a small, contented smile to form on his lips. "Well, you'll always have me," he had murmured. Sherlock had turned away then, but not fast enough for John to miss the answering smile on his lips.
Pulling himself back to the present moment John resolved to rely on the trust Sherlock and he had formed. Sherlock had known how difficult this case would be, that was why he had asked John for his participation in the first place. 'I really need to focus on feeling, going along for the ride, and unpacking things later when...this...is over...' John mused to himself, leaning forward to deposit his empty plastic cup in the public bin close to him. When he straightened again John leaned right into a solid, warm wall of Sherlock.
Sherlock's arms tightened around his middle. John closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock used the opportunity to place small kisses and nips along John's neck and up his jaw. John turned towards his husband as Sherlock's lips found his, drawing him into a slow, heated kiss. Feeling breathless, John slid his hands up his husband's arms before stopping to play lazily with the ends of Sherlock's curls. John leaned into Sherlock, suddenly dizzy as their mouths slid together. He could feel Sherlock's fingers fisting in his shirt (it was a bit too hot for jumpers) and felt a thrill run down his spine. John shouldn't find Sherlock's possessive side so...compelling, but he did. When Sherlock finally pulled away John bit his lip to stifle a wholly embarrassing whine that threatened to rise in his throat.
"Time to get to the lake," Sherlock murmured against his lips.
Lake? John's brain felt a bit fuzzy, a side effect from being so...frustrated, recently. Oh, right, the lake. Albert and Trevor were going to have a picnic by the lake, according to Mycroft, and Sherlock had suggested feeding the ducks on the far side so that they could keep an eye on the newlyweds without raising suspicion. John took a step back and cleared his throat. "Right, which way?"
Sherlock's gaze lingered on John for a moment, accompanied with a smirk that made John sure Sherlock was aware of his affect on John and was taking some smug satisfaction in his...influence. John looked pointedly at the ground, feeling himself blush. He really had to get some relief soon or he would embarrass himself, with or without the excuse of biology. For all that, he felt an easy smile tug at his lips when Sherlock's hand brushed against his, interlocking their fingers.
Sherlock gave John's hand a gentle tug and murmured, "This way." John did what he always did, he followed Sherlock.
A childlike giddiness swelled in John's chest as they approached the lake. Most of the ducks were paddling in the water of the near shore. John tore open the bread and started tossing breadcrumbs before they were properly close enough, but it did attract the ducks attention, causing them to cluster towards Sherlock and John.
John knew Sherlock and Mycroft both were tracking the royal newlyweds so, he decided to concentrate on feeding the ducks. As Sherlock had often reminded him on a stake-out, they couldn't both look. After a brief glance at the newlyweds picnic site, John handed the loaf to Sherlock so that he could grab a slice and resumed his own process of tearing off pieces of bread to toss to the ducks.
By the time he reached for his third piece, John was feeling more than a bit surrounded. Most of the ducks were waiting patiently, but they were also crowding kind of close.
"Sherlock," John began, pressing his side into his husband's, "Think we should move?"
"There's a bridge over the water to the left," Sherlock said indicating the direction with a shrug of his head, "As long as they keep to the water that should put a little friendly distance between us."
John gave a brief nod and leaned forward with the intent of jogging to the bridge, a bit eager to put some distance between himself and the pushy waterfowl, when Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him. "They'll only chase you if you run," Sherlock explained, walking at a measured pace beside John. John gave a quick glance over his shoulder and cringed at the creepy image of three dozen small birds walking in step behind them.
The path curved out and away from the water before circling back towards the bridge and, much to John's relief, most of the ducks took to the water again, heading for the bridge as well. A few stubborn ducks followed them onto the bridge, but Sherlock quickly coaxed them back into the water.
They stood close together, the loaf balanced between them as they drew off slices and distributed them in tiny pieces. The ducks were causing a small ruckus, drawing out stragglers from further along the lake. John drew back his arm and hurled the bread as far as he could, which admittedly, wasn't far, but it kept the ducks and a few stray geese from clamoring on top of one another to be in 'the best spot'.
