A/N Oh yeah. Just a reminder that this is rated M which means no one under 18 should read this, right? Of course right. Lots of inappropriate language and some naughty bits ahead. You've been warned.
Previously: John didn't even pause; it was a direct order. He stripped, hiding behind the turn of the stairs and threw the pants down before he charged up the remaining stairs and into Sherlock's flat.
Chapter 16
Several minutes later, John stood in Sherlock's shower, trying to rinse the day's shocks down the drain. Well hell, who wouldn't be shocked after being kidnapped, molested and threatened? And let's not forget tonight's highlight, finding his hot, new crush playing some perverted suicide game with the psycho-cabbie-from-hell, which forced John Watson to shoot the nasty psycho-cabbie to death. After all, John had to save his handsome idiotic crush from taking a poison pill, didn't he? Bloody hell.
John turned to let the hot water pour down his face. It was almost too hot, but, God, it felt good on his aching muscles.
Christ, it's all so farfetched. No one would ever believe it. John couldn't believe it.
The ex-army doctor thought about writing it all down, even blogging about it. His old therapist had wanted him to blog. He'd almost like to blog about what had happened over the past few days, but, of course, he couldn't, because the other nasty psychopaths, AKA Moran and Mor-whatever, would kill him, his sister and the handsome idiot who almost took the damn pill.
Just thinking about it all was exhausting. John tried to block it all out-just for a minute. He breathed slowly, steadily and slowly relaxed, as the hot water streamed down his tense body. He scrubbed his hands again, following Mrs. Sergeant Hudson's orders, and then he lathered the rest of his body with the amazing, lavender-scented soap.
What kind of guy has lavender bath soap and all these fancy hair products? A hot, sexy guy with razor-sharp cheek bones and eyes that change colors like the sky, blue or blue-green or grey or misty silver-depending on the man's internal barometer. I wonder what those eyes look like in a storm; I bet lightening shoots out of his eyes, when the man is really pissed off…or when he fucks the living daylights out of someone...
Okay, reality check. Remember that the hot, sexy idiot nearly killed himself; he's a madman. John felt like punching something again, preferably the tall, dark-haired detective with that alabaster skin.
The soldier stopped scrubbing. Since when do I use the word, alabaster, or, for that matter, worry about lavender soap? Shite, since when do I obsess over another bloke's body? Didn't take me long to switch sides, thought John drily. Maybe I really have been sexually repressed all these years... Hell, wouldn't that make an interesting blog. Yeah, John's Incredible Journey into the Exciting World of Bi-sexuality. Yup, meet the new and improved John Watson, the sharp shooter who smells like lavender. John snorted at himself.
Actually, the soap wasn't just lavender; there was some other herb mixed in. Maybe it was camomile. Whatever. It smelled good. It smelled just like him, just like Sherlock. Mmmm... John thought, stretching luxuriously, and now I smell just like Sherlock Holmes. And that thought was hot, and John felt himself blushing like an idiot.
And his cock immediately responded too. Damn. He really wanted to reach down and...
He didn't dare wank off in here. This wasn't even his shower. What if Sherlock came in and saw him? John pictured the detective watching him, as John Watson wanked off in Sherlock's shower. And that thought did it for him. He now had a throbbing, aching hard on, in someone else's shower.
He thought he heard pounding. Thunder? No. Christ! Maybe the police are at the front door; Mrs. Hudson had said they'd be coming. I gotta find some clothes, thought John desperately. He shut off the tap
Just then bathroom door banged open explosively.
"Police!" screeched a woman's voice, "come out, with your hands up!"
Thanks to years in the military, John remained calm, cool and collected, "Ummm, I'm not…I can't…"stuttered John, dashing the water out of his eyes and making it harder to see. Oh God, no towel, no clothes, "Look, I...I haven't got a towel." Okay, maybe he wasn't completely calm.
"Out! I have a gun, and you have two seconds to come out with your hands up," yelled the policewoman firmly.
Still blinking, John peered around the shower curtain and looked down the barrel of a gun that trembled ever so slightly. Standing behind the gun, Sergeant Donovan glared, her eyes narrowed. She was ready to shoot, and she was scared. Shite, nothin' worse than a nervous hand pointing a gun at your head.
