Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One

The man with his lips around John Watson’s cock moaned.  John looked down at the unruly, dark curls and sighed. That mouth, those full, pink lips, looked sinful stretched around John’s erection.  Beautiful.  A moment of paradise in a world full of longing. The man looked up.  John squeezed his eyes shut quickly.  Damn!  Not fast enough. 

Mentally, John coloured Fabian’s brown eyes into that greyish-bluey-green colour he knew so well.  A sharp suck cleared his mind.  Fabian might not be the world’s only consulting detective, but he was world-class at giving blowjobs.  John tilted his head up and opened his eyes. The ornate, white ceiling was a long way above him. This really was a beautiful building for a whore-house[1].

Fabian picked up the pace a little. John resisted the urge to look at his watch; if his hooker was moving things along then their time was running out.   Once they were past the sixty-minute mark, John’s account was automatically debited for another hour. Whilst Mary’s pension and her life insurance had left John comfortably well-off, he couldn’t justify blowing his daughter’s college fund on, well, blowing.

John groaned. Fabian’s hand was wrapped around the base of John’s cock, his fingers twisted and pulled with just enough pressure.   He was so very good at this.  John tried to blank out his mind and let himself go. It was rough, at times, dealing with the inevitable guilt of leaving his daughter with Mrs Hudson so John could have his brain sucked out through his cock by a man who looked like his best friend.  But what price for sanity?

The road here was a strange one. His sister was gay for fuck's sake. If it was good enough for her, then it was worth a try. When he’d first kissed a boy, to John it felt like an act of unity. Harry’d thought he was taking the piss. John and Harry just never did get along. Not until recently. 

At school, John's best mate, James, was gay. He had been the captain of the rugby team; a prop. James had joined the army with John; he was a man's man, tall, muscled and dark haired. More than once, after a night out with the rugby team, he and John had ended up in bed.  It was just wanking and the odd sloppy kiss. In the morning, James told him to make up his mind. So, he had. He’d quickly bedded a girl called Natalie and fancied himself in love. That's what John Watson had done for the next twenty odd years. He’d made up his mind and settled for girls. 

Sherlock was like James in a few ways: Blunt, unapologetic, and John wanted to climb into bed with him. Not that he ever allowed himself to think it until Mary died.  He’d found himself on the wrong side of forty, heading towards fifty, with a child and life that’d passed him by.  'It's not fine but it is what it is', turned into 'it's not fine and I don't want to die with regrets.'  And the truth was that as soon as he had come to Langridge's to sleep with a man, their fingers became Sherlock’s fingers, their face his, their bodies his and their cocks definitely his. When Fabian had arrived, his appearance so similar to Sherlock’s, it’d been far too easy for John to pay stupid money to indulge his deepest fantasy.  

With very little warning, John came.  Fabian stood, then straddled John where he sat on the bed.  Face to face with John, Fabian’s mouth was plump and wet with saliva.  He milked the last of John’s ejaculate from his cock with one hand, leaned in and they kissed, sloppily.  Fabian’s mouth tasted of Latex and sin. 

The yell killed the moment.  Somewhere in the bowels of the building, John heard a voice. Was it Simon?

“Help, Oh God, help!” 

John made it to the door before Fabian pulled him back.  “You’re not decent, monsieur Watson.”  John pulled the condom from his cock with a snap and tied the end.  Fabian took it from him and John found his jeans.  He dressed, grabbed his jacket and opened the door. 

The third-floor landing was full of gawpers.  John took a quick glance over the balcony. Below, other people emerged from rooms looking puzzled and worried.   Down on the ground floor, in the lobby, Simon was leant over a naked man. A puddle of blood grew beneath him.                                                                                                             

John ran for the stairs and started to run, down, down, across the corridors, push people out of the way and down, down, then across the corridors, get out of the way and down, down again.   Feet hit the marble floor of the lobby.

“I’m a doctor,” he said as he approached the people that encircled the fallen.  “Let me through, I’m a doctor.”

Simon raised his head. His face was tear-stained and red. “Dr Watson!” he cried and reached for him. 

It was only then that John realised who the boy was.  Jason. He pushed the thought aside as he started on a primary survey.   Jason wasn’t breathing and, from the state of his neck, he wasn’t going to start again.  His legs were broken and he had what was likely to be a catastrophic head injury, not to mention likely internal bleeding.  He was irretrievably dead.

“I think his neck’s broken,” John muttered. “Has anyone called 999?”  John began CPR.  It was pointless, useless, he knew it was, but what else was there to do? 