John glanced over at Sherlock just as Sherlock turned to grin at him. In order to rest his elbows on the railing of the bridge Sherlock had leaned down, leaving their heads approximately level. Taking advantage of this, John side-stepped closer and leaned his forehead against his husband's. Sherlock let John rest there a moment, before swooping in for a quick kiss.
John smiled and leaned his side into Sherlock's, refocusing on the task at hand. He wondered if this was how Sherlock and he would act if they really were a couple. John decided they were a bit more affectionate now than they would be if this was the norm. John mused that their overly affectionate actions were, in part, because of John's own frustrations and, likely, in part to annoy Mycroft/play to their audience. It was the gentle leaning into each other, while more or less on a stake out, that John could see happening with regularity. Then again Sherlock's possessiveness seemed natural for him, that might motivate the consulting detective to act on his 'sentiment.' But, of course there wasn't any real sentiment of that nature between them. It was all (mostly) an act.
A carful nudge to his shoulder brought John out of his reflections. Glancing up, John locked onto Sherlock's pale blue/green gaze. "Something interesting about the bread?" Sherlock asked.
John flushed as he realized he had been studying the same small piece of bread for a few minutes now. He shrugged and let it drop into the water where it was quickly eaten. "Just thinking," he murmured, and God was he sick of it. He would talk himself into just going with things, barely glimpsing 'comfortable' before his muddled feelings and doubts would start creeping back in. Was it any wonder Sherlock tried to distance himself from his own feelings when 'feelings' could cause so much trouble? Still, he didn't want to upset Sherlock and make him doubt their ruse again; this case would likely turn out to be dangerous enough. That was a good thought to put voice to, considering Sherlock's appalling lack of concern for his own safety. "Don't do anything stupid on this case, alright?"
Sherlock seemed to understand, because a small smirk began to play on his lips. "Given my relative intelligence, I doubt that is possible."
John smiled and gave Sherlock a small nudge. "You know what I meant."
Sherlock's arm drew around John's waist, and squeezed the shorter man's hip. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak when his gaze suddenly flitted to the side, focused on something over John's shoulder. John turned to see yet another police officer looking sternly at them.
Remembering their last interaction with a police officer, John bristled. That is, until the officer in question pointed upwards and to the right at a sign that clearly prohibited feeding the ducks. John flushed, embarrassed that he'd missed it, then turned an accusatory glance at Sherlock. "Did you see that sign?" he whispered.
Sherlock gave an agitated sigh and rolled his eyes. "Of course I saw the sign. Irrelevant. Everyone feeds the ducks."
"Sherlock!" John hissed, but Sherlock had already straightened and begun to address the police officer.
"My apologies," Sherlock murmured, but John did not miss the subtle turn of Sherlock's heel. He was going to run and damned if John wasn't going to run with him. He'd had enough trouble with that graffiti incident.
"You'll need to pay a fine," the officer began, taking out his notebook.
John saw another smirk settle itself on Sherlock's lips and cringed internally. If Sherlock wasn't so smart, and so fast, he'd never be able to get away with being such an ass sometimes.
"Only if you catch us first," Sherlock drawled in his deep baritone. The officer had just begun to look up from writing them a ticket when Sherlock tossed the remaining bread at his feet and took off running, John following close on his heels. Most of the birds dove for the bread, but enough took to the air around Sherlock and John, creating such confusion as made it impossible for the officer to chase them.
Sherlock and John tore through the park, into the main part of town and ducked sharply into an alley before they stopped.
"That was a bit ... not good, Sherlock," John gasped out, trying to regain his breath.
Sherlock scowled in irritation. "Oh dear me, officer assaulted by water fowl. I'm sure he can expect much worse throughout the course of his career."
