A/N
Rated M: for swearing and adult themes.

Please Note- this fic is AU and the characters are OOC.

None of these characters are real. Nor are they meant to reflect real people (whether actors, celebrities or actual government officials of any nationality.) In other words, this is all make-believe

Reminder, please read this fanfic responsibly. Do not drink and read fanfic at the same time.

This is officially the penultimate chapter. I promise. Really.

Chapter 57

In theory, travel was exciting. John used to love the idea of visiting new places and meeting new people. For instance, he'd joined the Spanish club in school, (sadly, he'd forgotten what little Spanish he picked up). The romance of distant horizons was one reason he'd joined the army. In theory, travel was brilliant. In reality-not so much.

The reality of travel was: Hurry up and wait. Get pushed around by rude, loud, even smelly people. Miss not one but many meals. No tea. Listen to your partner bitch about the lines, as if the lines were your fault, or be totally ignored by your partner as if the lines were your fault.

John had been standing in this ticket queue for a quarter of a century, laden with his rucksack, Sherlock's garment bag and Sherlock's suitcase, because Sherlock didn't understand the concept of packing light and because John couldn't let Sherlock strain his injured arm.

Now, John Watson, Captain, RAMC Ret. did not think of himself as a whiner. He didn't like to complain. But his feet were tired, and they were wet and thus cold which made said feet ache, which made his leg ache, which made his back ache, which made his shoulder ache, which made his head ache. It was like a horrible nursery rhyme, but John kept it all to himself, because he didn't want to be known as a whinger.

And clearly, this line was never going to move again. There were vague mutterings in the crowd about a computer glitch. John had predicted for years, that the downfall of civilization would result from a computer glitch. Clearly the end was nigh. John Watson would face the apocalypse in St. Pancras Station. In fact, maybe Sherlock had already become a zombie; it would explain his unnatural silence.

Of course, the problem might really a time-warp. Yes, someone (probably that arrogant, tall faux-red-haired git in front of him) must have stared at a clock too long and activated a time-warp, trapping everyone in this train-station-hell forever.

The ex-army doctor's stomach growled. Sherlock reanimated and turned to give John a stern look of disapproval before turning to glare at the ticketing agents. The doctor wanted to tell his partner that staring at agents only angered them and made them work slower. Not to mention that it might exacerbate the rift in space and time, prolonging their ordeal even further. However, the last time he made a similar helpful suggestion, Sherlock became surly. Sherlock had said something about short people having overactive imaginations to compensate for their lack of vision, so John kept his mouth firmly shut.

His stomach growled again. The man in front of him tensed but said nothing. John wanted to go buy a snack. He was sure that he could carry a bag or two of crisps or biscuits even with all the luggage he was carrying. He didn't bother making the suggestion. Ever since that tall brunet bloke had tried to help John with the suitcase, Sherlock had insisted that John stay within arm's reach. Sherlock had insisted that the man was chatting John up, which was ridiculous. John's so-called disguise consisted of an overlarge leather jacket and slicked back hair, leaving him looking like a greaser version of a jawa. Surely, no one would be hitting on John today.

Resigned to starving to death in the never-ending ticket queue in order to preserve the peace, John eyed a distant food kiosk and sighed. Food was so close, and yet so far.

Meanwhile, his tall handsome lover stood in front of him alternately glaring at the agents, the people in front of them in the queue and complaining to no one in particular that they were going to miss the train. The detective was doing everything in his power to keep the time-warp open. But the daft git couldn't be bothered to actually speak to his partner.

John, not being a genius, didn't quite understand how all this posturing and constant complaints were in keeping with a low profile. John's complaints, being only in his head, didn't count.

At least John couldn't complain about the view. If he had to die in a ticket queue, at least he'd go out admiring Sherlock's bum clad in those dangerous skin-tight jeans. The half-laced boots and black denim jacket completed the look (John had thought it was a pseudo-Goth look but had been informed it was a biker disguise, by a very snide detective) The sling, which had caused so many complaints, just added to Sherlock's rakish appeal, as did those fake red curls drooped temptingly over his pale brow. No fewer than three women and two men had approached Sherlock with various pick-up lines just since they arrived at St Pancras Station. John had seen no need to stake his claim, since Sherlock's sharp tongue quickly drove these admirers away. Their fellow travelers had noticed Sherlock's scathing attacks, and now everyone seemed to want to keep their distance from the consulting detective.

Which was probably another ploy in keeping a low profile, thought John suddenly. He was too smart to ask, not wanting a repeat of Sherlock's last tirade. The good news was that Sherlock's foul temper kept the interlopers off John's turf.