"Get. Out. Of there. Hands over your head," Donovan barked; she waved the gun once for emphasis.
Hoping to keep Donovan calm, John stepped out. For a second, he tried to hold the curtain over his nether regions.
"Hands up," she yelled, he saw her trigger-finger twitch. Not Good.
John clenched his jaw and stepped out on to the cold tiles, with his hands over his head. He stood dripping wet; his blue eyes blazed in his crimson face.
"Sergeant Donovan," he greeted her through his gritted teeth, trying for a pleasant, businesslike tone. At the same time, John's engorged, red and purple cock jauntily saluted Sergeant Donovan. Oh bloody, fucking hell.
"You!" she looked down, staring at his saluting member, and then she looked back up to his burning face. "Y, You, you…" Donovan stuttered.
"Yes, me. I've surrendered, and I'm unarmed, and I'm following your orders. So would you kindly release the trigger?" asked John politely. Perhaps his voice was pitched just a tad bit too high, but this was probably the most embarrassing moment of his entire life. He stifled a hysterical giggle when his unabashed erection waved at her yet again.
They were at a stand-off.
From somewhere in the flat, Sherlock's deep voice boomed out. "John? John? Are you down here, I thought you would be in your room," John sighed, as he heard the pounding footsteps. Oh good, more witnesses. His aching member bobbed happily at the thought of Sherlock. Bloody hell.
John turned his stony gaze up to the ceiling. He tried to hum his song but couldn't remember a damn word. Hell, he couldn't even remember how to breathe.
John looked down in time to see Lestrade push in to the room behind Donovan, "What's all this...", he began. His eyes boggled more than hers. "Donovan, what happened? Did he threaten you?" asked the detective inspector.
Sherlock appeared, leaning over the DI's shoulder, appraising the naked blond dripping all over his bathroom tiles. John saluted the newcomers. Sherlock had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.
"No sir, but the suspect refused to exit the shower..."said Donovan, her dark eyes roving up and down John's body yet again.
"Because I wanted a towel, just a bloody towel!" snapped the former soldier.
Sherlock took in a deep breath; both Lestrade and Donovan stared at his naked and highly aroused boyfriend. And Lestrade, at least, was responding to John's virile display. Sherlock would have to either kill or distract Lestrade. Distraction was probably the better option, what with the armed and very hostile Sergeant Donovan standing in front of John.
"Oh for the love of God. Donovan, put your gun down," said Lestrade, "It's not like he's hiding any weapons."
"No! I won't," she declared, squaring her stance. "He's a suspected murderer and a danger…"
"He's only a danger, if one of us bends over," said Sherlock from behind Lestrade. He had to get them away from John.
"Honestly, Donovan, you're perfectly safe" said Sherlock, drily. "And even you have to admire the man's ability to stand up under pressure." Yes, excellent, at least Lestrade had turned to face Sherlock.
A joke, thought John. That man just made a joke, no two jokes, about my…my cock. John was momentarily blinded by his humiliation and anger. Maybe, he thought fervently, maybe the blindness was a symptom of a burst aneurysm, and maybe, just maybe, John Watson was about to die. He could only hope.
Lestrade and Donovan began to chuckle, then to laugh out loud. Sally Donovan bit her lips, trying, unsuccessfully to stop. Lestrade's face was cherry red, as he leaned against the door frame and laughed uproariously. John hoped the detective inspector choked on it. All the while, Sherlock Holmes smirked insufferably.
It was unforgivable… John would never speak to that man again. He would probably never speak to anyone ever again. John pressed his lips together, sealing them for all eternity. John was going to kill himself and then come back to haunt the arrogant, bastard Homes. And he STILL wouldn't talk to that bloody, fucking, son of bitch…
"Oh, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson sadly, trying to talk over Lestrade's guffaws and Donovan's sniggering. "Sherlock, where are your manners? Get your John a dressing gown.'
"I'm NOT HIS JOHN," seethed John though gritted teeth. His vow of silence was forgotten. However, he decided that it was okay with him, if Donovan pulled the trigger. Really, it would only hurt for a second.
John glared from under his heavily furrowed brows, daring her to shoot, as he deliberately lowered his arms. He rubbed his aching shoulder. Oh, right, everyone got to see his hideous scar too. And Jim's bite marks. Just fuckin' brilliant. He could imagine the small talk around the cooler at Scotland Yard tomorrow morning. Brilliant.