John giggled between puffs of air and shook his head. "Yeah, worse certainly has happened to New Scotland Yard officers on your account." Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "Won't we lose Albert and Trevor now?" John continued, peeking out into the street as though the royal couple would come strolling by any moment.
Sherlock shook his head. "Not likely." He tapped a discreet earpiece he wore which even John had trouble seeing. "Mycroft has alerted me of their next destination."
"Oh?" John tipped his head to the side and stared up at Sherlock, his breath nearly back, "And where is that?"
Greg breathed out a short huff of air as he pulled the large steel bowl closer and mixed the ingredients. He'd just added the last bit of the flour, leaving the batter at its thickest and, considering he'd already made two batches before this, his arm was getting a bit tired.
Greg had spent the first day or so after his row with Mycroft and Anthea going over the case file looking for new leads. He might have been able to ask Mycroft for new information, if there was any, but, in truth, he hadn't wanted to face him. Greg was still angry at Mycroft for being, well, Mycroft, but he also felt guilty for letting his temper get the better of him.
This case must have been wearing on everyone because he doubted Anthea would have snapped at him and revealed such a tragic, personal story otherwise. She probably had never shared that story with anyone but Mycroft and those involved. Greg felt guilty for knowing it now. There were many brave men and women working for the Yard, but they couldn't always get it right. There were, as Sherlock would say, too many variables. Greg liked to think Anthea's case would have gone differently if he'd been on the job, certainly if Sherlock had been.
That was what made being a 'copper' difficult, Greg never forgot the cases he couldn't solve, or when things went badly. He tried to use those lessons to be a better officer, but he still couldn't forget. A supervisor had told him once that's what made Greg a good detective, that he remembered mistakes and always scrutinized his own work. That supervisor had also advised Greg not to take his work home with him. Greg hadn't listened and it had been a strong factor in the end of his first marriage. Now, when he was 'living' this case as a consultant in the states, waiting for news, and stressed about recent developments, Greg did the one things he could think of to distract himself; he made cookies.
Like Sherlock, Greg also came from a large family. Greg was one of five children and, in addition to working as a teacher, his mother had become an excellent cook. Being one of the older children, Greg had also learned to cook. Granted, he could have chosen a healthier option than cookies, but he was upset, and this was comfort food.
The smell of peanut butter cookies with chocolate chunks wafted through the shared kitchen and, Greg was sure, the common living area as well. When he'd crept downstairs to the first floor of their accommodations just after lunch he hadn't seen anyone. He could only assume they were busy on whatever task Mycroft had set them to. Greg sighed as he stirred. He would have to apologize to Mycroft, and Anthea next time he saw them. In the meantime thought, he would finish what he had started.
Greg set the bowl down and tossed in large handfuls of chocolate chunks he'd cut from whole chocolate bars earlier. He had most of a batch cooling on the counter, one in the oven, and, shortly, this third would be ready to go. It was really too many cookies, even for the team they had, but it was soothing work and easy to do in the well-stocked kitchen. Greg was using a family recipe he'd had memorized for years that called for 20 tablespoons of peanut butter to a batch. Even now, as an adult that sounded like a ludicrous amount of peanut butter, but it made for soft, chewy cookies, so he wasn't about to complain.
Greg had almost made them without chocolate chunks (those weren't strictly necessary) when he hadn't found any. He wasn't sure who had ordered the chocolate bars, but he was grateful when he found them. Chopping them up had taken a while and left his hands coated in a thin chocolate film, which required a thorough hand-washing to remove. Much of this recipe resulted in sticky hands, and Greg had just stooped to wash his own hands again when Anthea pushed open the door, head buried in her phone as usual.
Greg winced when he saw her, but as it took her a moment to look up, she missed it. "Hi," Greg said softly, reaching for a towel to dry his hands.
"Hello," she murmured in reply, before looking back down at her phone.
