RATED M for smut...ish
A/N BFBIC included after The Ritual Disclaimer
Chapter 38
The World's Only Consulting Detective helped his stumbling, stropy soldier onto the double bed, which had replaced the John's hospital bed. Also missing were the IV's and monitors. Mycroft's minions had been busy. The room now looked like hotel room, absent the carpeting and windows. John, however, was not mollified by the upgrades, he knew a prison cell when he saw one. So he sat on the bed with his arms crossed.
Patience was not one of Sherlock's virtues, but he was trying. Nevertheless, he ignored John's vociferous complaints and pulled John's gym pants off, leaving John in his pants, socks and over-large grey jumper, the last of which the blond stubbornly clung to. Most of the clothes had been borrowed from Mycroft's minions, although the jumper was donated by Lestrade. None of them really fit except for the wool socks which belonged to a woman. Sherlock did not divulge this bit of deduction, having recently discovered a modicum of discretion, at least where John was concerned.
Sherlock tried to inspect the wound dressing, but John refused to cooperate due to his vastly superior medical knowledge, which he emphasized with a swinging fist. The two men glared at one another for several minutes.
John was anxious, frustrated, angry, exhausted and in pain. He felt shame over failing to eliminate Moriarty, shame over his PTSD and shame that he needed Sherlock's help to just get into the ruddy bed. Sherlock would never want him now. Who the hell would want John Watson now? He was damaged and needy and God, he didn't want to lose his consulting detective. And if he was going to lose the best thing that ever happened to him, he didn't want to do it while in the custody of the man's over-controlling brother. Everything was FUBAR and John didn't know which way to turn. So he turned to anger.
"You know, just because there's a big bed with a fancy blue duvet and fluffy pillows, it doesn't mean it this isn't a prison cell," said John. He then half-grunted in pain as the brunet arranged John's leg on a pillow.
"I know you have a brain, John Watson," said the consulting detective, whose limited patience was wearing thin, "and it's time you started using it. You only have to stay here for a few days, maybe a week. And no one expects you to stay in your room the whole time. You'll have the run of the entire facility, aside from Mycroft's suite, which, I promise, you do not want to visit," he loomed over his little soldier. "You might as well accept the facts. It was painfully obvious that Moriarty wasn't going to give you up as long as you were alive," said the detective. "But with my plan, you'll be safe until Moriarty is brought to ground. For this plan to work however, you have to remain in hiding, and there is no place safer than this."
"Safe? Safe? You mean incarcerated. You know most people don't like being held prisoner," said John pursing his lips for added emphasis. "And in the meantime, everyone that I know thinks I'm dead, and when I suddenly come back to life, they'll all hate me."
"That's ridiculous," scoffed the lanky detective. "Most of your friends will never even notice that you were gone. Those that do, will be happily surprised when you return. "You could have a surprise party and come out of a cake." Sherlock's hands swooped up as if he were the one coming out of the cake.
"You're the one who's ridiculous!" snapped the blond with his classic lowered brow. "If you pretended to die, and then just showed up saying "Oh, by the way, not dead," I'd punch you."
Sherlock shook his head in doubt, while John nodded grimly, a fierce little smile playing about his lips.
"The worst part is," continued the ex-soldier, "you didn't even ask for my permission. You and your brother just knocked me off and then locked me up in this glorified gulag"
"It's not that bad here," lied Sherlock who was already hating the place himself. "Mycroft has been here for two weeks and he doesn't mind. I might add that there was no time to ask for your permission. At the time you were busy...trying to die for real." Sherlock's voice became momentarily harsh. Then he took a breath and added, "John, surely even you must understand that the decision to simulate you death could not be delayed."
"Oh really? It was that urgent. Y'know what, humor me. I'm an idiot, and I don't understand. Why? Why couldn't it wait? I don't see why I couldn't have died tomorrow or the next day, couldn't I? What was the rush? What, are ya after my bloody insurance? Well, the jokes on you, I don't have any!" John scrunched his forehead and pressed his lips together.
"Now, you're being an even bigger idiot than Anderson. Obviously, it was at least credible that you would have died immediately after being shot. Further more, the sooner Moriarty accepts your death, the better. It will help…"
"No! I don't see how it helps at all," complained John, rising up on his elbows. "You just switched targets is all. Now you're in the sights, and you won't let me help protect you."
"Even if you don't agree that faking your death was necessary, you have to admit that you are in no shape to be running around protecting anyone," said the consulting detective. "And this is the perfect opportunity, John. Moriarty will turn his attention to me, not knowing that we're ready for him. He will overplay his hand, and then we will have him."