The line moved forward by several inches. John's muscles had frozen during the time-warp and refused to budge. With great effort, he stumbled forward, dragging the suitcase and nearly dropping the garment bag.

Great, now John looked like a drunken greaser jawa. The army doctor was certain that everyone was staring at him and laughing.

"No one is looking at you or laughing at you," said the deep baritone voice. "They wouldn't dare to look at you twice, not since I drove off that oaf who was chatting you up. They all know that you are mine now, and they're all afraid of me. Rest assured; they will leave you well alone."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," said Sherlock. "I can usually tell what you're thinking; your face, your stance, your gestures- your entire body is an open book to me."

"You never turned around…"

"I could see your reflection in the ticketing agent's window," said Sherlock. "Plus, your sighs spoke volumes."

"Ah," said John, shifting his shoulders, which made his rucksack rub uncomfortably across his back. Then someone accidentally bumped into him, bouncing the garment bag against his sore ribs and…

"Yes. You're sore. I'm sore. We're both sore, uncomfortable and irritable," snapped the detective. "That's no excuse for you to ignore me."

"I wasn't ignoring you."

"I asked a question."

"I didn't hear it."

Sherlock huffed his displeasure loudly. "I suppose I shall have to repeat it."

"If you really want it answered, then yes," agreed John faux-pleasantly, because he knew that would annoy the genius far more than an argument, and John was feeling a bit mean-spirited just now, which he wouldn't except that he'd really wanted some more toast before they left the flat and now he was starving and hunger made him mean.

"Fine. I shall repeat it. Do pay attention, Jack!"

John blinked. Then pursed his lips in irritation. He'd almost forgotten that Jack was his alias. Jack Ford. He'd chosen Ford in honor of Harrison Ford who played both Han Solo and Indiana Jones, two of John's favorite movie characters and Jack because…Oops, John had not been paying attention; he bit his lips and listened.

"…and given that I can usually tell exactly what you are thinking, I'd like to know how you managed to hide what you were thinking and planning for weeks," hissed the redhead.

"Umm..."

"John, you lied to me! Please don't misunderstand me. I am not angry; I am impressed. But you must have had a trick or..." one elegant eyebrow rose expectantly.

"Um…well to begin with, I never actually lied to you. Greg told me to stick to the truth…or at least the partial truth," murmured John as they advanced almost another whole foot. At least he didn't almost fall this time.

"AHA! You had help!" said Sherlock loudly, drawing attention to himself.

"Keep it down!"

"Jack, no one expects a biker like me to keep it down," sneered the imitation biker. "I'm supposed to be loud, assertive and dominant. I'm supposed to draw attention to myself, to answer your unspoken question. It's called hiding in plain sight, because people see what they expect to see and hear what they expect to hear. Now, admit it; you had to have help in order to lie to me!"

"Yeah. Okay, maybe I did. Of course I did. Everyone always says that I can't lie and I can't act. So, Greg, Chris and Oscar told me to stick to versions of the truth and use distractions…"

"Distractions! You mean, you tricked me with sex!" hissed the younger man in his ear. At least, thought John, he hadn't blurted it out for everyone in the station to hear.

"It wasn't…I…it wasn't just for distraction. We did you-know-what because I wanted to!" whispered John, looking around shiftily. "And you didn't seem to have any complaints either."

"Hardly." said the red-head, turning completely around to loom over the mild, mannered blond. "Still, you are already blushing and making a scene. I suppose further explanations will have to wait until we have a modicum of privacy. Fortunately, we are nearly at the ticketing agent's. My timing was impeccable."

Thinking about the so-called imminent departure of their train, John rolled his eyes.

"My timing was irreproachable," re-stated the biker, reading John's mind yet again. "My brother thinks you are on that plane with the ox. So he won't be looking for you here in London. This is our window of opportunity."

"I thought it was a ticket window," said John, breaking into an irrepressible grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the bad joke. Honestly, John really could be an idiot, thought Sherlock, mean-spiritedly. He was tired, and his arm hurt, and John was behaving like a child, making jokes and pretending to be hungry.

Sherlock was finally able to buy their tickets, and he punished John's childishness by ignoring him some more. However, he was forced to relent when a young woman approached John on her tottering heels, grasping at his soldier's arm and trying to make small talk. Clearly, she was too stupid to realize that John was wearing his, Sherlock's, coat, meaning that the blond doctor was taken. She also didn't know that John didn't like inane small talk or red lipstick. She was beyond idiotic, lowering the IQ of the entire station.