Yes, this was definitely awkward. Greg had never walked away from a situation just because it was difficult, he wasn't about to start now. He dried his hands, then stepped around the counter to face Anthea. "I'm sorry," Greg said softly. She must have regained much of her composure because, while her fingers did hesitate a moment, she continued typing away. Greg was not deterred. "I lost my temper, and I should not have spoken to Mycroft like that. Also, I'm sorry I upset you so much." This time her fingers did still, but she still refused to look up. "I'm sorry Anthea, I won't tell anyone...I shouldn't even know."
Her eyes shifted then, a slow, sideways glance to the counter. "You've been busy," She observed, "Are the cookies any good?"
"You tell me," Greg said, offering a small smile and gesturing with his hand.
Keeping the phone in one hand Anthea stepped forward and lifted a cookie from the rack it had been cooling on. When she finished chewing she returned Greg's smile and said, "We may have found a use for you after all."
"Have as many as you like," Greg said, pulling on an oven mitt to take the newest batch out of the oven. It had hardly been a heart to heart, but Greg understood all the same. Anthea was willing to forget what had happened. When he talked to Mycroft, Greg would be a bit more insistent on being treated respectfully, but that was between him and Mycroft.
"I take it you all have been busy as well?" Greg asked, carefully placing the hot cookies on the rack with the aid of a spatula.
Anthea nodded, already reaching for another cookie. "It's a good thing you made so much, the others should be in shortly." As if on cue a handful of Mycroft's agents slid into the kitchen. Greg assumed they must have broken for a snack or something, since they all made their way to the kitchen.
It was gratifying to see evidence that Mycroft did not push his agents to exhaustion as Mycroft had told him. Greg imagined there were missions, days when they were pushed because they had to be, but while there was a lull in a case, like now, it was important to keep your team in top condition. Greg admitted he needed to take that advice for himself as well, and wondered if Mycroft might also need a reminder about pushing oneself.
"These are good mate!" One of the agents spoke up. He was a tall man with light red hair and pale skin.
Greg nodded and smiled. "Thank you. Please help yourselves, I may have gone a bit overboard."
There was a chorus of chuckles as the team dug in. "Have you found anything new?" Greg asked as he rinsed the cookie sheets to prepare them for the next batch.
A slender woman with short black hair and pale brown eyes rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I wish. I've been staring at a computer screen for hours."
"What have you been doing?" Greg asked, wiping the cookie sheets dry.
"Following every lead we have so far," The red headed man replied. He nodded his head towards the dark haired women and continued "Susan has been profiling every member of All God's Children United Church just in case we could find the killer there, and I've been pouring over newspaper articles about hate crimes or the death of someone in the GLBT community."
Greg let out a low whistle. "That sounds exhausting, and tedious."
Every nodded. "It is, " said Susan (probably not her real name), "but there is little active work to do until we get more information from Sherlock. It's looking to a needle in a haystack, but we might get lucky."
Greg nodded. "I could help," he offered.
The red headed man looked confused. "I thought you were. Mycroft said you were looking over the known victims. Not that I can blame you for taking a break, especially when it means cookies for everyone."
Greg smiled a bit as he spooned the dough of the next batch onto the cookie sheets. He guessed that was helping in the context of things, and it made him feel like more of an ass for his outburst hearing that Mycroft had 'covered' for him. Then again, remembering the way Mycroft had looked that night, both at Greg and Anthea, Greg doubted he wanted to repeat the events to anyone not present.
The door creaked again, and Mycroft joined them. Greg was both glad and upset to see him. Glad, because he did have to apologize, and upset because he wasn't about to do that in front of everyone. Not that Greg was embarrassed at having to apologize, but he knew Mycroft was a discreet person, and he did not want the other's asking questions, for Anthea's sake. He would have to wait until the other's filed out.
"Greetings," Mycroft murmured to the room in general, and received a round of 'hi' and 'hello in return.
"Greg made cookies," Anthea announced, having set the phone in her pocket for the moment.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he took in the scene. "I see," he replied, then turned to face Greg "Ingratiating yourself with my agents?"