John glowered in pain and worry.
"John, he will be brought to justice," said Sherlock, trying to sound reasonable. "Isn't that what you want?"
"He wants to kill you, Sherlock. So, no! No, I don't want to bring Moriarty in for justice. I want to shoot him, so he can't hurt you. That's what I want." said the former soldier. "I don't want you hurt!"
"I won't be hurt," said Sherlock quietly. He was not used to someone actually caring about him, except Mycroft, and he didn't count. "Surely if both Mycroft and I agree on something, then we must be right. And we do actually agree on this," insisted the brunet with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. He leaned down, bringing his face close to John's. "This is the best method to both protect you and lure in Moriarty. And we're ready. My brother and I are ready to pounce when he makes his move."
"You can't be ready for him," said the former soldier pinching his lip visciously. "Not even you can predict what Jim's next move will be, because he's a lunatic. His next move will be something crazy. It won't make sense and…and …you're looking forward to that, aren't you. Both of you are! You and Mycroft and your massive intellects are just so bloody sure of yourselves. The two of you like playing these games. You both think it's okay to play games with a rabid, vampire, demon lunatic who's out to kill for fun. Well let me tell you, and that interfering twat of a brother of yours, that ya don't play games with rabid animals. You put 'em down. Moriarty needs to be put down before more people get hurt. What you need to do, is set up a preemptive strike and take him down. And Moran, 'cause he's always been crazy dangerous too. And you know what else? You're not paying any attention to what I'm saying, are you? I might as well be talking to the wall." John drove a knuckle into his lips to keep from screaming in frustration. "There's no point in discussing this. I'm done."
The ex-army captain looked longingly at the door, wishing he could storm off to a pub or even back to that bloody break room. But no, he could hardly bear walking on his damn leg. Instead, the blond flopped back onto the pillows clenching his fists impotently at his side.
Sherlock had ignored the latest tirade. He wore his inscrutable mask and folded the gym pants neatly, putting them into a drawer of the bureau. Then he rearranged the bloody fruit bowl, placing the grapes on top. John's stormy eyes narrowed with suspicion. Since when did Sherlock bloody Holmes do house work, wondered he? Obviously, this was Sherlock's way of ignoring the former army doctor.
And John Watson could do nothing about it. He was useless! John was sidelined by a stupid injury for the second time in less than a year. And this time, the man he loved was going to get killed because of it. John just didn't think he could stand it. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, willing the tears to fucking STAND DOWN!
Sherlock was relieved that the argument seemed to be over, yet the younger man was secretly distressed by his soldier's misery. He wouldn't change the brilliant plan that he and Mycroft had concocted. He certainly would not allow his John to be put at risk anymore. John would just have to get used to it until...well until Moriarty was dealt with.
This left the World's Only Consulting Detective at a loss as to how to help this man-this man who cared about Sherlock, long past the point when other people would have run off screaming. This made John Watson precious to the detective.
The brunet, tilted his head, considering the injured man who fretted, fussed and refused to admit that his leg hurt. Well, perhaps, he could help John with his pain?
"It's time for your pain medication," said the taller man, holding the two dose container (which was as much opiate as Mycroft would allow in his younger brother's presence).
"You can put that Oxycontin-crap away. I don't need it. I don't want it. All I want is some simple ibuprofen," demanded the impatient patient. "I suppose there's no chance of getting that, here in the gulag,"
With a sense of vindication, John returned to his prison theme. "This is a prison, Sherlock. Yet, I can't even make one lousy phone call. On top of that, there's no proper meds. Only whatever your precious Doctor Ramos prescribes; and I bet it's tainted. I bet the Evil Emperor Mycroft isn't above re-programming his captives...Just like Moriarty."
"He wouldn't dare," growled Sherlock, narrowly eyeing the prescription pain killer. He stalked into the loo to examine the all the medications in the medicine chest. They looked safe enough, but John's point was well taken. Frankly, it was something that Sherlock would have to watch.
"...and on top of that," John's voice rose in pitch and volume as he continued. "There's no TV, no radio, no laptop, no phone…I have none of my things! Nothing, no books, no…no socks…no newspaper…there's…there's no bloody pictures on the wall…"
"Here are two ibuprofen, John," said Sherlock with a smug look. "The bathroom is fully stocked with toiletries and several medicines as you well know. Your pain meds are in there if you change your mind. They all look quite safe. I should point out that your antibiotic is in there as well. Indeed, you have to take it in…one hour and fifteen minutes. At that time, we have to take your temperature and check your wound no matter what…"
"Stop fussing, Sherlock," grumbled John after he took the proffered pills. "I suppose you'll be leaving after that. Going back to Baker Street. Alone." The doctor glared fiercely, hiding his despair behind his anger.