Donovan, still sniggering, finally backed away, with her gun lowered to the floor.
The blond soldier silently smoldered, which was devastatingly beautiful, decided Sherlock. The tall detective stretched his long arm out to snatch his blue silk dressing robe down from off a hook. The dark blue silk would look so good against John's golden skin, thought the World's Only Consulting Detective. And of course the color mirrored John's eyes.
The blond soldier tore proffered dressing gown out of Sherlock's hands. Still glaring daggers at the taller brunet, he shoved his arms into the sleeves and tied the belt in a knot, without even drying off.
John definitely seemed upset. Hmm, perhaps, considered Sherlock, perhaps he should make the police stop leering at his new boyfriend…
Sherlock sharply elbowed the detective inspector, who had enjoyed the spectacle far too much. Lestrade winced in pain but took the not-so-subtle hint and slowly dragged Donovan out to the kitchen, where they both collapsed into hysterical laughter.
Sherlock leaned down to ask John if he was alright, but John pulled away with a furious, little hiss.
Oh. Oh, for some reason, John is angry with me, thought the consulting detective. John stormed past Sherlock without a backwards glance. It was a pity, because the little soldier was frankly adorable, enveloped in Sherlock's oversized robe.
John was careful not to trip over the hem of that blasted, oversized, silk robe. No need to look more ridiculous than he already looked. He ignored the ridiculous, giggling detectives and gratefully accepted a hot mug of tea from Mrs. Hudson.
Had she seen him starkers too, John wondered? The thought made John gasp, and he choked on his hot, sugary tea. He sputtered and coughed while Lestrade, still laughing, pounded his back. Regrettably, John did not choke to death. Dear God, would the humiliation never end?
Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, and shouldered Lestrade aside.
"What did you do? What did you say?" demanded Sherlock furiously. He tried to pull John close, while pounding the doctor's back.
Lestrade protested that he didn't say a word. John tried to demand that Sherlock keep his big, stupid, hands to himself, unhappily, the ex-army doctor only managed to wheeze and sputter.
In exasperation, Mrs. Hudson took charge. She led John out into the sitting room and sat him on the settee, with a warm, comfy, crocheted rug tucked over his legs. After handing him his tea and patting his hand, She returned to the kitchen to give a piece of her mind to the others. She kept the others in the kitchen, while she made more tea and gave her statement to Sergeant Donovan.
It was peaceful in the empty sitting room. John ignored the tall, brunet man, who made jokes about other blokes bloody erections, that incredibly stupid Mr. tall, dark and handsome, who would keep leaning through the door to stare rudely at John. Instead, the soldier paid attention to the impressive Mrs. Hudson. She should have been in the military, what with her ability to organize and give orders.
Finally able to breathe again, the sniper concentrated on the landlady's every word. Evidently, she could lie easily and believably. It was a valuable trait, under the right circumstances-like tonight, for instance. Not only did she lie well, she said it all so simply and clearly. Surely John would be able to repeat the lies and support her story later on. Except that John knew that he was not a very convincing liar. His forehead furrowed as he scowled into his overly sweet tea.
She told the detectives about her concern over poor, wet, chilled John-dear, who was probably coming down with pneumonia. She explained how she had convinced him to allow her to dry his sopping wet clothes, while he took a nice hot shower. Just the thing for a chill. She expressed her outrage at the way the police took advantage of the poor boy, a wounded war veteran and all. Making him stand naked and dripping wet, for no good reason. And just wait and see how that turned out, just hear him coughing again. (Never mind that I choked on the bloody tea, thought John) Well, the cough was just proof that he was destined to come down with a cold or perhaps, something much worse. Fortunately, she had put lemon in his tea, just the thing for a cough. She would just have to bring dear John some honey, if the cough kept up. And Mrs. Turner had given her some herbal tea...
No John was not impressed, he was awestruck, by Mrs. Hudson's performance. She made up the entire story and then distracted them with that Turner woman and honey and teas. She was almost as amazing as Sherlock. Wait, he was still mad at Sherlock. Wasn't he?
