Rated M: (could really be a T but why change the rating now). Swearing and adult themes.
Please note- this Johnlock fic is AU and the characters are OOC-on purpose.
All mistakes are my own. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.
None of these characters are real. Nor are they meant to reflect real people (whether actors, celebrities or actual government officials of any nationality.)
Reminder: Please do not drink and read fanfic at the same time.
Right. Onto Chapter 56, which is not the last chapter after all, because as usual, my chapter grew too long. But… maybe it's the penultimate chapter? I certainly hope so.
At the end of chapter 55…
Sherlock grabbed the shorter man, pulling him forward into a tight embrace. The brunet's arm screamed in painful protest. John tried to hug him back, but was gasping in pain as Sherlock leaned into his chest.
Sherlock smiled ruefully, "And this one reason we can't have sex, John."
John reached out to claim his lover's good hand, intertwining their fingers together. His smile broadened into a shining grin. "I still think I could manage it, if we were careful," he said waggling his eyebrows. Then his smile faded a bit, "What're the other reasons we can't have sex?"
"Just one, John." said Sherlock, "Mycroft."
Chapter 56
"So what's Mycroft likely to do?" shouted John from the shower. After Sherlock had showered and dyed his hair red, the detective had insisted that John take another shower to loosen his muscles. So far, the muscles had not loosened and the hot water just made the road rash on John's back sting like the dickens. Besides, John figured that the whole Get John in the Shower Thingy was just a ploy, so that the World's Sneakiest Consulting Detective could do something...well something sneaky. And since Sherlock hadn't answered John's question, he was probably sneaking. John tried to get the red-haired genius's attention again. "So d'ya think your bother'll have me arrested? Or will he just make me disappear?"
The bathroom door banged open, startling John into dropping the soap. At least he wasn't surprised when the shower curtain was ripped open, because that right there was typical Sherlockian behavior.
"Do you honestly think that I'd let him 'make you disappear?" asked the detective scathingly. "I cannot imagine what goes through that vacuous head of yours…"
"Sherlock, a little privacy?" suggested John mildly, trying to ignore how sexy Sherlock looked in tight black jeans and no shirt and with his wet, fake-red hair still dripping.
"John, don't be more ridiculous than usual. You don't need privacy. I've seen you naked many times. And you can't have been planning to wank in the shower. You're much too tired to wank-off today; not that you'd want to masturbate anyway, since I'm available to give you a hand."
Although the hot shower had made John's skin rosy, he still managed to blush a deeper crimson, making Sherlock smirk.
"I still like privacy to…"
"BAH! I like looking at you, and you like when I look at you." The tall, thin man gave his partner a long appraising look starting at the top, slowly dropping down past John's bits to his feet and then back up again. "It's a pity that we have a schedule to keep, John, you look good enough to eat," said Sherlock licking his lips for good measure.
It spite of his aches and pains and bone deep exhaustion, John's member gave a twitch of interest. Of course the genius observed this.
"John, I just said we didn't have time to get you off. Now get out of the shower, we have to get you out of London before Mycroft realizes that you're not on that plane."
"Cock tease," muttered the soldier under his breath.
"Sherlock, stop telling me what to do," John added, while turning off the shower as instructed. "And you don't have help me escape. I have my contingency plans…"
"John," said Sherlock sharply, "if by contingency plans, you mean running off half-cocked to join a fly-by-night pseudo-military outfit, which probably has underworld connections... if my preliminary research is correct, which of course it is… then you are a bigger fool than I thought."
John stepped out of the shower, glaring at his partner's steadying hand on his elbow. Since the ex-army doctor hadn't been able to follow Sherlock's rapid-fire delivery, John chose to focus on the insult at the end. "Really? So now I'm a fool? That's just lovely, thank you very much for that," he muttered. Sherlock handed him a towel while continuing to admire the view with a smug smile playing about his lips. John couldn't understand how the man could control the sorts of natural impulses that were giving John a totally unnatural ache in his groin. He didn't even try to hide his half-staff erection from his cruel boyfriend.
John did grumble an ungracious, "Thanks," as he snatched the towel from the helpful detective.
"I just hope you didn't drip water all over the floor after your shower; it leaves spots, y'know?" scolded the former soldier, speaking into his towel. John Watson was miffed. First of all, he knew he'd find water dripped all over the floor in the hall and the bedroom too, and he knew it would leave stains. Secondly, while John was used to being called an idiot, being called a fool was right out. Finally, John Watson was quite proud of his contingency plans. He'd thought them out, discussed it with his old army mate who was not connected with the underworld-surely not. John had made careful arrangements, even assembling a fake ID (thanks to Greg) and money (not near enough money, but enough to get him to Marcus's operations in Crete, which, by-the-way were not fly-by-night operations-certainly not).
Plan-END was a good plan, thought John sullenly. It would get him away from Mycroft, leave Sherlock safe in London, give John something worthwhile to do and probably break John's heart. Other than that last bit, it was a really good plan. John sighed into the towel so that Sherlock wouldn't sense John's doubts and breaking heart.
John pulled his head out of his towel, which seemed to be a signal Sherlock to start haranguing him.