The younger man had no choice but to wrap his long arm around the shorter man and give the bleached-blond-bimbo a death-glare. Finally getting the hint; she retreated. Sherlock kept John extremely close as they ran to board the high-speed train to France. As always, thought Sherlock, my timing is impeccable. He led his gasping, winded companion to a seat as the train pulled out of St. Pancras.

All in all, leaving London was rather anticlimactic, thought the former army doctor. The fog and mist made the city look a uniform grey. They had gone from the over-heated station to the under-heated train car and now John was chilled.

Even that lovely, large, nubby-blue, wool jumper wasn't enough to keep the ex-army doctor warm.

He tried to entertain himself by watching the city-scape slowly morph into suburb and then countryside but it was too bloody foggy to see much aside from drizzle and mist.

So much for the romance of new vistas.

John wasn't really looking forward to the tunnel either. Twenty minutes or more under the English Channel? Twenty minutes…or more…riding in a train while millions of gallons of seawater pressed down overhead, trying to find a way into John's passenger car.

Naturally, John's suggestion of taking the ferry was discounted by his detective. Yes, the crossing would have taken longer by ferry, but Mycroft wouldn't have expected that, now would he? Which, in John's mind, made it a very sneaky option indeed, and since it was above water, it was a doubly-perfect option. But no, Sherlock insisted that they travel under tons and tons of seawater, which was just waiting to fill the tunnel and drown everyone on board the train.

We'll just see how fast this train moves after the tunnel fills with frigid seawater, thought John with morbid satisfaction.

The blond looked around again for his traveling companion who had wandered off in search of the loo hours ago. Well, maybe it was only twenty or thirty minutes ago, but it seemed like hours.

He glared out the be-drizzled window at the monochromatic fields, which seemed to stream past the window. He scowled at the empty seats facing his. Before disappearing, Sherlock had used his telepathy and the Holmesian death glare to scare off any passengers who tried to sit opposite John. At first, John thought the extra-bit of privacy was grand.

But now? Now a fellow passenger would be welcome, to help pass the time. The undercover marksman regretted not buying a snack or newspaper or even some trashy magazine. His only alternative was to watch some drab grey lorries pass some bleak grey brick buildings in a dingy, little grey town with a truly ancient and depressing grey church with an even drearier, damp grey graveyard. Then it was all gone, just more soggy, wet grey fields and mud too, don't forget the grey mud. John wasn't one to complain, but everything was cold and grey and wet. John was cold and grey and wet. The passing village was wet and… and grey…and cold….and…grey…and… …grey…

"Jack! Jack!" said a voice through the cold grey mist. "John!" hissed a voice in his ear.

"WHAT!" said John a bit too loud, and people turned to look. "Um sorry I…I…" John blinked at the seeming bright car and it's colorful if disapproving occupants. 'Sorry I fell…"

"Yes, you fell asleep, Jack," said Sherlock, with boorishly loud, faux-jollity to reassure their fellow passengers. "I'm sorry that I woke you, Jack. I have brought you a foul-tasting liquid that was advertised as tea. It has the singular benefit of being hot," he said, folding his long limbs into the seat.

John eagerly took the paper cup in hand. It was in fact, very hot, so he cautiously sat it between his legs. No doubt, it would probably go down well after it cooled off a bit. He sent his thoughtful partner a wan smile and warmed his hands around the cup. Still somewhat groggy, the blond mentally rehearsed his alias: Jack Ford, former army vet touring Europe with his hot, red-headed and vaguely dangerous, biker boyfriend (Sherlock had indeed described himself as hot and dangerous, which had the benefit of being true). Then he realized that his hot, dangerous boyfriend had put his arm around him, pulling him in close.

John resisted the urge to burrow into Sherlock's chest, but did smile again at the fake redhead.

"You really are terrible at subterfuge," murmured the baritone, sipping at his own horrible, hot tea and grimacing. John saw now that Sherlock was using his injured arm and in fact, had removed his sling again. John was too cold and tired to fight about it right now. Besides the arm would begin aching soon enough, and then the stubborn detective would gladly use the sling. Yes, John was still feeling mean-spirited.

"Given your poor aptitude for acting, I cannot understand how you mastered your Christine-disguise so well," Sherlock was whispering, tickling the doctor's ear.