When Donovan came out to the sitting room for John's statement, the painful and truly mortifying erection was a thing of the past. He could also breath. Both of these improvements allowed him to speak normally once more.
In his statement, John confirmed Mrs. Hudson's story, although he confessed that he probably didn't have pneumonia. Mrs. Hudson shook her head gravely.
John confirmed that he had considered a flat share with Sherlock Holmes. However, now, he just wanted to go home. No, he would not be moving into 221B. No he did not contemplate dating Sherlock Holmes, because John Watson was, in fact, not gay. There, that should satisfy the psycho-demonic-Irishman.
A small, not very nice part of John was pleased to read the disappointment and hurt that flared briefly across that arrogant, handsome Holmes face. Serves the ruddy bugger right for laughing at me. The rest of John Watson was already preparing an abject apology.
Meanwhile, John did not see how his housing arrangements or his sexual orientation concerned Scotland Yard. He sternly and resolutely refused to answer any more questions of such a personal nature.
No, he did not have a gun in his possession. That should have been obvious when he stepped out of the shower. This comment made both himself and Sergeant Donovan blush furiously. Sally wasn't half bad-looking when she blushed. Then she scowled at him. He glowered back.
No, he did not go to the Rolling Car Furthering Education School or what ever it called itself. And why on earth would he shoot a perfect stranger at that school, even if he did? Which he didn't. Because he was at 221B taking a shower. Yeah, John was a terrible liar.
John decided it was time to shut up and drink his cold, sickeningly sweet tea.
Lestrade studied the innocent looking little blond on the couch, quietly sipping his tea. The questioning was over. Doctor Watson chatted with the kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, apparently about hand laundering cashmere jumpers. Just a nice, quiet, little, domesticated bloke.
In a pig's eye.
Lestrade didn't buy the whole innocent, little blond routine. Not for one second. There were a handful of people in all of Britain, who could have taken that shot tonight. And one of them was sitting on the settee discussing laundry soap.
Thanks to Sherlock, Lestrade already knew that John had met Jefferson Hope before. What a coincidence.
He had no proof, but Lestrade knew for a fact, that John Watson shot that cabbie in cold blood. And yes, that probably saved Sherlock's life. Still, the Detective Inspector had more questions, but he probably wasn't going to get them answered in front of witnesses.
"Donovan, please wait in the car," he said. She made to protest but backed down at the set look on his face. She huffed and swept out of the room.
"Mrs. Hudson," apologized the detective inspector, "I'm sorry, but I need to speak to Doctor Watson, alone."
"Yes, well, I'll just say good night then. Good night, John dear; you just sleep here tonight," said the old dear, patting his hand. "It's for the best," she added in a whisper. Only John saw her knowing wink. He blushed again.
"Good night, Sherlock. Now be nice to your guest. He's had a very trying day. Oh, and don't forget, Sherlock, he's fighting off pneumonia too. Give him plenty of tea with lemon..." Mrs. Hudson waved to Lestrade and slipped out of the room, favoring her dodgy hip and mumbling about bringing the boys up some honey.
"You too, Sherlock, out," said Lestrade, pointing at the door with his thumb.
"And leave you to ogle and harass my client, I think not," sniffed Sherlock.
"Ogle? You've got a lot of nerve, Sherlock. And anyway, you're not a bloody solicitor. So, bugger off. Now!" demanded the detective inspector, still slightly amused at Sherlock's antics.
"I never claimed to be a solicitor, Lestrade. Perhaps you should get your hearing checked," said Sherlock, placing himself between Lestrade and John.
John had taken a big risk to protect Sherlock tonight. The consulting detective did not want his soldier harassed by Lestrade. He also did not want the detective inspector alone with the scantily clad soldier. He had seen the way the detective examined John in the bathroom, and Lestrade's physical reaction had not escaped Sherlock's sharp eye either.
"Sherlock, I don't have time for games!" snapped Lestrade.
"Then you shouldn't play them, Lestrade," quipped Sherlock, "I am investigating a man who is threatening and harassing my client. I have reason to believe that the same man my have been involved in the serial murders. In my role as John Watson's consulting detective, I must be present during any interviews, his very life may depend upon it," finished Sherlock with a dramatic flourish.