"Nobody cares about a few more stains on the floor. I wish that you would delete them like I do; Stains are hardly a matter of life and death, now are they?"
"They could be," intoned John darkly. Then he remembered that Moriarty was dead, and so, unlikely to kill someone again over stains on the rugs and floor.
"John, do try to concentrate on the important issues. We were discussing the unsuitability of your so-called contingency plans; I have uncovered a multitude of problems with it. I shall, however only point out the most egregious. To begin with, you have not included me in your travel arrangements."
"I won't even ask how you deduced any of that, probably the way I part my hair," grumbled John. "But I'll tell you why I'm not bringing you with me, and that's because it's too dangerous and I won't drag you away from London and the Work," asserted John stubbornly, "You love them both too much, and without them you'd…I don't know…you'd wither on the vine or explode…like a blowfish… or something," John's expressive mouth flattened grimly, as he delivered the coup de grâce, "Without London and the Work, you'd be bored." John huffed for emphasis, certain that the detective would agree.
"As always, your colorful imagery astounds me, almost as much as your creative yet miserably mistaken assumptions," said the detective drily. His eyes narrowed as he watched the blond twist around, trying to dry his red, scraped back with out actually touching it.
With a loud, "Tsk!", the now redheaded detective rolled his eyes. Sherlock tugged the towel out of John's hands and turned the blond to face the wall. Sherlock began to gently dab at the red, abraded skin, while further enlightening his stubborn soldier.
"I agree, that I need the Work, or else my mind will, as you said, wither. However, it should be equally obvious that I can pursue the Work in almost any corner of the world, as I assure you that criminals abound in every nation. In addition, I am fluent in seven languages and can get by in five more. In short, I am confident that with my genius, I can continue the Work regardless of our location. You will benefit from my presence too. I will be able to act as translator, I will endeavor to keep you out of trouble and of course, you will benefit from my sexual prowess. "
John turned his head to glower at the taller man, because John could use some of that sexual prowess right now...and anyway, who was Sherlock to say John would be needing the detective for translations and sex and...
"Before you explode like a blowfish," said Sherlock with a touch of amusement. "allow me to say that I require your presence just as much as I require the work…perhaps more so," Sherlock's smirk fell a little at this difficult admission. "However, with you by my side and the Work in hand, I foresee very little boredom in my future."
The detective studied John's back, which looked as if it had been sand blasted, he tsk'ed again, before turning the blond to one side to continue drying him. "And as to leaving London itself, I would sooner leave this city forever, than leave your side for a day…well, I suppose that is hyperbole," said Sherlock, tilting his head to consider the matter, as he dried an arm. "Actually, I think that I could tolerate almost three entire days without you, before withering or exploding, as you so colorfully put it. I confess three days is a stretch, but it is probably doable. It should be obvious that the three-day estimate presupposes that your alternate location is somewhere safe. It goes without saying that if I thought that you faced some risk, I would come straight away and bring you home." He knelt to dry the back of John leg and to once more admire the scenery
"Sherlock, you can't just come collect me like a lost bit of luggage," said John protesting because otherwise he might get teary at Sherlock's weird and wonderful declaration of love. No one had ever said that John was a requirement nor that they couldn't live without him for more than three days.
Sherlock looked askance at the shorter man's perfunctory objection. "John, if you were in danger from a terrorist or a drug lord or a half-crazed, former minion who was prone to kidnapping would you actually expect me to gain written consent from you prior to collecting you."
"Well no, but…"
"Good, I'm glad that is settled. Now if you have no further protests on that matter, we can return to our previous discussion. Your contingency plan, aside from not including me, is also unnecessarily risky; dare I say foolhardy?"
"Well, I don't know about that…"
"Face me doctor and face the facts, doctor," said Sherlock, turning the doctor abruptly around to continue drying him. John stumbled but managed not to fall backwards into the tub. He also assiduously ignored the fact that Sherlock was on his knees in front of him. John raised his eyes to the ceiling and tried to recount the names of all the bones in the foot, almost missing Sherlock's continued analysis.
Sherlock gently dried his doctor, memorizing each injury and sealing some of the injuries with a dry kiss. Meanwhile, he continued his well-thought-out arguments against John ersatz contingency plan. "Returning to the battleground is risky for you at this time, Captain Watson. You are injured…"
"I've had worse."
"Yes, indeed. And I am sooo relieved that your most recent injuries didn't nearly kill you, unlike last time, unless we count your near drowning," said the detective sharply.
"Yes, all right."
"Not to mention, you become confused when faced with violent battles…"
"Only when I get injured," corrected John.
"That is debatable. And even if true, what are the odds that you'd escape injury while working for this Marcus? I'd say not good...Oh, by the way, you do know that Marcus is not his real name?" John's eyes widened. He'd known Marcus for years- surely he hadn't had a fake identity while serving in Afghanistan. "No?" asked Sherlock, who had already known the answer. "Shoddy research, doctor, very shoddy. And yet you want to trust this shady character?" Sherlock tsk'ed yet again. "Well, aside from Marcus's dubious reliability, the point I was inexorably leading to was that it is highly inadvisable for you to thrust yourself back into battle until you have been successful treated for your injuries and your PTSD," said Sherlock.