Simon wailed in great, gasping sobs.  “Ee’s dead, ee’s dead,” he repeated over and over.  

“We’ve got to try, Simon,” John said.  He paused to remember his count of chest compressions.  “Has anyone dialled 999?  Do it, someone, please.”

“They’re on the way,” came the steady, deep tones of Charles Langridge.   “If anyone doesn’t want to be here, I suggest you leave, now.”

John paused.  “No one leaves!”  For God’s sake, he thought, I don’t want to be here now but I need to be because this boy, Jason, Simon’s lover is dead, dead and I can’t save him.   “Unless you know how this man died, the police will need to investigate.” John started to count out loud. He tried to blank out the voices of the men around him, the great, the good and the definitely-not-so-good, who mumbled about their wives, their boyfriends, their jobs, their constituents.  John bit it all back and concentrated on Charles’ voice telling everyone that Dr Watson was right, and that the doors would be locked.  Even still, John knew, he knew, that Charles would make sure his best clients made their way out, but suddenly there were sirens and John was relieved, so relieved. 

The next few minutes seemed to pass by so quickly.  John continued CPR until the paramedics were unloaded and ready.  The lead paramedic gave John the look but they still collared and immobilised Jason all the same.   They bundled him into an ambulance along with crying, crying Simon.  And then John leaned back on his haunches, pulled his knees out of the puddle of blood, and he stood. 

“Well, of all the people I thought I would see here, Dr Watson, you weren’t on the list.” 

Mycroft.

“Bullshit,” John said.  Lestrade stood next to Mycroft and he at least really did look surprised.  “You know I’ve been coming here for weeks.  I know you, remember?” 

“Oh yes, of course,” Mycroft demurred. “I‘d forgotten that I still keep you under surveillance.”

Lestrade walked over and put his hand on John’s shoulder.  “I’m going to need your clothes and a statement from you.  Did you see what happened?” 

“Nope,” John said. His sadness about Jason, thankfully, was now just pure, white anger.  “I was, well, doing what people do here in a room upstairs.  Speak to Fabian. The first we knew was when we heard Simon yelling for help.” 

“Which one’s Fabian?”  John watched Lestrade as he looked around and then stopped, eyes fixed on the Frenchman who looked so much like Sherlock, albeit, brown-eyed and John’s height.  “Him?”  Lestrade motioned to Fabian. John nodded.  Lestrade cleared his throat. “One of Mycroft’s lot will take your statement, I’ll get Sally to speak to Fabian.  I need to find out who saw what. Don’t leave until I say, yeah?” 

“’Course,” John agreed.  Sally walked over, a strange expression on her face. She looked embarrassed, mostly.   She touched John’s elbow and then walked over to Fabian, who smiled at John as he was led away. 

“John?”  Mycroft appeared beside him.  “Duncan here is going to take your statement and your clothes.  Can I get Mrs Hudson, perhaps, to bring you a change of clothing?” 

“No, you can’t call Mrs Hudson to come out at this time of night to a gay brothel, Mycroft,” John said, closing his eyes.

“Well, you know…” 

“I don’t care, Mycroft,” John said.  “I know she wouldn’t be even remotely surprised but, for God’s sake, we both know the minute I walk into 221B that Sherlock will deduce everything.  Just call him. Why waste time?”  John sighed.   Adrenalin had made his head swim and hysteria hid barely below the surface of his composure.  “Just one thing,” he heard himself say in a tone that belied his emotion. “Is there any chance we can lie about who I was with?” 

John didn’t look up. He could hear Mycroft’s smirk.  “We can unless Gregory needs Sherlock to consult, of course.” 

John rubbed his eyes.  Shit.  He should have thought.  He’d put money on Sherlock’s involvement; it was just John’s pure dumb fucking luck.  “Call Sherlock.  Tell him to bring me some clothes.  Tell him what happened.  Tell him to have a cup of tea with Fabian. Do whatever you like.” John looked up.  Mycroft did not look smug. He looked sad.  He nodded over John’s head to a tall man in good suit. 

“Duncan, would you take Dr Watson’s statement please?  See if you can rustle him up a cup of tea and a biscuit too, hmm?” 

Mycroft left him to speak to a man John was sure was some sort of politician.  The MP scowled when he noticed John’s stare. 

**

Sherlock entered 221 Baker Street and was met by Mrs Hudson. 

“John’s gone out, I’ve got Rosie, here are some scones.” She passed him an old, battered cake tin.  “Try to save some for John.”

