Author's note: Tiny touch of smut, with more to come. More of a filler chapter, really.
Sherlock had heard the car pull up long before the occupant knocked on his door.
"Finally."
He threw himself down the stairs at breakneck speeds, bent on ridding the flat of the insufferable presence of his brother as soon as possible.
"Mycroft."
The detective stated dryly, his brother perched in the doorway, propped against his black umbrella casually.
"Sherlock. I'm glad that you made it home well last night."
He swung the cane out to point at the closed flesh on the detective's middle.
"I see that the good doctor has once again let you into his good graces. Shall I be sending supplies?"
Sherlock refused to rise to the bait.
"Just give me my belongings and kindly leave. I've a very important day ahead, and would like to do so without your presence."
The older Holmes smirked, his umbrella tapping the floor in repaid succession.
Two black clad woman appeared at the door, each pushing a dolly stacked with boxes.
And third and forth worker carried a large truck between them, containing -no doubt- the detective's new wardrobe.
"Fergus finished my suits I take it."
Mycroft nodded.
"Mr. McLeod was extraordinarily pleased to receive the news that you were, indeed, in need of his services again."
The detective hummed.
"I'm sure he was. He's always been fond of my business."
Another nod.
"Among other things."
He gestured towards the stairs, the workers hastily moving there burdens up the steps.
"Anything else Mycroft?"
His brother simply smiled, his lips pressed firmly together, before turning on his heels, his cursory words of warning forgotten.
Sherlock made his way up the steps to see the four workers standing in a semi-circle around the trunk, their expressions open and egar underneath thin masks of professionalism.
The smallest of the group, a trim brunette, with close cropped hair and coal black eyes stepped forward, her posture a echoing with authority.
"Mr. Holmes has informed us of our duty to -"
Sherlock snorted derisively, peeling out of his shirt -with complete and utter disregard for the others in the room-while simultaneously waving them away.
"Yes yes, I know what Mycroft told you to do. Get back to your car, I can dress myself."
They stood around uncomfortably as the detective cracked open the trunk, riffling through hanging suit after hanging suit until he selected the one he wanted.
When he noticed that they had yet to leave, he straitened to his full height, his eyes burning, while his features remained stoic.
The glare alone sent them to the door, two of them stumbling in their hasty retreat.
No sooner had the door slammed behind them did the detective hear the shower start.
He allowed himself a soft smile as he sifted through the hanging selection of shirts.
His fingers caressed the ink black silk of his newest shirt, the fabric a stark contrast to his ivory skin.
He pulled it on, slipping into the charcoal grey suit quickly, the well tailored suit hugging him perfectly.
With a final tug on his blazer, he turned to the mirror, admiring the fit of his new clothing.
He examined his appearance for a few moments more,combing his curls into a slightly more controlled mess before playing with the buttons of his collar until he came to a level of indecency that he knew John wouldn't be able to resist.
The sound of running water cutoff followed by the slapping of wet feet against tile, alerting Sherlock to the time.
He shut the trunk, latching it firmly before flopping carelessly onto the couch.
Now, it was time to wait.
SHSHSHSH
John stood in the shower, the icy water doing nothing to cool his racing thoughts.
It was clear that no mater how cold he ran the shower, his mind would still wander back to the image of Sherlock in his ill-fitting clothing standing in the center of the kitchen, his eyes glowing with the passion he thought long dead.
Granted, he thought that everything about that man had been long dead, still.
Reluctantly, he warmed the tap and hissed as the change in temperature burned his skin.
The change in sensation drew fire from his nerves, setting him on edge.
He ran a hand down his chest is cheeks burning at the feeling of his far too gaunt figure while his mind filled with images of Sherlock's filled out features.
A chuckle ripped from his throat at the thought that Sherlock was actually thicker than he was now, the irony of the situation not lost on him.
The hand reached is shaft, stroking himself slowly to the image of toned muscles and silver eyes.
He leaned against the shower wall, one fist stuffed into his mouth while the other twisted and pulled.
Tears of shame and anticipation fell from his eyes.
Shame for what he had become in the wake of the fall.
The shell of what he used to be.
The opposite of what Sherlock Holmes had fallen for.
Anticipation for the future.
For the evening that he could see playing before his eyes.
Those where the images that he shuddered to as he reached the edge, one quick twist toppling him over the edge.
He too a few moments to catch his breath, the less than stellar orgasm leaving him feeling unsatisfied.
Quickly, he lathered and rinsed his body, washing his hair and turning shutting the shower off.
John hastily padded across the room, rubbing himself with the warm owel hanging by the door.
He heard the squeak of the couch, no doubt as the detective flopped onto it.
With the deliberate efficiency of a soldier, he dressed in is battle armaments, the knotting of the dark blue tie finishing the ensemble.
A hasty styling of his too-long hair had him grinning at the reflection in the mirror.
It reality was amazing how much power a good suit and a good night's rest could change the appearance of a man.
The reflection looking back at him in the mirror was not the clinically depressed former soldier with PTSD and physical disabilities, but a suave and stately looker with a slim physic and the posture of an officer.
"Huh."
A double check with the straitening of buttons saw the former doctor marching into the living room.