"Do you want me to go," asked Sherlock, his icy blue eyes were hooded by puzzlement and hurt.
"What bloody difference would it make what I want," complained John bitterly, throwing his arm melodramatically over his eyes. "You do what you want. You always do."
"Very well," said Sherlock, a bit uncertain of his welcome. Still, he slipped his suit coat off, placing it over the back of the chair.
"What are you doing?" said John sulkily, peering at the detective through his blond lashes. He knew that he sounded like a petulant child. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. He just couldn't seem to stop himself.
"I hate this room…I mean cell," he added, but with a bit less ire than before, due to the distraction in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the brunet who had taken off his shoes and was now unbuckling his belt.
He pretended indifference. "I hope you don't think that I came out that alleged coma just to be your…your…your..."
"My plaything? My boy-toy?" suggested Sherlock, who could see that John was in fact very interested in the procedings. Feeling more confident, the brunet let his trousers fall with a soft slump to the floor. "Or perhaps you meant my odalisque?" He smirked at the dumbfounded blond.
"What the fuck is an odalisque?" asked John. His leg still throbbed annoyingly, but the ex-army doctor found that he could sort of ignore the discomfort, in favor of the striptease going on in front of him.
"An odalisque is a Turkish concubine," said Sherlock. His eyes had darkened with desire as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
"Well, sod that. I'm not an anybody's odalisque and I'm too damned old to be a boy-toy," said John, but not with any heat behind his words. In spite of himself, he admired the long, lean, corded musculature of his lover's legs.
The captain frowned and licked his lips. "Y'know, just 'cause I like to bottom, it doesn't make me a tramp."
John scowled harder, because he thought that he sounded exactly like a tramp. That smug look on the taller man's face only confirmed it.
'Damn, maybe I am a tramp," thought John, because now he did want it. He wanted Sherlock. John was supposed to angry about his faked death and imprisonment, and instead he was panting for a good shag.
"The point I was trying to make," the blond spoke too loud, as he tried to act casual and disinterested. It was hard to pretend indifference, while that fucking gorgeous brunet stood in his pants, with his fucking unbuttoned turquoise shirt barely hanging on his shoulders. In fact, John now had to ignore his own growing problem. "The point is, is that I'm not in the mood. As long as I'm being held prisoner, I won't be in the mood. I'm sleepy. I'm…" John swallowed, as the shirt slid soundlessly to the floor revealing acres of alabaster skin stretched over taut muscle. "I'm going to sleep right now," he whispered.
Sherlock fought not to smirk. He could easily read the lie in John's voice. Besides, his blond's pupils were blown; he blushed rosy red, and his breathing was fast and shallow. Of course, even Anderson would have deduced John's arousal from the tenting in his pants.
"That's fine, John," said his boy friend, turning off the overhead lights. He then turned the desk lamp down to low. "Since you're tired, you should go to sleep."
The tall, lanky detective crawled in next to his flushed soldier.
They lay side-by-side, arms barely touching. But Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off his flushed boyfriend.
John felt a thrill of electricity shoot up his arm where Sherlock's skin barely grazed his.
"Um, aren't you...tired?" asked the blond. He needed to keep the conversation flowing, because he wanted to make sure that Sherlock stayed awake. John was definitely not sleepy now.
"I am not sleepy. Sleeping is boring," said Sherlock, who had no intention of sleeping.
"HA! It's not boring to mortals like me," said John contrarily.
Now why the hell did I say that, John wondered? He wanted to bite his own tongue now. He should have said, for God's sake, Sherlock, take me now. The blond sighed and then squirmed, repositioning himself so that his good leg now made subtle contact with Sherlock's leg, accidentally of course.
"To be perfectly honest, I had other plans besides sleep," said Sherlock, lowering his voice so that it rumbled inside John's ears and reverberated in his chest. John's heart began to pound rapidly.
"Oh yeah, like what? What plans?" asked John, trying to sound nonchalant. Surely, the astute detective could already hear John's frantic pulse.