Greg gave a sheepish grin. "Trying to, this is a difficult case." Mycroft's eyebrow remained raised for a moment as though he heard Gregory's intent to apologize in what he had said. Why wouldn't he, Mycroft seemed to know everything else.
Mycroft turned and addressed the agents. "Any progress?"
Susan and the red headed man shook their head ruefully. "Some interesting leads, but nothing that sticks out in particular," Susan explained.
Mycroft's lips pressed firmly together in a look of frustration and disappointment. Not that Mycroft was overly expressive, but Greg was used to reading the Holmes brothers.
As Greg worked, cross hatching his fork to create the traditional peanut butter cookie pattern uniformly across the into the dough he had just spooned out, he listened to the others review things they all already knew. He remembered Mycroft working in his 'office' on the night he had argued with him. It had been very late. He remembered Mycroft's lecture on taking care of oneself. Greg had seen enough of Mycroft over the years to appreciate the work he did, but now, getting a closer look, he had to wonder if this was all Mycroft did. No matter how well Mycroft might take care of himself, doing nothing but work was not healthy. Greg would know, he was practically the poster child for that particular short-coming.
And after hearing Anthea's story, Greg had to wonder what kind of stories the other agents might have... Greg had, quite recently called Mycroft's position lonely, maybe more lonely than Greg had realized at the time.
There was a lull in conversation just then, so Greg took the opportunity to speak up. "You can help yourself to the cookies too, Mycroft, if you want. I made plenty and they're still warm."
Mycroft turned towards Greg, his face carefully neutral. "No, thank you Gregory, I had best be returning to my own work."
Greg snorted derisively and said, "Yes, lord knows your brother won't spy on himself." As soon as the words were out, Greg pressed the palm of his right hand against his mouth as if to shut himself up. "I'm sorry," Greg mumbled pulling his hand away from his mouth, "God, I'm sorry, that came out before I even had the chance to think about it."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow in Greg's general direction before sauntering out of the room and, most likely, making his way back to his 'office' upstairs.
"You just love antagonizing Mycroft don't you?"
Greg turned to face Susan who looked as though she were suppressing a laugh.
"You're right," the red headed man added. "I overheard the two of them bickering about something early on our first day here, when we were all setting up."
Anthea, who had resumed her typing on her phone at this point, quirked an eyebrow at the group and said, "Neither of you had to go out and buy Mycroft a new phone."
Two confused faces turned to Anthea while an embarrassed Greg put the last batch of cookies in the oven and tried to think of a socially graceful way to follow Mycroft and apologize, properly.
"Greg did not take kindly to being invited over," Anthea continued in a low voice, "and Mycroft's phone fell casualty."
"Kidnapping is not inviting!" Greg snapped before bringing his palm to his forehead and muttering, "I have really got to stop that."
Susan and the red-headed man's eyes went wide. "You smashed his phone?!" The red-headed man whispered. "Susan's right, you do like getting under Mycroft's skin."
Greg let out a short sigh, and was suddenly seized by an idea. "You know what, you're right," Greg began, scooping up a small plate and laying out three cookies on it, "And I'm going to go do it again by persistently offering him sweets." There was a round of barely suppressed chuckles as Greg made his way to the door. Just before leaving he paused and turned back to the group. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, take the cookies out before they burn."
Anthea, who did not look up, nodded. "On it," she murmured.
Greg knocked on Mycroft's door frame, because the door to his office was open, and waited. After a few minutes of listening to Mycroft typing away on his, apparently undamaged, computer, Mycroft, who did not look up, said, "I declined your offer of sweets in the kitchen. Did you think the slight altitude difference would change my mind?"
Greg shook his head and leaned against the doorframe. "No, but I wanted to talk to you if you have a minute."
Something Mycroft saw on the screen must have amused him because he gave a wry smile before looking up with a more sober expression. "You have my somewhat divided attention."