Sherlock climbed the stairs and sat on the sofa. Tonight had, he realised, followed something of a pattern.  Approximately once a month, and if Sherlock was out in the evening, John went out.  When he returned, he wore the relaxed, lazy attitude of a man who was satiated in one way or another.  Since there was always evidence that he’d eaten at home and John never returned intoxicated, Sherlock had come to the conclusion he visited an escort.  Whoever she was, she was professional and a high-end prostitute; John only smelt lightly of perfume and had showered when he returned.

Sherlock sighed.  John Watson was his Vitruvian man; his proportions in mind and body were Sherlock’s ideal.  If John needed a prostitute, then he was willing to accept it, no matter how strange it made him feel. Sherlock told himself he was merely concerned about the riskiness of John’s behaviour. That was all. Though, it was better for Rosie if John dealt with his sexual urges without parading various women in and out of her life.  Sherlock wondered what sort of sexual acts John would ask for tonight.  He put the empty scone tin on the table and patted the arm of the sofa with his hand.

This wasn’t the first time Sherlock had thought about John’s sex life.  Male sexual preferences were fairly consistent, and, as far as he’d seen, John never exhibited any tell-tale sights of an indulgence in S&M or other fetishes. The most risqué thing Sherlock had deduced about John was from his gait one morning following a night spent with Mary prior to the wedding.   Yes, his walk that day had made Sherlock excuse himself to escape down to the basement on some pretext or other. He’d pressed himself against the cool, damp wall and relieved himself with brusque efficiency. 

Sherlock rubbed his face.  He was still trying, in vain, not to think about John when his mobile rang.

*

John sat in the lobby on the staircase a few feet from where he tried to save Jason’s life. Lestrade had already informed him that Jason was announced dead by the HEMS doctor before the ambulance left scene. He looked around at the panelled walls and across the marble floor. The chandelier above his head was reflected in the congealed pool of Jason’s blood. 

“Where’s John Watson?”  Sherlock’s voice and the click of his heels on marble cut through the hum of activity.  “John?  John!”  Sherlock skirted the blood and stood before him.  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” 

John led Sherlock slowly up the stairs, up the first floor and into the room Lestrade had kept aside for him to change in.   Sherlock handed him a carrier bag that contained jeans and his stripy jumper.  Sally emerged with several evidence bags and passed them to Sherlock.  John waited for her to leave before he unzipped his jeans. 

“Would you like me to step outside?”  Sherlock said, voice gruff.  He pulled on a pair of blue Latex gloves.

“No,” John said. He was so very tired, so very embarrassed.  If Sherlock left the room now, John would climb out of the window rather than face him again.  He stumbled as he stepped out of his jeans and Sherlock steadied him by putting his arm around John’s shoulders.  “I’m sorry,” John whispered.  “By rights, I should be arrested for being here. Plus, if this gets out, if it makes it to the press, I won’t mind if you don’t want me to work cases with you anymore.  I…”

“Shush, John,” Sherlock said. He took John’s jeans from him and stuffed them into an evidence bag.   “I’ve already spoken to Mycroft.”  He started to pull at John’s jumper. “Besides, this really is a very classy brothel as these things go.” 

John coughed into laughter. “Tosser,” he mumbled.  He let Sherlock undress him.  John’s arms felt heavy.  Now his adrenalin levels were back to normal, the effort of CPR ached in his shoulders and forearms.   The gunshot wound in his bad shoulder throbbed. 

His clothes now bagged, John dressed in clean clothes.   Sherlock turned to look around the room.   John hadn’t been in this room before, though it was one of the few he hadn’t.  The walls were covered in striped green and gold wallpaper. The ceiling was white and gilt, with thick plaster carved into flowers, leaves and swirls.  In the centre of the room was a large bed made up with deep red cotton sheets. On an ottoman was a dish full of condoms.  On a carved wooden chair upholstered in navy fabric, sat a purple prostate massager. It looked used. 

“Was this the room you were in?” Sherlock’s voice trailed off when his phone emitted a text message alert.  

John watched Sherlock read the message. Under the warm lighting of the wall sconces, Sherlock’s pale skin looked gold.  

“Lestrade’s officially asked for my help.” Sherlock’s expression was uncertain.  “I’ll say no if that’s what you want me to do.”