"Well, John," said the younger man casually. Unfortunately, even Sherlock's casual voice did terrible things to John Watson. Things like making it hard to breathe and like making all his blood pool in his pelvis. "I had planned on taking your lips in mine and sliding them together. I was planning on tasting your lips, your tongue. I wanted to see if your mouth was flavored with tea and orange."
"Orange?" murmured John, whose eyes slid shut, although sleep was the last thing on his mind.
"And tea," continued the consulting detective. "Then I would have kissed the corner of your mouth…"
"Which corner?"
"The left one."
"Exactly where," said John turning his head, and staring at Sherlock with dark, indigo eyes. SHerlock's breath hitched at the longing and invitation in those eyes. His chest fairly clenched at the look of love on his precious soldier's face.
The brunet raised a finger and lightly caressed his lover's lips, coming to a rest over the left-hand corner of John's mouth.
"And then what?" asked John softly, breathing softly on Sherlock's lingering fingers. The detective's pulse began to race.
"Well, John Watson," his deep voice was rough with desire, "I thought I'd taste behind your ear, and then I would have bitten that soft skin that is so smooth, right before the stubble starts."
"I don't…I don't…Where exactly?" demanded John, his head resting on his elbow.
"Ah, precisely here," said Sherlock. With one long, tapered finger, he touched the soft skin just under and behind John's ear. The blond shuddered and had to remind himself to breathe. Breathing was something John was good at, yeah?
That long, hot hand slowly stroked down from John's ear, "I would have kissed your neck until you stretched it out to make it easier for me to reach, and I wouldn't have stopped until you were groaning. By then I would have reached the tender skin here, above the clavicle; from there it's only a short distance to your sensitive nip…."
"Wait, wait, wait," demanded the ex-captain breathlessly. "Wait…I think you should demonstrate Sherlock. You should show me exactly what you were planning to do…to me."
With a smirk, the brunet bent down towards his lover's chest…
"No wait!" said John, opening his eyes wide. "Wait. You have to start at the very beginning." John pointed at his lips with a crooked smile.
"Well, if I must," said Sherlock with an exaggerated sigh. He captured John's lips and kissed them gently, careful to avoid the more obvious cuts and bruises.
John joined right in, eager to return kiss for kiss. He found that he could care less about his stupid cuts and bruises. He gasped softly when Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth, the left hand corner-as promised.
The doctor ran his hands up and down the long, sinewy arms, which caged him, while the detective kissed that smooth, sensitive skin just under John's ear. Sherlock was only halfway down John's neck delivering kisses and bites when John began to groan, turning his head away to give the detective full access to his neck.
The ex-soldier buried fingers in the brunet's luxurious, dark curls, while tender lips and a questing tongue caressed his chest, teasing sensitive nipples.
This was a gift. Only a day ago…or maybe it was two days ago (John was still a bit confused about the time line) …but, John had thought that Sherlock was forever lost to him. The soldier had faced death; sure that he'd never see his lover again.
And now Sherlock was making love to him with his mouth…
"Sherlock?" he moaned. He pulled the tall, lean man back up. "Stop that. I won't last another minute if you use your mouth on me and…and I was wondering, if we could…"
"What? What do you want?" asked Sherlock, smoothing the short blond hair off his John's worried forehead and kissing the deep wrinkles that lived between his John's eyebrows. His John, who Sherlock had almost lost. His John, who would never again be within a mile of that madman Moriarty. "Tell me what you want John. Anything."
John blushed at his own wanton eagerness, crimson in the dim light. "I want you…in me. If…that is, if you'd like to..." John decided he was definitely a bloody tramp, and he bloody liked being a tramp. "I want you to take me, Sherlock Holmes. I want to feel you in me."
Sherlock's smile faded into concern, "But, won't that be too much after..."
"Oh, God no. It's fine. I'm fine," rambled John. "I'll be fine."
The detective considered and then agreed with a nod, climbing out of bed with a growing smirk. "I suspect I should get the lube then."
"And the camera," whispered John.
Sherlock's head whipped around, curls bouncing. He stared at John with a raised brow.
John looked back at him after lifting the grey jumper over his head and flinging it away. "The camera, Sherlock! Mycroft's spy-camera." The doctor pointed to the electronic eye in the corner.
"AH! That camera. I thought you wanted to film us," said the grinning detective.
John gaped at his lover in titillated shock. "Sherlock!" he squeaked in protest. The consulting detective admired the now crimson flush spreading across his soldier's very fit chest.
"Another time, perhaps," said Sherlock sauntering into the bathroom. "When you're a bit more agile."