The detective noted that his former army doctor wore his pro forma frown but otherwise could not object in the face of Sherlock's irrefutable reasoning.
"Of course the main argument against your contingency plan is that there's no need to take such a drastic step such as becoming a mercenary in the first place. You don't require permanent exile to escape my brother's wrath. You just need to avoid Mycroft for a month or two. My stubborn brother may wish to imprison or exile you now, but he will stand down, as you are fond of saying, no later than Christmas and probably much sooner than that. In several weeks, it will be evident even to the meanest intelligence that Moriarty's web of criminal enterprises is falling apart without the consulting criminal at the helm, which will obviate Mycroft's only reasonable objection to your militant actions last night."
"I wasn't militant. I was saving your life. I couldn't just let Moran shoot you!" John could not repress a shudder when he remembered his horror at Sherlock's danger last night.
"Yes, of course, you did save my life, militantly, which was only to be expected from a soldier. No need to frown. You were positively heroic. It was a spectacular display of marksmanship." Having attended to the hardware, Sherlock crouched to pat John's legs and feet dry. John was mentally torn between the desire to be fussed over and the desire to look tough. Actually, he decided, it was probably best to ignore all desires altogether.
Instead, the older man suspiciously asked, "Are you complimenting me?"
"Obviously. I would have complimented you sooner but I was distracted by the memories of your repeated near-death experiences…"
"You're the one who got stabbed and ended up in hospital," said John.
"What makes you think I ended up in hospital."
"I can observe things too, Sherlock."
Sherlock's lips flattened, and he rocked back on his heels, eyeing his bandaged arm. "Is it the dressing? Does it scream St. Bart's A and E? Or is it the way the doctor stitched me up? Oh, oh, it was the bruising from the IV's wasn't it?"
"No."
"The smell of disinfectants? The chafing from the polyester scrubs?"
"No. It was the way your hair looked before you dyed it and your shoes."
Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. Then he stared into space, mystified and mouthed 'my hair…my shoes?' He bought one finger up to his lips.
The former soldier began to chuckle. "Ha! Gottcha!" said John with a cheeky grin. "I saw your hospital bracelet in the bin!" John lapsed into a pained chortle.
"I suppose that counts as an observation," said Sherlock, ignoring John who was almost convulsing between laughter and grimaces of discomfort from his sore muscles and bruised ribs.
The faux-red-head sniffed with faux-contempt, but allowed his soldier to draw him to a stand for light kiss.
"My arguments stand. Mycroft will, of course, also come to realize that the web could be dismantled even more quickly, if I am brought back to London with my faithful assistant, and…"
"You make me sound like some stupid little side kick," groused John half-jokingly as he allowed Sherlock to tie the towel around his waist. Then he added, "And I could have dried myself."
"But you could not have dried yourself very well and certainly not without straining your bad shoulder or bruised ribs. And it is no use denying that you relished the attention."
"Oh for God's sake!" muttered the blushing blond, because he had relished the attention, very much indeed.
"Never fear," said the detective marshalling his arguments, "my confection-mongering brother will eventually beg us to come back to London, probably well before Christmas, in fact. Likely he will want me to bring you to Mummy's birthday, which is in two months. Mycroft certainly won't want to dampen that celebration and risk missing out on his annual rum cake debauchery. In the very worst case, he will have to recall us in order to attend the infamous Holmes's Yuletide festivities from hell, complete with roasted goose, plum pudding and mulled wine. Yes, and enough garlands to hang one's sibling if that should become necessary…Anyway, Mummy would never forgive him for forcing me to miss the Christmas gayety yet again. We can only hope that there is sufficient mulled wine to dull our pain during the enforced familial merriment."
"Wait, you want to introduce me to your parents? D'ya think your parents would actually want to meet me?" said John doubtfully. "What if they don't like me? I mean…I'm older and disabled and I'm not a genius and Mycr…their other son hates me and…I just think, maybe, you should spend Christmas at home without me…"
"Have you already forgotten the three-day rule, John? Obviously, if I have to go home for more than a couple of days, than you'll have to come with me, else I wither or go boom," said Sherlock, spreading his hands in a mock explosion. He leaned against the doorjamb, memorizing how his doctor put on shaving cream. "And my family will be thrilled to meet you. My parents will fall over one another, vying for your attention while trying to give you the choicest treats. Do not accept any fruitcake!"
"I assure you," continued the lean, half-dressed detective, "they will be ecstatic to meet anyone who can tolerate me for more than an hour, and they will be beside themselves to meet someone who would even consider becoming my life-partner. I only question whether my parents humble abode will be able to weather the explosive excitement which your presence will surely engender."
The detective pondered the potential Christmas fête and his handsome, near-naked partner. The two did not easily go hand in hand; still he had to shake his head to dispel the image of imaginary John wearing nothing but a red Christmas ribbon while sprawling in front of the family Christmas tree…
Red curls bounced as he tossed his head, "John, I understand your reluctance to spend the holidays with my family. Trust me, I am even more reluctant than you are." John shook his head to deny any unwillingness on his part, but Sherlock plowed ahead. "Despite our mutual reluctance, it might be expedient for you to undergo this initial meeting during the concomitant distractions of the festive holiday season. At the very least, everyone will be slightly intoxicated on eggnog, mulled wine or Mycroft's insufferable Scotch whiskey."