Greg approached Mycroft's desk and sat down on a chair in front of it. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I still think you were being dismissive, but I was out of line, losing my temper like that." Greg placed the plate of cookies on the desk, and glanced down, thinking of Anthea again. When he glanced back up he found Mycroft studying him intently. Maybe it was the same instinct that drove him to become an officer in the first place, but something in Greg wanted to know what was going on behind those pale blue eyes, wanted answers.
"I knew you intended to apologize today when I heard you in the kitchen downstairs," Mycroft began, "Given your family history, I gather it is a comfort activity for you."
Greg shook his head and smiled despite himself. "Is there anything you don't know?"
Mycroft quirked a small smile back at Greg. "Only a few things."
"Yes, well, I'm here to help you with those things, if you'll let me," Greg replied in a low voice, "On this case anyway."
"I am used to working alone in most cases, Gregory," Mycroft admitted.
"It's probably been safer for you to do so in the past," Greg agreed, and leaned forward in his chair to continue speaking before Mycroft could interrupt him. "I'm not saying I even understand a fraction of what you do Mycroft, but I know enough to have a lot of respect for the work you do. You look after your brother in your own way, and try to put things right. John couldn't write about the 'Coventry solution' case on his blog, but he did mention it to me once, over drinks. That was brilliant."
Mycroft was looking at him again in a way that suggested he didn't know quite what to do with him. "I assure you, Gregory, I am not as susceptible to flattery as my brother can be."
Greg shook his head, but continued to smile. "I wasn't trying to imitate John, that really was a brilliant way out of it. But, my point is you do good work, and, at this particular juncture, you happen to be collaborating with myself, with Sherlock, and with the police here. I'd like to make this easier on everyone, if I could, not harder."
Mycroft 'studied' him again for a long moment before pushing his chair back and slightly to the side. "If you wish you may join me in my observations for the moment." There was a brief glance at the screen before Mycroft continued, "You might find Sherlock and John's current location amusing."
Greg's brown wrinkled in confusion as he stood to round the desk. "Where are they?"
"A sex shop," Mycroft answered without hesitation.
Greg sputtered as he approached Mycroft. "What?! Why?"
"They are still, mostly, trailing Albert and Trevor," Mycroft explained as Greg leaned towards the computer screen.
Sure enough, there were Sherlock and John, in a store that clearly contained a variety of dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, whips, floggers, ball gags, some other things Greg couldn't quite make out, and a rack of videos which were undoubtedly pornographic. "I'll be damned," Greg muttered, eyes scanning the scene. "Could I have a screen shot of this for blackmail?"
A soft chuckle cause Greg to turn his head to look at Mycroft, "As much as I admire your line of thinking, that video of a drugged Sherlock you have on your phone is a much more powerful 'bargaining chip' when it comes to my brother."
Greg gave a small laugh and nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right."
"I am usually right, Gregory," Mycroft replied.
Greg smiled and bit his tongue to stay silent. If Mycroft wanted the last word on this so badly, let him have it.
John fought the illogical urge to press closer to Sherlock. He was mostly successful. It wasn't as though he'd never been in a sex shop. When he was younger he knew several he would frequent. However it had been many years since then and John had, in general, become rather private about his sex life. While John had, fairly flawlessly, stood beside Sherlock during their little escapade through two different BDSM clubs earlier in this case, this shop felt a little more personal somehow. Especially because Sherlock had insisted that they buy something so they didn't look too suspicious. John didn't want to waste money, but he had very strong and very mixed feelings about perusing what the store had to offer with Sherlock watching.
Still John felt he did an admirable job of keeping his expression neutral, as task that was harder than it should be because of Sherlock's arm draped so casually over his shoulder.
"Well," Sherlock began conversationally, "We already have a riding crop at home. What do you think about looking over the dildo and vibrator selections?"