John had dropped back down, his face burning with embarrassment, but he still devoured the retreating figure, with his wide shoulders, narrow hips and tight arse. He closed his eyes with a sigh.
His eyes sprang open to find the detective looming over him, lube in hand. "And John, I assure you, I disabled Mycroft's camera. It's essentially an empty box now."
"Umm. Yes. Good," muttered John. "That's good."
Sherlock took his lover again; had not forgotten his partner's injuries, and he moved slowly and carefully, which drove both of the men crazy. His preparations were prolonged and thorough, and left them both groaning with desire.
Once Sherlock was inside his precious lover, neither man lasted long. Both men cried out, one after another as bliss overtook them.
Sherlock, slowly regaining his wits, made to pull away, so that he could clean them up. John was having none of that. He clung tightly, refusing to let his beloved detective out of his arms.
"John, I'm too heavy to lay on top of you."
"Nope. Stay, please stay. I want you to stay on top of me . I want you to stay in me as long as possible. Just stay. Please…stay at least for tonight. Please"
"Yes, all right, John. My John," murmured Sherlock into the crook of John's neck. "Anything, my John. Anything for you."
A/N Apologies for yet another dealy. I won't bother you with excuses. However, to make up for the delay, I wrote up a nice long BFBIC.
Reviews are greatly appreciated (or I could say that I live for reviews, but that sounds melodramatic. Even if it's true). Please, let me know if you find typos or other errors, so that I can correct them. I'll gladly reward you with some of Mycroft's favorite virtual cake. Wait, all cakes are his favorites. LOL :D
Thank you to everyone who has been a friend to this fic. Thank you for reading, following and favoriting :D
Special thanks as always to the wonderful people who send comments, compliments, jokes, news, con-crit and virtual biscuits by way of the reviews. THANK YOU to: anyrei1, foxeeflame, EJ 12212012, 107602, dana-san, SamuelE8688. AwesomeBakaBakura101, Shadows Concealed in Darkness. Sparklibird, Quiet Time, Snowphire and Wicked Winter. :D
Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock or John but I may own the rights to JOhn. (Get it? JOhn. 'Cause I always type John instead of John?) :D
BFBIC
Sherlock firmly grasped his jammy doctor. Then he heard the footsteps on the stairs.
"Yoo-Hoo" called Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock, you have a client."
John's eyes widened as his boyfriend raced to put on a suit jacket over his bare chest and suit trousers. Then the doctor followed suit and raced to pull on a jumper, to cover his be-jammed shirt. Naturally, Sherlock was long gone by the time the blond got straightened out.
John stepped into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was busy making tea.
"Well I never… that little slut," she murmured cheerfully. "Oh, hello John. Never mind that tart in the sitting room. You know in my day, us tarts never tried to steal someone's boyfriend right in his own flat. And I know about being a tart, mind you. I was quite well known as an exotic dancer when I met Mr. Hudson…"
Frankly alarmed at the thought of hearing about Mrs. Hudson's dancing days again, John marched out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. But this was only worse. Much, much worse.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
Sherlock was seated in his chair, with a lapful of Irene Adler. And as John, expected she had forgotten to wear clothes again.
"Ohh, I could cut myself on those cheekbones," she murmured in a low sultry voice. A tarty voice, thought John.
"I already have," claimed John, who was ignored by the two geniuses in the chair. "Cut my self…on his cheekbones, I mean."
"It even bled," lied John, who might as well have been talking to the skull. At least the skull had the decency to look at him, thought the disconsolate blond.
"What is it that you wanted, Woman?" asked Sherlock, who could never seem to remember Irene's name. Still his voice was low and enticing, like gooey caramel drizzled over whipped cream on a hot latte with an extra shot of espresso.
"I think it's pretty damn obvious what she wants Sherlock," said John. "She wants to seduce you so she can have your child and name it Hamish. Then she'll neglect the child and so will you, 'cause you'll get bored and who will end up raising the poor wee bairn, me. Thot's who!" said John. Despair caused his speech to dramatically descend into a poor imitation of the Scotch vernacular.
Sherlock looked into The Woman's blue eyes, seemingly mesmerized by her beauty. She licked her shocking red lips and leaned closer to the WOCD.
"John, come and have a spot of tea," called Mrs. Hudson happily.