""I'm not reluctant, Sherlock. I'd like to meet your parents and try the mulled wine," said John, carefully removing a days worth of stubble. "I never had mulled wine before, but I did have eggnog once, in Texas. It came out of a carton…"
"Then that was clearly not eggnog, contrary to package labeling."
John's mouth was a silent 'O'. "So, you really want me to meet your Mummy…erm, mother?" continued John, faintly blushing with poorly concealed pleasure.
Sherlock sighed as if faced with a room-full of Andersons. "Of course I do; surely you do not expect repeat myself. As you can probably imagine, I've never brought home anyone. Not for Christmas, not for any reason. Now that I have someone…well, it seems…logical, to introduce you to my parents." The faintest pink blush rose from the lean man's sculpted chest to color his neck and cheeks.
Understanding slowly dawned on John Watson. As unlikely as it seemed to the former soldier, Sherlock actually wanted to show John off to his family. As much as it didn't make sense, it was immensely gratifying. John somehow refrained from grinning smugly, and thus avoided cutting himself while he shaved.
Then he said, as offhandedly as possible, "Yeah, all right then. As long as Mycroft doesn't try to cook my Christmas goose, I'd love to come. It'd be fun to try a real English Christmas."
"Mycroft will never come near your goose, I promise. Frankly, I find real English Christmases tedious," said Sherlock, relaxing at John's easy acquiescence to joining him in what Sherlock privately thought of as Holiday Hell with the Holmes's.
He had returned to the bedroom to finish dressing and packing, but stopped to bellow, "But what do you mean, you want to try a real English Christmas? It's obvious that you were raised as a Christian and it's unlikely that your family celebrated with some other nationality's traditions, so surely..."
"Well, we couldn't hardly have a real English holiday overseas," explained the soldier, dodging the real question, with a forced chuckle, and nearly nicking himself with the razor. "Of course we did have generic celebrations in the army. They'd always have a big dinner, heavy on the potatoes and gravy. Dear Lord, once I had to head out on a Med-Evac after eating two helpings of those damned potatoes. I thought I was going to die. I wanted to die after our driver tossed his dinner on the roadside. Ah…fond Christmas memories." John pursed his lips, thinking that maybe his story was a bit too grim. Plus he'd missed a spot of stubble on his face.
"Course if we weren't on duty," he continued, "we'd sometimes sing carols and maybe even have a fake tree or fairy lights. It was okay, I guess. Usually, someone got a Secret Santa thing going too. I always got shite from my Secret Santa, like a box postcards with puppies on 'em or some weird knickknacky thing. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do with a cat clock whose tail waved back and forth!" John laughed. "Although, once I got a bottle of Scotch. It was very nice-pro'bly not as expensive as Mycroft's. It was from Terry, one of the nurses. I heard he got sent home shortly after I did. Course he wasn't shot; he was just scheduled to be rotated. I heard his wife left him though…"
Sherlock frowned. "Don't try to divert me, John. I meant your family Christmases…"
"Which do not bear remembering!" said John with another fake laugh. "I suppose we must've had a tree once or twice…maybe when I was real young. And one year, I got a stuffed bear for Christmas that was almost like new. He was purple, and I loved him to bits. Named him Harvey 'cause Harry wouldn't let me name him Harry. She punched me…but not hard. She never hit hard, not like…Anyway, poor old Harvey got left behind during a move. I bawled like a baby, and Harry punched me then too. And when we got a bit older, Harry and I would sneak out on Christmas and sing carols for money. We'd celebrate on the proceeds. We'd buy soft drinks, cigarettes and candy. We stopped that the winter that Harry started drinking, 'cause drinking made her stupid and mean."
"Cigarettes for Christmas?" queried the detective, even a self-professed sociopath knew that wasn't quite right.
"Oh don't get all smug," said John, deliberately misunderstanding. "Of course, I stopped smoking after a few years. Because it's very, very bad for your lungs." John stepped out of the bathroom to deliver his helpful health message.
"Do hurry up, John," said Sherlock, annoyed at John's dismal Christmas memories. Sherlock was sorry to have brought the issue up. John deserved so much better than what he'd gotten out of life.
"Right. I just have to get my clothes out of the dryer…"
"Done and on the bed, John."
The blond surveyed the mismatched collection, "Wait, the pants are gone."
"They were not yours, I destroyed them."
"Oh for…A nice Yank named Preston gave 'em to me, 'cause mine were all wet," said John irritably.
Sherlock's mouth dropped open. It was the first time the former army captain had seen his detective truly flabbergasted.
"Oh get that crazed look off of your face. My pants were wet from falling into the stupid swimming pool where poor Carl Powers died, remember?" John pursed his lips, standing with his hands on his hips, "And now what am I supposed to wear? I don't fancy traveling commando, and I can't wear those poncy silk things of yours."
"It's silk or commando, John," replied Sherlock, recovering quickly from the jealous misunderstanding caused entirely by John's poor word choice. As usual, the consulting detective wouldn't have gotten suspicious, if his army doctor hadn't made it sound worse than it was.