He whirled around to make sure that John was still paying attention. He was gratified to note that he had John's full, appreciative attention.
"Lestrade…" Sherlock began again.
"Oh, shut it, Sherlock. Stay if you like," said the detective inspector, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "Okay, Watson, so you've got Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock Holmes covering for you, very effectively I might add. For starters, I'd like to know you managed to wrap them around your little finger in a few short days. I need answers, Watson, I'll take them off the record because I bloody well know that's all I'll get, but I need to know how you fit into all of this."
John's mouth dropped. Did the DI really know who shot the cabbie or was he bluffing? And what exactly was Lestrade suggesting? John never wrapped anyone around anything. Wait… that sounded bad. Oh dear God, John's thoughts shot off on another, decidedly inappropriate, tangent and his blood rushed south for the second time that night. He vividly imagined someone's long, tapered fingers wrapped around his eager, throbbing…
They were staring at him. Oh hell. Oh bloody hell. Sherlock was smirking. He knew exactly what John was thinking. Shite. John tried to recall his indignation from earlier but all he felt was pure lust.
"I, um, I don't know what..I don't know anything about…"John tried to explain, his voice thick and, dear God, he really needed a drink!
"Bull crap!" barked Lestrade. He stepped forward menacingly. He was certain that Watson's harsh voice was due to fear and guilt. He was usually a very good interrogator, and he was prepared to press his advantage. "You shot that cabbie, and I want to know who you were working for this time."
"AH," interceded Sherlock smoothly. Clearly, the his virile, little soldier was in no condition to fence with the best investigator that the Yard had to offer. Fortunately, Lestrade was no match for Sherlock Holmes. "The detective inspector thinks that this was all an elaborate set up between you and Moriarty, John. But to what purpose Lestrade?" He spun and turned his laser like focus back to the greying detective. "Do you suppose that all this was orchestrated, just to assassinate the cabbie? Or was it to impress me? What is the motive?" Sherlock moved so that he overshadowed the detective inspector. "You don't have a motive, because there is no motive! Honestly, Lestrade, why you even try thinking is beyond me," finished the consulting detective dismissively. He nonchalantly tossed a Union Jack pillow onto John's lap.
Oh bloody hell, is it that obvious, thought John?
"Wait a minute," said John furrowing his brow and shaking his head in denial. He was a man, a soldier, he could speak for himself. "No. I'm not working for anyone. I didn't want to shoot… I didn't shoot…I, why the hell would I want to impress… anyone," sputtered John. Not the best explanation in the world. He glared at the arrogant younger man who apparently thought John just went around trying to impress cocky young consulting detectives.
Wait. Wait a bloody damn minute….Who the bloody hell is Moriarty, wondered the blond?
"Who the hell is Moriarty? D'you mean Jim?" asked John standing up and pulling his stupid silk robe shut. It kept sliding around, gaping open and …John abruptly dropped back down onto the settee and covered himself with the pillow again.
"Jim?" asked Sherlock, his eyes blazing. "Ahh, Moriarty's first name is Jim… how did you find that out?" he spoke rapidly at the end, with his head tilted to the side. His steely eyes fixed on John, like a predator, thought the former doctor.
"I just asked. I asked Jim what his name was. I figured, what the hell; why not? I guess it was a bit of a gamble," conceded John. His robe slid slightly off his shoulder. "I mean, of course it was a bit of a risk, what with his tendency to shoot people when he gets a little miffed…"
Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly, not wanting to shout at the blond and scare him off. Then he said, "A bit of a gamble? You could have been killed," said the detective, eyeing the doctor coldly to mask his distress at the very thought. "You gave up gambling for a reason, John Watson. You were not very good at it. Please refrain from such behavior in the future."
John drew himself up into his most imposing officer's stance, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was less effective than usual since he was seated and his hands were lost in the long silk sleeves.. Then there was that tantalizing bit of shoulder peeking out. Sherlock was quite taken with the view.
"Never mind the gambling," snapped Captain Watson, misinterpreting the stares that he was getting, "How did you find out Jim's name is Mor-i-arty?"
"I merely insisted that Hope reveal the name of his sponsor. So…I have finally discovered the man's full name," said the consulting detective softly. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, deep in thought.
"Oh for God's sake," muttered John. "You discovered? You? Discovered it all by yourself then, did you?"