"Hoot man! I, I mean, no. No thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said John, who was polite even as his heart broke. "I'd rather have a caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso and whipped cream," he said, fondly remembering his ex-boyfriend's deep voice, like caramel dripped over whipped cream…
"Oh John," said Mrs. Hudson in disappointment. "I just made tea. Well, just remember, I'm your landlady, not your barista." There was a bit of a clatter as 221 Baker Street's landlady slash housekeeper slash barista set up the espresso maker. "Oh by the way, John, I saw that nice girl Mary at the shop today. You know, she had on the same 'Come Fuck Me' shade of red lipstick as that shameless hussy in the sitting room. But still, Mary's such a nice girl isn't she?"
"What?" asked John, his face going slack as he made pointless fists with his hands. Since he couldn't hit a woman, not even The Woman, he couldn't be BAMF and since Sherlock was ignoring him, pouting was useless.
"Ah, cahn't take much more 'o this. Ah'm commin apart at the seams, thought John, his upset making him think with a Scottish accent.
The espresso maker began hissing and steaming like an angry dragon. John would much rather face an angry dragon than this shocking seduction of his boyfriend.
Irene ran her hands hungrily over the WOCD's manly chest, as she recited the periodic table to impress him with her sexy braininess. And Sherlock smiled. He began talking over The Woman's lust-filled recitation, as he tried to impress her with his sexy genius by showering her with deductions about some case, which made John look particularly stupid…
"Ahh the shameless tahrt! I'd like to recite her som'thin, boyo!" muttered John, still using his bogus accent.
"John!" said Mrs. Hudson sharply, "I said I saw Mary. MARY. You know, Mary. She was buying beans and milk and a box of ammo and a can of mace."
"Wha? Mahry was buyin' o' the milk?" asked John, turning away from the horrifying spectacle before him.
"Yes, dear," agreed his landlady. "And she gave me her phone number. Now, she did say she had a hit scheduled for 1:00, but it's gone well past 4:00 now, I'm sure she's done by now. Why don't you give her a call?"
John's forehead creased in confusion as he dithered. Obviously he'd rather stay home and have some caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso and whipped cream…preferably drizzled over Sherlock, but that wasn't going to happen now, was it…no, not when they were already taking each other's pulses.
Well, Mary was nice most of the time, when she wasn't shooting Sherlock or trying to brainwash John or tasering John or slapping John or making him wear kilts without pants…no, wait, The Wearin'o' the Kilts was Sherlock's kink . But Mary did have some very unsavory habits left over from her time in the CIA.
But that just meant that she was pretty darn dangerous, which was a good thing, right? And John did like danger; he just hoped that she wouldn't bring out the car battery again. And of course, Mary did have milk, while John was sure the caramel latte must have finished off the last of his own milk. Anyway, John needed to leave Baker Street before Sherlock and Irene made him sick to his stomach.
It was all so depressing, and what was a poor hobbit to do? I mean, what was the poor doctor to do? Well, he'd just have to go on an unexpected journey and hope that Mary didn't hurt him too much.
"Alright, Mrs. Hudson, I'll do it!" said the former army doctor decisively. Thankfully abandoning his fake Scottish accent. "Just put my latte in my takeaway cup and…and, I know, I'll bring Mary some of that orange marmalade I like…I mean, that she likes. We'll have an Unexpected Party. Yeah, that's the ticket." He snapped his fingers in pretend glee.
As Mrs. Hudson turned back to the espresso maker, John swallowed hard and surreptitiously wiped a tear off of his face. Losing Sherlock and settling for Mary was depressing and scary. Scary because Mary would probably punish John for the whole divorce thing, which was truly frightening for the simple hobbit…doctor.
This was a dangerous, reckless plan; this was a John Watson Danger Night. John would need a fresh pot of jam, no…make that two pots of jam. And sod his Twelve Step Program. The broken-hearted doctor just didn't care anymore. He'd eat both jars of jam and he'd eat them straight out of the jar too! John hurried into the kitchen and dug out his secret stash, which was hidden behind Sherlock's mold experiment.
"Oh John," said Mrs. Hudson, eyeing the sweet contraband. Then she shrugged with a smile and artfully drizzled the caramel over the whipped cream.
John grabbed THREE pots of jam. In his distress, he opened one up. It was strawberry, and he took a quick lick, dribbling juice down his sweater. Remembering the presence of his housekeeper…no his landlady, John blushed.
Still, he took another rather large taste of jam. The tangy sweet berry flavor exploded on his tongue, and for a brief moment, he forgot all his sorrows. He closed the lid tight. Then, holding his jam jars close to his shattered heart, he grabbed his perfect caramel latte from the disappointed barista.