John accepted the silk boxers with some grumbling.
"Um, Sherlock?" said John after several minutes of quiet, "I looked around when I got in early this morning and I couldn't find any of my clothes. I know that you only brought a few of my things to the bunker, so where did the rest…"
"Mrs. Hudson."
"What?" asked John, pulling up the silk pants, which were cool and slippery and reminded him of sex. He tried to ignore that.
"Mrs. Hudson cleaned out most of your belongings and gave them to a church or temple or some religious place," said the detective, folding his shirts and putting them into a reasonably small suitcase. "I deleted the information. I do recall that I saved your laptop by using it in my investigations; it's on the desk if you want it. I also saved your pictures and mugs which you should leave here, because you will be coming back here."
"Damn. I have next to nothing to wear, except for what the Yanks gave me," said John "And how am I supposed to buy clothes? I really can't afford to buy new clothes. I'll have to take that job with Marcus just to avoid public nudity," said John, awkwardly pulling on a pair of Sherlock's socks.
"I would have thought the solution was obvious, John. You will wear some of my clothes…"
"They won't fit! I'll look ridiculous! I'll look like some tyke in fancy dress!"
"John, it'll just be temporary. Trust me, I have sufficient funds for us to live quite comfortably for at least several months," said the detective, buttoning the purple shirt of sex. "We will certainly have enough money to replace your wardrobe, although you may have to forego Westwood suits."
John made a face, at the reference to Westwood.
"You actually did have a good bit of money in your wallet, John. I removed some of it, and put it in the backpack that you'll be using. By the way, as I was investigating your finances, I came across your false ID's. I was very impressed with the quality, especially of your passport. Did Gertrude forge it? It looks like her handiwork."
"I dunno who did it; some contact of Lestrade's. Um, so you just went and looked through my wallet?"
"Obvious. Dull."
"Which explains how you knew about Marcus," John's lips were caught somewhere between a smile and a frown.
"I never claimed to be a mind reader. Surely you realize that I'd have to go through your wallet to be certain that all was in order for our trip. It was a good thing that I did too; everything was wet. I laid your money and papers out on the coffee table to dry, before I packed them. Actually, I may have used the oven to speed up the process.… I may have accidentally destroyed the card with Marcus's contact information on it, but everything else is fine."
"Wanker," said John, but without any real feeling behind it.
John pulled on the faded jeans, which he'd also gotten from Preston. "D'you have a tee-shirt that I could…"
"Wear this one. It's old and soft and will be gentle on your back," said younger man, handing John a very faded grey shirt.
"It's your favorite sleeping tee. I can't wear that. I'll be putting aloe cream on m'back and over the bruises too. I'm sure it will stain."
"As if I care," sighed Sherlock. "You'll be comfortable because it's soft; I packed two more tees for you to use, until your back heals."
"Thank you," said John, the gift of Sherlock's worn-out, old tee-shirts was oddly intimate and touching. He took the time to lay a calloused hand on Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb across the sharp architecture of his cheek. "Thank you," he repeated softly, laying a chaste kiss on Sherlock's pink lips.
John made to back away, but found a large hand on his neck holding him in place. Sherlock leaned down to mirror the kiss and then magnify it. His lush lips ground against John's. Then he pulled John's lower lip in and nibbled on it.
Sherlock had been a bit disarmed by John's gentle affection. He briefly succumbed to his transport's demands to touch, feel and taste the perfect man in front of him. He kept the kiss slow, but deepened it, parting John's lips with his tongue. His exploration of John's mouth was short-lived, as the blond struck back, licking and sucking on Sherlock's lips until the taller man pulled away, breathless and silently damning both his brother and train schedules.
John smiled out of the left side of his already swollen mouth, his dark eye's glinting rakishly. He stepped forward for more.
"John," said Sherlock, placing a pale hand on an unmarked area of his soldier's chest. "We'll have to continue this later."
"I want to continue this now," murmured John, lifting Sherlock's hand and kissing it.
"So do I, John. More than you can possibly imagine," said Sherlock, affecting a cool demeanor. "But Mycroft will eventually discover that you are not on that plane, and he will come looking for you. I want to be on that train at…"
'Oh, yeah," said John, blinking. "Right. Train." He paused, then asked, "Train to where?"
"France. We need to get you out of the country and under wraps, so to speak."
"Under the covers would even better," said John wagging his brows suggestively.
"You're ridiculous," scoffed the former brunet. He was extremely pleased that John was falling in with Sherlock's plans so easily. Indeed, he was moved that John still trusted him and was so willing to resume their partnership only hours after the nightmare caused by James Moriarty had ended.
The World's Only Consulting Detective was unused to being so easily moved. Well, he had been unused to being moved until John Watson marched in and changed everything. Ridiculous little man, thought Sherlock fondly.
The detective remembered that they were supposedly trying to hurry. He needed to concentrate on packing for a prolonged absence, but now he heard his ridiculous little soldier cursing under his breath in the bathroom. Concerned that some new crisis had developed, Sherlock hurried to investigate.
The younger man snorted in amusement as John made faces, trying to twist around to put his homemade aloe and arnica cream on his back. His smile faded as he realized that these contortions had to be painful, hence the faces.