"Fine," snapped Sherlock. "With the able assistance of John Watson…"
"Why don't ya just say the boy wonder and leave it at that," barked John, "Ya could just say with the help of the bumbling but lovable boy wonder, YOU bravely pulled the information right out of the enemy's teeth!" John stood at attention, as befitted an officer of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Regrettably, his threatening fists were hidden in the long blue sleeves and his arousal was quite prominent, which marred the militant effect.
"Clearly, I've irritated you. Dull," said Sherlock, his voice ending in a great sigh. "I have conceded your assistance in the matter of Moriarty's name. I fail to see…"
"Oi! You two can bicker later; when I'm done," said Lestrade sharply, causing both the blond and the brunet to whip their heads around. Obviously, they had forgotten that the DI was still there.
"So, if this Moriarty didn't send you, Watson, then tell me, how did you just happen to find Mr. Hope and Sherlock, when we couldn't?"
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and collapsing dramatically onto the settee, "Really, Lestrade, what goes on in that little mind of yours? No John, let me handle this," he waved John back with one hand. "Detective Inspector, you have no proof of John's involvement, and that's because there isn't any proof. However, I will satisfy your curiosity, if only to make you leave us alone."
"Now, if you had paid attention, you would have noticed that my laptop, which,only hours ago, you and I used to locate Jennifer Wilson's phone, has been moved. Indeed, there are traces of moisture on the cover indicating that it was actually taken out into the rain," said the tall man speaking rapidly. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You did not move it. And Mrs. Hudson is not a likely candidate, and surely she would not have taken it out into the rain. Obviously, it was John. He used my laptop to locate the phone and, thereby, me and the cabbie. He was more successful than you lot, I might add. There, child's play."
"It was fortuitous," continued Sherlock. "that Moriarty chose to rearm John this afternoon." John looked up, confused by the sudden truth. "No doubt it was intended as a bribe or, indeed, a love token," said the declaiming detective.
Both John and Lestrade looked askance. "Oh dear God, we were made aware of Moriarty's prurient interest in the good doctor at the very beginning of this case," said Sherlock in exasperation. "And it's obvious that John spent the afternoon with Moriarty. The clues are abundant. John has new bruises and bite marks, which were on clear display, thanks to the zeal of Sergeant Donovan. Oh stop blushing, John. It's very distracting," John's crimson face went incandescent.
"In addition," continued Sherlock, "there is a brand new, extremely expensive leather jacket and a new pair of shoes drying in the hallway. The clothing that Mrs. Hudson has laundered, would never have been selected by John, especially that regrettable lavender jumper. So, Moriarty felt the need to redress his ersatz boyfriend, indicating that he is not truly satisfied with John as he is. This, incidentally, shows that while Moriarty has shown the good taste to be attracted to John, he is still an idiot, because who in their right mind would want to change anything about John. He is quite perfect as is. Then there are the wine stains on that insufferably purple jumper. John is not a wine drinker; no, he prefers ale. Besides, given his family history of alcoholism, John would not normally have taken several drinks so early in the day; therefore he was under considerable stress or perhaps even under considerable duress. And if that wasn't enough, John himself told us that he had asked Moriarty for his name. Which was a foolish gamble given Jim Moriarty's mental instability. It was inherently dangerous at the time, and it increases your danger long-term, John. It increases the likelihood that Moriarty will have to kill you in the end, since you will know too much about him. You must learn to think before you act, John Watson. On top of that, Moriarty will no doubt interpret your innocent question as flirting and so mistake your interest in him. Or have you become interested in him, John."
Sherlock whipped his eyes to the side, pinning John under his white-hot glare.
John mutely shook his head, his lips parted in surprise as the deductions rolled over his head. He could barely follow them and then again, wasn't there a compliment buried in there somewhere? Something about John being perfect? He must be mistaken…
"John made yet another error," continued the deductive genius. "John entered the wrong school building. Now, admittedly, there were not many clues to go on. However, if he had bothered to observe carefully, John would have noticed that the recently trimmed grass was scattered on the walkway, which led to the building containing Mr. Hope and myself. And that grass had been disturbed as we entered. There was a clear trail, which, unsurprisingly, your forensics team also missed. So, predictably, I suppose, John entered the wrong building. In the end, he relied on serendipity to discover my location."