He marched into the sitting room with a pronounced limp to fetch his jacket.
As he slid on his coat, he noticed that Irene was already stuck, and she was only on Number Fourteen of the Periodic Table. John smirked as he dropped his illicit jars carefully into his jacket's pockets
John looked at the amazingly attractive couple with unbridled jealously. He glared contemptuously as the dominatrix stumbled and said "Number Fourteen, Sulfur…"
"Hoot-mon! Fourteen is Silicon, atomic weight 28.09" crowed John H. Watson smugly.
The Woman glared at her erstwhile rival and threw ice daggers at him with her cold sapphire eyes. He dogged the daggers with his military training, landing on the floor.
Sherlock looked up, John was using a Scottish accent? That did not bode well. And why was his blogger on the floor.
The former solder cautiously rose, his lips parted in a viscous BAMF John smile, why even John's hair was BAMF. It was all a show, Sherlock knew John would never hit a woman, hit on her yes…
Still, John was correct, number fourteen was indeed Silicon. Sherlock smiled his approbation at the silly blond. As always, John had the Periodic Table well in hand. Sherlock remembered that his little hobbit…er, doctor had once gotten as far as Number 113, Ununtrim before coming spectacularly all over Sherlock…
The consulting detective blinked and then tilted his head, deducing his blogger who was preparing to steal out of the flat, with no less than three jars of jam! Dear God, when had the sleepy, sultry, sunny afternoon changed into a dark, desperate, John Watson Danger Night!
His shocked glacial eyes met the dark, stormy eyes of his Scottish accented blogger. Egad! Another clue that all was not well with John.
Now that he had Sherlock's attention, John sensed a change in the wind, so he took a deep sip of his caramel latte, getting whipped cream ALL OVER HIS MOUTH. Then he looked directly at the WOCD, blinking hard to force a tear from his eye.
"Aye, well, ah moost be on m'way. See ya, laddie," said John sadly.
Sherlock stood, shocked by his own stupidity. Irene gave a yelp, as she fell to the floor.
Idiot! I'm an idiot, thought the consulting detective. Who wants The Woman when I could have The Blogger. John is loyal, brave and kind, John knows the periodic table, and he has jam that drippedintohispants, and he even has whipped cream on his lips…
John's lips pressed together in thought, and then he pressed his advantage, "Number 15, Phosphorus, atomic weight 30.97…By the way, it has five valance electrons. Were we counting valance electrons?" he added insouciantly, adding further humiliation to his soon to be vanquished foe. He took another sip of the delicious coffee that tasted just like Sherlock sounded, sweet and sexy and hot.
The Woman's eyes narrowed, uncertain what to make of John Watson and these valance electrons.
"You're making that up, Doctor Watson. Who ever heard of valance electrons?" she said, foolishly exposing one of her few deficiencies, (I mean, in spite of her cleverness and beauty, she wasn't exactly a Chemistry Major nor even a graduate of Medical School. Nor was there a large Periodic Table on the wall of her bedroom, which someone had to recite for his lover during certain experiments involving stamina.)
"Mrs. Hudson!" bellowed the World's Only Consulting Idiot (WOCI), who had almost abandoned his blogger to suffer the not so gentle attentions of his ex-wife and sometime abuser. Sherlock shuddered delicately thinking of the risks his danger-addicted John might have taken while high on three jars of jam and alone with that blond merecnary.
He gently laid his large hand on his poor blogger's arm to comfort him and to make sure John didn't make a run for it. After all, John had a habit of storming out of the flat whenever he got upset, and the blond doctor was definitely upset. The three jelly pots attested to that. Indeed, John immediately tried to pull away just out of hobbit…I mean habit.
"Mrs. Hudson!" yelled the WOCI again, oblivious to his landlady slash housekeeper, who had come the first time he bellowed.
"Oh Sherlock!" she said. "There's no reason to shout. You know, I used to tell my husband…"
"Never mind that, Mrs. Hudson. The Woman…"
"My name is Irene, and I thought we could go to dinner!" said The Woman leaning forward provocatively, in a last ditch effort to reel in her catch.
"The Woman does not even have a case, and John is right, she would make a terrible parent, as would I. And I don't want to make John raise little Hamish all on his own. Think of the stress a single parent faces. Plus John would not have enough time to take care of me if he had to raise my baby."
But…" said Irene through her seductive 'Come Fuck Me' red lips.
"NO! No dinner either," said the consulting detective. "I'm not hungry, and if I were, I'd have dinner with John. He's handsome, brave and kind. He hasn't once betrayed me to James Moriarty, and he knows his periodic table."