"You are hurting yourself and making a mess in the process, John Watson," said Sherlock, sounding half-amused and half-concerned. He snatched the jar from his partner. "It would save time, and it would be less painful for both of us, if you would only ask for assistance." Sherlock made a face at the green-tinged cream. "Is this the same cream you made for Mycroft?"
"Yeah, it's dead useful for bruises, minor burns and scrapes. Luckily I made a big batch last month, and neither you nor Mrs. Hudson tossed it. I have one more jar besides this one. DAMN! Sorry. Bloody stuff STINGS at first. Dammit to bloody hell! Sorry…" muttered John under his breath.
"Shall I stop," asked Sherlock, eyes narrowing in concern.
"No, no, don't stop. It'll feel better in a few BLOODY minutes. Sorry. SORRY!," said John, spitting out a few more curses and apologies through his gritted teeth.
Sherlock smoothed the cream on John's back as gently as possible. Then he smoothed it over John's firm chest and sore ribs. John clearly enjoyed Sherlock's hand gliding over his chest and sides. The former army doctor relaxed as the cream soothed his injuries, or perhaps he simply enjoyed the massage. At any rate, he closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock rather enjoyed the brief massage as well, smirking as he lathed more cream over John's very fit physique.
"Didn't you say we had a train to catch," said John, forcing himself to open his eyes before he drifted off to sleep. "You know, the train tickets that you bought without telling me, after you decided how I was going to spend the next few weeks of my life?"
"You like being told what to do…"
Predictably, John's eyebrows dropped and he glared up at Sherlock.
"Yes, you do, John. In general, you appreciate being told what to do. That's why you thrived in the army," said Sherlock smugly. "Regardless, my plans were vastly superior to your plans. My plans involve rest, relaxation, moderate amounts of cerebral stimulation, and liberal amounts of sex. Your plans involved prolonged periods of boredom punctuated by episodes of violence, which almost guaranteed an exacerbation of your injuries and your PTSD. Not to mention that your plan offered little opportunity for sex."
"Right. Yes," said John letting out a breath. "Okay. I agree plan-VWS, for vacation with sex, is better than plan-END, for exile 'n death," said John casually, walking back to the bedroom, and pulling on Sherlock's threadbare tee-shirt over his head, "My plans always suck…"
John abruptly found his wrist twisted in a vice and himself pressed up against the wall. Sherlock was seething, his eyes on fire. John was suddenly concerned that he'd spontaneously combust or maybe they'd both spontaneously combust. Plus he had no idea what had set the madman off…
"Never joke about your death. Never!"
"Um. Sherlock, the wall is getting greasy and you'll hurt your arm…" said John trying a faltering smile.
"Your idiotic plan would have taken you from me…perhaps permanently, and that would be unbearable. Why can't your tiny brain understand that I can not and will not live without you?" snarled Sherlock, his chest heaving.
The genius had vividly imagined John's brave departure, followed immediately by his death at the hand of some nameless combatant. He could easily picture John's broken, bloody body lying in the dust, leaving Sherlock with a shattered heart. And now the imaginary shards of that broken heart caused him all too real pain.
"Um. Yeah. It was a just a little joke," said John stupidly.
Sherlock's death glare continued. It was a tiny bit scary and sexy as hell, thought the blond. John wondered if he might not need some counseling after all.
Shite. John had just sent the man he loved into an infuriated panic. Bit not good, Watson. So fix it, he ordered himself. The blond took a deep breath before trying 'to fix it.'
"But it wasn't a very good joke," John conceded, to the feral redhead looming over him. "Umm, I suppose I wouldn't like it either…if you joked about dying, so…sorry…I mean, I won't. I mean, I'm sorry, and I won't make the same stupid jokes again, okay?" John once more twisted his lips, which were simultaneously trying to frown and smile.
John ended up by clearing his throat, "Look, I said I'm sorry and, um… my back kinda hurts, and I know your arm's gotta hurt, and I can't actually feel my hand, 'cause you're squeezing my wrist really hard… and I'm going to need my hand to finish packing for that trip you planned for us…to France…together..." his voice trailed off breathlessly.
John wondered if he'd have to grovel (because for Sherlock, John would consider groveling-maybe) when Sherlock finally relented a little.
"You're an idiot," Sherlock pronounced. He tugged the shorter man away from the wall, which inflamed his injured arm and probably hurt his partner's sore muscles, but that was nothing to the burning pressure in Sherlock's chest, forced there by John's stupid plan-END coupled with Sherlock's vivid imagination. Then John hugged him, slowly burrowing his head into Sherlock's chest. The taller man lowered his head into John's still damp hair.
The pain in his chest slowly began to ebb, as John's weight leaned against him. They breathed in unison, and Sherlock calmed.
"You are beyond a doubt, an imbecile," said Sherlock finally. John cautiously ran his hands soothingly up and down Sherlock's sides.
"Yeah, I am an imbecile; I know, I am. Sorry," murmured John.
"I didn't mean to hurt you..."
"You didn't. I'm actually pretty tough, you know?"