John gaped, "That's amazing. No really, that's brilliant." He stared in admiration at the genius.
Sherlock's lip almost twitched into a smile. "The rest, even you should be able to deduce, Lestrade. From the adjacent building, John saw me with Mr. Hope. He feared that I was about to take the pill…"
"You were about to take the pill," the army captain corrected sharply. He pressed his lips together, regaining his stern officer's look, at least from his shoulders up.
"Nonsense, I was simply buying time, until you came," said Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"No. Oh, no,' John replied instantly, "You had no idea that I was coming. You were about to take the damn pill."
"Why would I?" asked Sherlock, all innocence.
"Because you're an idiot," said John, his brows raised in triumph.
Sherlock's lips twitched into a grin.
"Where is the gun now," demanded Lestrade, before the two of them could get into it again, or God help him, get it on.
"He threw it in a skip, of course," said the consulting detective. With a swift glance to the side, he silently commanded the doctor's silence. "Certainly, John, would not be so foolish as to wander around London with a gun that was wanted in a homicide case," the word obviously, was in subtext.
John tried not to look chagrined, since he had, in fact, wandered foolishly around London with a hot handgun stuck in his waistband. Sherlock glanced at him again. There he goes, reading my mind again, thought John.
Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him and rested his head against the arms that were crossed behind his head. "Now, John would have been upset, in shock, after seriously injuring the cabbie. As a doctor he probably deduced that his shot, which he fired, intending to wound, had killed the cabbie. John is a fine marksman, but not perfect. And now, having accidentally killed the cabbie, he was in shock, which will have impaired his memory. And now, he won't be able to remember which skip it was." Sherlock faked a sad face, as he fed Lestrade disinformation after first telling him the truth. A simple but always effective way to misdirect the foolish, Sherlock thought smugly. His face resumed its cool mask of indifference. "Feel free to search all the skips between here and the college. If nothing else, it will give Anderson something useful to do. Perhaps you'll even locate the gun, which will be unregistered or stolen. Perhaps you'll locate other guns from other crimes. Of course, I am quite sure that John immediately thought to remove his fingerprints, so that even if you find the gun, it will not help you to pin anything on John Watson."
John's fingers twitched uncomfortably. How was it that Mrs. Hudson had thought to remove the fingerprints, and he hadn't? And anyway, he thought angrily, he hadn't missed his shot. He had fully intended to kill that murderous cabbie who dared to threaten the life of Sherlock Holmes.
"No Sherlock," said the proud soldier, "you're wrong. I didn't…"
"Shut up, John," snapped the consulting detective, suddenly looming over the shorter soldier. "You are still in shock. In fact, I wish you would sit down and cover yourself up, before you catch pneumonia. I shall have to get you more tea, just as soon as Lestrade is satisfied." He advanced further into John's personal space. John drew in a shaky breath, and backed up until he hit the settee, falling into it. His blue eyes remained locked on Sherlock's steel-grey eyes the entire time.
"Sherlock, you're making half of this up," said Lestrade, pulling his hand through his hair making it stick up. He didn't know what was worse, Sherlock playing him for a fool or having to sit in a room just oozing with sexual tension between the other two men. Christ, thought Greg Lestrade, that short, bad-tempered blond has got me all bothered too; ever since that scene in the loo…
Never mind that.
Technically, thought Lestrade, John Watson was guilty of murder. Not that the DI could prove it, even if he wanted to, which, to be honest, he didn't.
The cabbie had been terribly dangerous; at least four people were dead. And Jefferson Hope almost succeeded in making Sherlock homicide number five. Doctor Watson saved Sherlock's life; he alone managed to find and protect the younger man.
Hell, Watson saved them all a lot of work- building the case, collecting evidence, tacking down witnesses and fighting with soliciitors…and then, there was always that chance that the murderer could have gotten off. It had happened, more than once, to the Detective Inspector.
"Look, I can't have a vigil ante running about London," said Lestrade weakly. "No offense, but Watson's a loose cannon, a wolf in sheep's clothes…"
"Your mixed metaphors are inaccurate and tedious. To begin with, I did not 'make this up'; I deduced it, as always. Furthermore, there is no need to persecute John. He did the world a favor by removing a serial killer from the streets. He may have saved my life…
"I did save your life," muttered John, sullenly. "You do both realize, I am sitting right here. I can talk for myself."