That was John's cue. His tongue snuck out of his mouth, licking off a bit of caramel and cream then he said, "Sixteen, Sulfur, atomic weight 32.07, six valance electrons," he hissed smugly.
Sherlock smiled approvingly.
"Oh, please! Stop it with the electrons! I think you're lying. There are no valance electrons!" snapped Irene, feeling exposed. As well she should since she was buck-naked.
Sherlock gasped at her lack of knowledge concerning electrons.
John huddled close to the detective for protection from the scary, mean tart (because he couldn't be BAMF to a woman and because he knew Sherlock liked to the Dom.)
Mrs. Hudson bristled. "Young lady! I may not know what a valance electron is, but if John Watson says there are valance electrons…Well! Well, you can rest assured that there are valance electrons. Why, just last week I was telling Mrs. Turner…"
"Yes, yes. There are certainly valance electrons, but we don't have time to discuss them right now. This has been a very stressful day for John! Don't think I haven't observed those pots of jam, John Watson," he added to his short, blond lover. "Oh, don't look so downcast, John. I blame myself entirely, and I shall rectify matters forthwith!"
"Here is your coat, Woman," continued the tall, handsome brunet, who was eyeing John's mouth hungrily. "I notice that you and James use the same dry cleaner's; how very telling. Mrs. Hudson, I leave it to you to remove The Woman."
"Just this once dear," said spry older woman. "I'm your landlady, not your bouncer."
Sherlock swept his blogger into his arms, jam jars clinking enticingly in his jacket pocket. The victorious little blond threw his arm around his detective's statuesque neck, while he carefully balanced the caramel latte in his other hand.
Sherlock strode off to the bedroom bearing his beautiful, sweet-besmirched blogger like a dragon bearing treasure back to his hoard. John smirked with caramel and cream smeared lips at the scowling woman with her lipstick stained lips. She clearly did not know that certain detectives preferred to lick sweets off of lips and not greasy lip paint.
John knew what Sherlock liked.
Mrs. Hudson did not have any compunction about striking a woman and was happy to demonstrate this with a judicious slap. Irene quickly put her bright red designer trench coat back on and left sulkily. She planned to contact that so called nice free-lancer, Mary. Maybe she'd like to have dinner?
Mrs. Hudson, with a satisfied, little smile on her face, slammed the front door on the saucy tart. Then from upstairs, she heard a deep-throated roar. It sounded very like a firedrake, she thought with a smile.
"Keep it down boys!" she called cheerfully as she picked up the mail. The roaring continued, on and on and something crashed and shattered, no doubt one of the jars of jam met with its destruction.
It would be a fine mess! That would be added onto Sherlock's rent for sure!
"No really, boys…Keep it down!" she yelled, banging on the ceiling with a broom.
John squealed like a Halfling, who was being chased by a fire-breathing dragon. There was the sound of high-pitched giggles and lower-pitched chuckles. And then the bed began to squeak in loud protest.
"Oh really!" muttered the beleaguered landlady slash housekeeper slash barista slash bouncer.
Those boys would probably go on for hours! A bit of plaster fell from the ceiling. Mrs. Hudson grabbed her own coat and tottered out the door for an urgent visit to see Mrs. Turner, whose married ones were going on holiday to the Greek isles. Mrs. Hudson had always wanted to go on a cruise to the Greek isles, as she had frequently told Mr. Hudson before he was incarcerated and subsequently executed, which was just as well considering…
Thank you for reading this bonus fluff. I needed some fluff and decided to share with everyone. Well, now that it's done, I guess I'll have some toast with jam and some hot tea.
Oh my God, someone ate all the jam! I can't believe it! John! Get over here you overgrown hobbit…
*FINIS* *smirks* ;P
List of Uncommonly Used Abbreviations(LoUUA)
a/n author's note-let ( not to be confused with A/N which stands for Author's Note)
BFBIC bonus fluff because I can
BG British Government
WOCD World's Only Consulting Detective
GF Gold fish**
SB Sexy blogger
CC consulting criminal (not to be confused with closed captioning which is sometimes provided thanks to the generous donations of readers like you)
TBC to be continued (not really a LoUUA)
ITHO in the humble opinion of (also not really a LoUUA)
**sadly, this abbreviation is not found in this BFBIC :D
}*Thank you for reading the BFBIC. Thank you for your lovely comments on this bit o'fluff.* :D *{