Sherlock shook out his curls and strove to regain his composure, "You were right about one thing, John. We do have a train to catch. I've packed for you. There's really nothing left of yours, since Mrs. Hudson cleaned house. It's just some of my things, enough for you to get by for a couple of days. Take any of my toiletries you want. We'll buy whatever else you lack in Paris."
"Oh, Paris! I've never actually been…"
"…to Paris. Yes, I know. That's why we're starting there. Now when you say, 'We'll always have Paris,' it will make sense."
"No, Sherlock that's Casablanca…"
"Fine, we'll go there too. Anywhere you want John."
"No."
"It doesn't matter right now. You can decide where you want to go later. We'll have plenty of time to travel to Casablanca or Rome or Berlin or…"
"Yes, fine. But when I said, 'We'll always have Paris,' I didn't mean …"
"John, I won't force you to go to Paris, although I do wish you'd give it a try. There's someone I'd like you to meet there…"
"A friend?"
"An acquaintance."
"An acquaintance?"
"Well, sort of a colleague."
"A colleague…like I was a colleague?" asked John, suddenly suspicious and a tad bit jealous. He liked being Sherlock's only friend, only lover, only...everything. In fact, John relished it...
"Nooo," said Sherlock thoughtfully, "A colleague who helped me out in the past and may have some insight on this mysterious cat burglar who has been out smarting the local authorities in the so-called City of Light."
"Well, I see you've already got your Work is lined right up then," said John, jealous again. He really did relish Sherlock's attention. Which was petty and immature. John decided to back pedal, "Which is fine, I just thought…"
"Oh, God. Now what? What did you think?" demanded Sherlock. John was already disappointed in Paris, worried Sherlock. What if John didn't want to travel to Paris at all? What if John really preferred to get himself killed with some idiot who called himself Marcus? What if John wanted Marcus instead of Sherlock? Maybe Marcus was tall, dark and handsome, just the way John liked his men and… "John, tell me what you were thinking!"
"I dunno," said John sheepishly. He really had to stop craving Sherlock quite so much. "Look…I…Wait, I look forward to helping you on your case and…I mean, I will be helping you, right?" asked John uncertainly.
"Obviously! You are my assistant."
"Right. Good. That's what I want, really. So, I'll just finish up here and…"
"No. I can see that you are still disappointed. You are like an open book to me."
"I wasn't an open book when we were at the bunker."
"No. No you weren't. And I have my theories about that, which we will not discuss now," said Sherlock sharply. "And you are trying to distract me, John. Unsuccessfully, I might add. Now, what is the matter?"
"Wellll," began John, determined to be honest. "Well, when you said you wanted me to try Paris I thought…"
"You thought?" asked Sherlock. "John, I realize that your thoughts are a bit more scattered than mine, but they are hardly so unusual as to upset you."
"Right. Okay. You said you wanted to go to Paris to track down a cat burglar and to see your friend…"
"Colleague."
"Whatever! But see at first I thought…" John was nodding and waving his hand.
The detective found this behavior inexplicable, and he frowned.
John huffed loudly. "I thought you…were going to say…hmm. I thought you were going to say…that it was because Paris…was the city of romance. There! Ha! HA! Once more I'm an idiot and…"
Sherlock kissed his idiot silent. He did not relent until John began to struggle to draw a breath of air.
Sherlock smirked. "Any city with John Watson, will be a city of romance to me. Paris will simply be the first on our tour. Problem?"
"Ummm…no. That's ummm, good. Very good. Great. Fantastic…" John hugged his romantic sociopath and hoped his blush receded quickly, although he knew it wouldn't. Sherlock seemed to make him blush constantly.
"John, finish packing."
"But I don't have any clothes so..."
"Yes, yes, yes. That's how this whole debacle started. You have no clothes, but we're going to buy you some. So, problem solved." Sherlock clapped his hands decisively.
"I really don't have that much money. I mean not enough to live on for a couple of months and then to have to buy clothes, even second hand…"
"It's fine," said Sherlock. "I already told you that I have enough for both of us."
"I won't be a kept man!" said John, blushing all over again.
"Fine, you can pay me back when I force Mycroft to reimburse you for training his minions and for serving as a minion and for acting as MOD, which requires a pay up-grade. You'll receive a bonus for hazardous duty too, of course, to compensate for last nights activities. Then there's the recompense for when he recklessly allowed you to be kidnapped and tortured last month. I will see to it that you will receive a very generous monetary award for all of that."
"I don't think he's going to pay me anything. You said your brother wants to send me to Mongolia."
"Jahwn, stop exaggerating, he only wanted to send you to the Alaskan frontier. Granted he cannot be dealt with today; he'd be stroppy even if we sent him a giant cake-I have seriously considered this, of course, but no. No, he's angry and jealous of both of us and behaving badly. Once he's calmed down, though, he will listen to reason. And if not, once he is firmly back in control of the government and planning Mummy's birthday party he will be vulnerable to blackmail…"
"I will not be a party to blackmail, especially of your brother."
"Of course not John. You are far to honorable."
"Right then," said the blond with a firm nod.
"I however, am not so particular as you. My brother owes you, and he will pay. He may chose to pay voluntarily, but I fully intend to use any available tools…"
"No. Just…no."