"Then tell Lestrade that you are done, and that he should leave." The consulting detective waved his hand, inviting the older detective to depart at once. "Good bye, Detective Inspector. Say hello to Mycroft for us."
That little reminder about Mycroft was intentional. Lestrade needed to remember that the British Government would never allow John Watson to be prosecuted over scum like Hope. Not for sentimental reasons, no, of course not, but Mycroft was after bigger game. He was after the man who had ordered his own assassination. Mycroft wanted the sponsor, Jim Moriarty. Besides, Sherlock's older brother would never allow the name of Holmes to be dragged into the courts.
And just as important, the DI needed to be reminded that he already had a partner, Mycroft, and therefore had no business looking at John like that.
"OK, it's late," said the detective inspector, who halted in front of the door. "And I do need to see Mycroft." I really, really need to see Mycroft, thought Lestrade. He had an itch that only Mycroft could scratch. "We will continue this discussion..."
Sherlock jumped up and began pushing the detective inspector out the door.
"I want to talk to both of you tomorrow…" Lestrade tried again.
"Yes, yes, of course Lestrade. Good bye." Sherlock called down the stairs, before he slammed the door shut. "Good riddance…God! I thought he'd never leave," said the tall man dropping backwards onto the settee again.
John pointedly shifted as far away as possible, without actually getting up, and stared angrily at the ceiling. Then he turned to face the consulting detective.
Sherlock's fragile confidence began to evaporate under John's heated glare.
The two men sat with pressed lips and traded glares, as they thoroughly and spectacularly misunderstood one other.
A/N Did everyone see the trailer for Season 3, with John Watson's mustache? I do not care for it, and I blame Mary. They both need to go (Mary and the Mustache, I mean, obviously not John). Still, I watched the trailer over and over, and now I'm ready for season 3, but IT'S ONLY AUGUST! I have to wait for MONTHS!
OK, rant over. Sorry everyone.
Thank you to everyone who is reading this fic despite the excessive author's notes. I shall try to stop wasting my time on A/N's and watching irritating trailers that get me all riled up. Instead, I shall try to write diligently and post once a week. A vain promise, no doubt, but I will try.
Thank you especially to everyone who encouraged me with your wonderful reviews (with apologies for my delay in responding to most of your fantastic reviews). SO my sincere thanks go out to Sasodei-iz-awesome, Kyuugigurl74, EJ 12212012, SamuelE8688, Charles Lee Ray, power0girl, Formidable Rain, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, Minnesota Fireball Wolf, Darkkira1, Wicked Winter, Anyrei1.
I must admit, I didn't much care for Watson's suit either. I prefer his nice wooly jumpers. So that's three things. As in three things to lose. (I hope you're listening, Messrs Moffet and Gatiss-LOL) Lose the Mustache, the Suit and the inevitable Mary, who I just know is lurking in the shadows, looking lovely and winsome and AARGGHHH!
Disclaimer-You've probably all noticed that I don't have any claims or rights to SHERLOCK (which is no doubt for the best). Anyway, this is hardly a serious work of fiction, and so, won't be earning any money. It's just for fun, yeah?
Incidentally, Sherlock, was positively endearing, in the trailer, I mean. That look on his face at the end of the trailer….Well, it was to die for. BTW, his suit was just right, perfectly Sherlocky. And nicely fitted. Of course.
Oh, and I almost forgot. Mycroft, now Mycroft was positively dapper and so very attractive in his three-piece. I'm sure it was a three-piece. Really... I think I had better go check that trailer, one more time, just to be sure...Okay. Right. I'm an idiot. Of course Mycroft wore a three-piece suit. It's grey with a lovely blue tie. Very nice.
Now don't mistake me here. John is extremely handsome in his suit and tie. Very, very nice. It's just he always looked so comfy in his jumpers. And I think, if he had to wear a suit, then he deserved a blue shirt and blue tie to match his eyes.
Again, I blame Mary; really, I do. The least she could do is help him dress properly, you know, do his colors?
And did I mention that the mustache has to go? :D