"Practice, practice, practice," said John softly. "I had a couple weeks practicing to be Chris, before I had to go out dressed as her. I had plenty of time to get used to the other minions, I mean agents, treating me like Christine and calling me Chris over the Bluetooth. So if you keep calling me Jack, I'll eventually get used…"

John stopped mid-sentence, because he noticed that Sherlock had that euphoric I'm-so-clever-because-I-just-solved-a-puzzle face. It was disconcertingly similar to Sherlock's I'm-having-an-orgasm face, and John blushed, quickly sipping at the hot tea and promptly burning his mouth.

John waited for enlightenment, for the moment when the World's Only Consulting Detective deigned to explain his amazing deductions. John waited and then…

"Oh. The Bluetooth!" said Sherlock, his voice starting out breathy and eager, but ending in a low baritone. It sounded like his sex-voice. John definitely needed to get a grip…no, bad wording. He needed a distraction, because now was not the time to be thinking about orgasms and Sherlock's sex-voice.

Hopefully, Sherlock would distract John from his obsessive thoughts of sex with a complex explanation of his newest deduction using a lot of large, seldom-used words. With his eyebrows fully raised, John looked up expectantly.

Sherlock blinked, then he whispered, his hot tea-scented breath blowing sensuously on John's ear and neck and across his face, "I can see by the look on your face, your dilated pupils and your rapid, erratic heart beat, that you are obsessing about sex again. Evidently, I should have at least given you a quick blow-job back at our flat."

John choked and spit out a mouthful of tea.

Sherlock and several passengers looked at him with disapproval. "John, try to think of something else. I promise I'll get you off, just as soon as possible. No, don't fret, I am really very eager to taste you in my mouth and watch your face as you come down my throat."

"Not helping," wheezed John, "You…you said…Bluetooth."

Sherlock nodded unhelpfully.

"Why?" prompted John. "What about…the Bluetooth?"

"Oh! Yes, the Bluetooth," said Sherlock. "All of Mycroft's minions wore them. They were in constant contact with each other. You started wearing a Bluetooth too. From that point on, you were functionally never alone. Your handlers could advise you at all times, helping you play your part."

"I did not have handlers," protested the blond. 'But yes, my friends helped me. It also helped that Chris and I had so much in common. We're even the same height and build…if you ignored her breasts and my shoulders…."

"Both of which could have been mimicked with the judicious application of foam rubber or silicon," added Sherlock eagerly. "And yet," continued the detective. "It was the use of earphones, which most helped you to lie to me. Your minions told you what to say and how to act… and they advised you when to distract me."

"Well, maybe." John rubbed his mouth. "They did give me advice, from time to time. Frankly, I knew on my own when to distract you…"

"A simple but brilliant plan," said Sherlock, smiling happily for the first time since leaving Baker Street. "Who thought of it? Lestrade? Christine?"

"No one. It just sorta happened. And when it worked the first time, we kept on doing it."

"Ah, serendipity, a fine friend for the less intellectually endowed. Well, at least you and your associates had the brains to use the tool once you realized its efficacy. Hmm, I don't recall, did you ever wear the Bluetooth during copulation? Did the others give you advice when we had intercourse? If so, I owe someone a sincere thank you, because your performances were all brilliant."

John choked on his tea again. The nearby passengers frowned and shook their heads. They definitely disapproved of him, rather as if he were the village idiot.

The blond choked out a denial, because he didn't need advice in the bloody bed, thank-you very much. However, the detective just smiled knowingly. John hid his face and concentrated on breathing. Maybe Sherlock would stop talking now…

"And who advised you to do that striptease? That was an excellent diversion. Maybe you'll try to distract me again in Paris. Jack, you should probably stop trying to drink that horrid excuse for tea, it's so bad that it's making you choke. I would venture to guess that Lestrade goaded you into distracting me with your body. It obviously wasn't the ox. He would never advise you to strip in front of anyone, other than himself. Oh! And that time you took me in your mouth in the gun locker…was that Lestrade's doing too?"

"No, no, no… none of that…no…I didn't take advice from him or anyone on…doing…on doing IT." Three Continents Watson found himself too embarrassed to even whisper the word 'sex' in front of three Gallic housewives and the sour faced gentleman dressed in a mousy grey suit, so he waved his hand around in the vain hope that it would suffice to explain what IT was. "Bloody hell, I don't need advice on how to…how to do IT. And I never wore the Bluetooth when we…did IT."

The claret-faced ex-army doctor noticed that the nosy old man was glaring fiercely at him. John glared back, because it really wasn't that man's business anyway.

Then the blond whispered to his preening boyfriend, "and could you please keep your voice down!"

The gentleman still frowned at John as if he was a bit of rotten tomato squashed on the bottom of someone's smelly old shoe.