"We'll argue about it later, and by then you'll agree with me, as usual. Anyway, we both already agree that it's too soon to negotiate with Mycroft. Just now he only wants to give you a one way ticket to the tundra and not the rewards which you so richly deserve."
"Fine," agreed John. "We'll argue…I mean, discuss it later. And negotiate...later," John nodded again, half-heartedly this time. John was getting tired, and agreement with Sherlock was the easy way out. As usual, Sherlock would make most of the decisions, which was fine. Sherlock was right that John preferred follow orders-most of the time. So John was going to go to Paris, because Sherlock said so. He'd accept Sherlock's money, (only as a loan) because Sherlock said so. And just now, John accepted the loan of a jumper, that was far too large for him, because Sherlock said so… and because John instantly coveted the nubby blue-wool garment. It was really quite nice and looked as if it would be very warm. He didn't even mind that he'd have to roll up the sleeves. John tore off the years old Christmas gift-tag (from Mycroft, of course). The jumper-loving, ex-soldier smiled privately and planned to keep the jumper… after all, Sherlock never wore jumpers anyway.
"John, please attend!" John jumped in spite of himself. "You are taking far too long to dress. Stop admiring how attractive you look while wearing that jumper."
John pursed his lips as the mirror revealed his deep crimson blush, at least the color of his face complimented the lovely jumper.
"Never mind the toiletries; " decided the consulting detective, who zipped up his own suitcase, "you will just have to use mine for now. Of course, we'll buy you a toothbrush and razor in Paris, or possibly even at the station. Had I known you were coming to my flat, I would have purchased them for you on the way home from hospital."
"No you wouldn't have."
"Probably not," agreed Sherlock. "But I would have asked Asswan to get them for me, to give to you."
John looked blank for a moment. Then he said, "Oh, you mean Ahsan, the new agent?"
"Yes. Another of your many conquests."
John shook his head rather than argue with the consulting detective, which only made the younger man glare at him sideways.
"Whatever," said John. "I suppose I'm ready to go… although, if we had time for some more toast…"
"Nope!" sang Sherlock, popping the 'P'. "You can eat in Paris."
"But that's hours from now…"
"Take an apple, take two or three. I will grab the rest of the biscuits too. You really are a child sometimes, John. Always hungry."
Sherlock left the room as John gaped.
"I'm not the child in this relationship," muttered John, fastening his rucksack. It was barely half full, containing only his laptop, some borrowed shirts and underwear and the bright blue Buffalo Bills hoodie the Yanks gave him, "at least I won't have a lot of luggage to drag around," said John aloud, eyeing his backpack and then Sherlock's suit bag and matching suit case. "I'll have enough to do carrying your gear."
"I believe I can manage…"
"Not with one hand," said John sternly. "Your arm's going in a sling as soon as you put on your jacket. You can drape your Bat-coat over your shoulder."
"I was planning on a different outfit until we're safely away. Perhaps you failed to observe my jeans…"
"Oh, no. I definitely observed your jeans." John, trying not to leer at the form-fitting jeans.
"I will be wearing this leather jacket, and you will be wearing the denim jacket."
"It's too big. It won't fit me," said John. "And anyway, you will still be wearing a sling."
"Don't be ridiculous. A sling will ruin the entire effect. I'm trying to look…"
"Don't care. You're wearing the sling," John grunted as he bent down to tie his boots, which were still a bit damp, which meant his feet would be cold all the way to France. The former soldier frowned irritably, because he loathed cold, wet feet. And it hurt to bend-let alone move, and he was hungry, and he was tired…
"John, I don't think the sling is necessary and it will detract from my disguise…"
"You will wear a sling, or I'm not going!" snapped John, letting his irritability get to him. "You'll wear that sling, or I'll…I'll turn myself over to your fat brother, I mean Mycroft, or I'll…"
"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock snapped back, wearing an evil scowl. "Have it your way, doctor! I'll wear the denim jacket and your hateful sling. You can wear the leather."
"It won't fit me either."
"It's not supposed to."
"That makes no sense," said John. He waited in vain before saying, "Well?"
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.
"I'm waiting for your clever explanation," said John, "as to why I have to wear your over-sized jacket instead of..."
"There's no time to explain, John. Just trust me. And truss-up my damned arm. We have to go, or we'll miss the train!"
John lowered his brows, scowled his darkest scowl and trussed up his partner's arm.
A/N Well only one (or two?) chapters left. Plus an epilogue, because I love epilogues.
Thank you to everyone who has followed this fic or favorited it. Thank you so very, very, ver, very much.
Thank you for all the support, advice and con-crit that many of you have sent via PM's and reviews. Thank you so much for the recent reviews from: 107602, JC Black, Quiet Time, power0girl, Kitsune Spyk, SoulAlchemist9310, Spillway Blue, MoonFaith and Kinkylittlewolf
Disclaimers I do not own the rights to Sherlock in this universe.
I hold out the hope that there is at least one parallel universe where I do own the rights to Sherlock. I hope that in that Alternate Universe, Alternate Sendai has been making lots and lots of episodes of SHERLOCK, all chockfull of amazing Johnlock…
:D