John felt his eyes widen slightly at Sherlock's casual tone. Not that there was any hiding what they'd supposedly come for in a store like this, but still. "Fine," John said, slightly clipped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "That would be fine." Damn Sherlock and his damn smirk. John didn't know why the universe seemed to be conspiring to torture him, but it's timing sucked.
Sherlock steered them over to a large display of dildos and vibrators of varying shapes and sizes, some almost comically impossible. "If I remember correctly," Sherlock drawled, tapping his fingers against his chin thoughtfully, "We both prefer vibrators, correct?"
John's throat seemed to slam shut on him for a moment and he coughed to clear it. How the hell had Sherlock known? Stupid question. Better one: Why was he bringing it up now? It was true that, while in uni, John had a bisexual girlfriend who, after some discussion, he had allowed to use a vibrator on him. John had never been afraid of exploring his own body to discover what he liked, and had quickly agreed to his girlfriend's suggestion. She had been much more experienced than him and had made it as comfortable as possible. There had been pain and a whole lot of stretching. Once that was out of the way, it have been...nice. Certainly not mind-blowing as other people had described, but nice. John hadn't felt that the movement did much for him, but the vibrations had created strong sensual stimulation. Since the end of that relationship John had used a vibrator occasionally when the mood struck, or he was curious to see if he could make the experience more enjoyable. He was even fairly certain he still owned one, somewhere in the recesses of his closet.
Being somewhat physically intimate with Sherlock during this-whatever- was one thing, but he hadn't expected to have a kind-of discussion about sexual preferences. Still, while adamant about his own privacy, John had, especially as a doctor, espoused the idea that sex was nothing to be ashamed of or squeamish about. John straightened and soldiered on. "Yes, and if plan to use what we buy on me I prefer the plastic models that have some give to them." It was the truth, and he was not blushing. He was not blushing. He was, seriously, almost not blushing.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow, his eyes glittering with amusement, but he kept his tone and expression calm. "I agree, those feel more natural."
Aside from the fact that John had never had an actual cock inside him to compare, he had to agree. Then again, Sherlock had never had an actual cock inside him either...right. Train of thought, not helping. Feeling like he needed a little distance, John said, "I'm going to go grab some lube, take a look, tell me what you like."
Sherlock, barely, managed to contain his smirk. "You know what I like, John."
John's steps faltered slightly when he heard that, but he pressed on. He quickly found what he was looking for and was debating browsing on his own verses finding Sherlock again, when Sherlock found him.
"What do you think about this?" Sherlock asked, handing John a white rectangular box with the a picture of a vibrator on it. The vibrator was clear with a purple base, which gave the appearance of the purple leaching up onto the plastic of the shaft. There was both vibration (with several speed options) and a set of fixed 'pearls' in the upper half of the shaft that spun when some... 'thrusting' motion of the vibrator was engaged. From what John could tell, while the vibrator was made of a flexible plastic, there was more flexible plastic between the 'pearls' and the head that allowed the vibrator to flex and 'thrust' if that feature was engaged.
John's interest was certainly peeked but, given what he knew of Sherlock's history, the detective had likely chosen this particular vibrator for himself. John wondered, briefly, if Sherlock could be as frustrated as he was, then quickly shut that thought down. Looking up with a carefully neutral face, John asked, "Did you grab the appropriate batteries?"
Sherlock smirked and brandished a package in his right hand. John had to admit to himself then that he had completely lost track of where Albert and Trevor might be. He couldn't ask about that so instead he asked, "Did you want to look at anything else?"
Sherlock shook his head and slipped his arm around John's shoulder once more. "I think we can be on our way," Sherlock murmured.
John fought not to shudder at Sherlock's touch. He glanced at the box in his hands and swallowed, hard. John knew needed to get some relief soon or his body would take it for him in his sleep. What he hadn't suspected was his sudden impulse to take the vibrator for a joy ride. That wouldn't be necessary, of course. With how on edge he was, when they got back to the hotel, John would take a hot shower and take care of things. Everything would be fine. Just, fine...