"Jack, I can understand that you might have wanted advice on how to seduce…"

"For God's sake! I don't need advice on how to get it on with you," said John. He probably said it too loud.

John bushed a deeper red, and whispered harshly, "As far as that so-called strip-tease goes…went…it wasn't even planned. It just…"

"…happened," finished Sherlock. "Serendipity again, apparently serendipity is a hallmark of your plans."

"Look, what happened that night," John looked around nervously and then whispered into the taller man's ear. "What happened was…I started to undress that night, and then realized I was wearing a bra, for the disguise. Then I realized that I had to…divert you, so you wouldn't see the bra…"

"Oh! Oh! Oh! I never realized that you took your undercover work so seriously. I was only joking about the foam rubber and silicon before. I should have realized how dedicated you were to the deception, when you took such care in choosing the appropriate lipstick. I applaud your choice, by the way. The mauve was lovely on your lips. I noticed it particularly. Made your mouth look bigger…"

"What, my mouth looks too small now?"

"…and red would never suit your style of understated sensuality," continued the rhapsodizing detective. "But back to the bra. I am truly impressed with your liberality. In fact, I am intrigued. Was it black? Was it lacy? I'm not sure…No I am sure. I am quite sure that I'd quite like to see you in a lacy, black bra."

John gave up on breathing, in favor of a quick death, which sadly eluded him. Sherlock studied the blond, while tapping a finger against his lips. "Well, given that constipated look on your face just now, I suppose it's too soon to expect a lacy brassiere. I can settle for seeing you in back lace pants. Or a leather thong. Or… how about a corset made of mauve silk to match your lipstick. You'd be stunning. I know just where to get them in Paris too, all items handcrafted from the finest silk or softest leather- so no chafing! I met the proprietor on case, and she owes me a favor. I've been meaning to…"

"This is not helping me at all," hissed John, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and glancing meaningfully at his firm problem.

Sherlock looked down at John and deduced his difficulty. Upon reflection, he could hardly avoid noticing his own reciprocation.

"No, I can see that. This isn't helping me either," grumbled Sherlock. He was now uncomfortably aware of his transport's interest at the thought of John in black lace…or John in mauve lace…No. It was better to leave all those thoughts locked up in the mind palace, until he had John pinned down somewhere in Paris .

"To return to the topic at hand, allow me to say that I am glad to have solved the conundrum of your deceptions. I had briefly wondered if you had acquired a new talent for prevarication. Clearly not."

"Now wait, I think can prevaricate as well as the next man."

"No. You cannot. And you only succeeded that time due to the facilitation of your minions and serendipity."

"No. I can prevari…I can lie sometimes, maybe not always, but sometimes. And while I admit to having some luck and some help from my friends, I'm sure that..." John gave up this argument because Sherlock was smiling his superior tolerant smile which was so annoying. Also, Sherlock was mostly right anyway.

The soldier was not ready to concede defeat just yet, "I don't understand. Why d'you have use words like prevaricate or serendipity when you could just use normal words like…"

"Serendipity is a perfectly acceptable word and it provides additional layers of nuance and meaning," said Sherlock. "As does the word, prevarication. Also, I confess that I occasionally utilize multisyllabic words, because I know that you find them arousing."

"No, I don't. That's just silly," said John, denying his arousal. "And multisyllabic? That's exactly what I'm on about. You could just say 'big words' instead of 'multisyllabic.' Nobody uses the word 'multisyllabic' when they're just talking to their mates."

"Which sense of the word 'mate' are you referring to? Do you mean 'mate' as in friend or 'mate' as in the other half of a pair, a significant other if you will…"

John lost track of Sherlock's prattling because somehow they had entered the Channel Tunnel without John noticing. Now he noticed the tunnel and immediately lost track of track of their conversation. Instead he calmly noted the time and began counting down the minutes until they exited the infamous Channel Tunnel. The blond gasped, appalled at his foolishness. He had all but guaranteed the formation of a time warp, thus ensuring that they'ed all be trapped in the Chunnel forever or at least a very long time.

A/N Chapter 58 will be posted today, and it will be final chapter. The resounding cheers warm my heart. ;P

Thank you to everyone who has followed this fic or favorited it. Thank you so very, 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 SoulAlchemist9310, Kitsune Spyk, JC Black, 107602, Wing of Darkness, Quiet Time and birdie7272

Disclaimers Sadly, I do not own the rights to Sherlock in this universe.

I'm still working on creating an inter-dimensional transporter, because there is no TARDIS available around here.

:D