 John paused. Fabian could be John’s secret. Sherlock offered him privacy, a little bit of his life that he was blissfully unaware of.  Except Sherlock was involved. Even before Fabian had arrived a few months earlier, John had come to Langridge’s to pretend the man he was fucking was Sherlock Holmes.  Fabian just made it easier.  Besides, how could he take Sherlock’s help away from Simon, the man who’d lost his lover this evening? 

“I want you to find out who did this,” John said, voice thick and gritty.  “Jason was only twenty-one.   Simon, his boyfriend, loved him so much. They met here. They worked reception because neither of them could bear to fuck anyone but each other.  Jason and Simon were so in love, Sherlock.  You need to find out who did this.  You need to do this for them.” 

Sherlock nodded.  “We start in the morning.  You need sleep and I need to speak to Lestrade. Go home, John, put your daughter to bed and help me tomorrow.  We’ll solve this.”

**

Sherlock looked at Lestrade.  He had ginger cat hairs on his left trouser leg, which indicated he’d stayed at his sister’s house last night.  From the way he jiggled his hands, Lestrade was attempting to stop smoking again.  From the coffee stain on his tie and the food stain on his cuff, Lestrade had been on duty since this morning. Sherlock predicted he would give in and smoke a cigarette within the hour.

“Before we begin,” Sherlock said, “Would you please ask an officer to retrieve the sex toy from beneath one of the chairs in the foyer?  I believe the item to be a butt plug.”

Lestrade smirked.  He walked to the door and gave a few whispered orders to the officer outside.   “Done.  Now, we can talk about the dead man?”

“Go ahead.” Sherlock waved his hand floridly before his face.

“Jason Liverson, 21 years of age, originally from sunny Milton Keynes,” Lestrade began.  He held his pen like a cigarette, Sherlock noted. The nicotine withdrawal was palpable.  “He fell from the third floor where he was replacing the towels in the Jacuzzi and sauna area.   Here is a list of all the customers and staff who were on the third floor at the time.”

Sherlock took the list. John Watson. 

“According to Jason’s boyfriend, Simon Turner, Jason was afraid of heights, so tended to walk close to the walls as he navigated the upper floors.  It’s unlikely he fell.  We’re taking Simon’s statement tonight, and we’ve told him you and John will visit tomorrow. He seems fond of John, so it’s possible he’ll get more out of Turner than we did.  I’ve put an asterisk next to the gentleman who was entertaining John at the time of the incident.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock one of those looks.  Sherlock glanced at the list. Fabian Bouchard. 

“John and I can speak to him tomorrow.” Sherlock folded up the list. 

Lestrade grabbed his cuff.  “Speak to Bouchard tonight.  Don’t bring John into this.”

“John’s hardly a suspect.  Bouchard is not my priority.”

“Speak to him tonight, without John.”  Lestrade’s lips clenched into a tight straight line. 

“You’ve already told me that John might get more information out of these people than your men. Why would I want to talk to suspects without him?” 

Lestrade didn’t speak for a moment.   He sighed.  “For John.  Trust me.” 

“I was working on a tedious, but well-paid, money-laundering case for Mycroft you know, before you called. I could go back to it and leave this tawdry matter to you.”   

“Don’t talk shit, Sherlock.” Lestrade left the room. 

Lestrade ushered another man into the room.  Sherlock considered pouting until he saw Bouchard.  His jaw dropped before he recovered.  Bouchard was approximately five-foot-eight and aged in the region of twenty-eight years.  He was well-dressed and had a pallor befitting one whose hours were nocturnal.  None of this was relevant.  It was the angularity of Bouchard’s face and the fullness of his lips: they could be described as Sherlock-like.  His hair could be described as Sherlock-like.  All but his eyes.  Bouchard had brown eyes.  Dirty brown eyes.

“Fabian Bouchon[2], I presume?”  Sherlock extended a hand. 

“Bouchard,” Fabian replied.  “And who are you, Mr policeman?”

“Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.” He shook Fabian’s hand. Hard. “I’m not a policeman.”

“Mon dieu[3], you are Jean’s Sherlock?”  Fabian’s eyes softened.  “Thank you for being here.  Jean says you are genie[4].”

Sherlock gritted his teeth.  “You speak about me?  Does John just come here for a chat, then?” 

“Not so much, Monsieur Holmes.  Tonight, I had more than words in my mouth.” 

“Lestrade, you wanted me to question Mr Brioche?”  Sherlock clenched around his blushes like sediment turning to stone.

“Well, I knew you would want to talk to him what with you being a genie and all.” Lestrade smiled.  

Sherlock nodded, grimly.  “So, why don’t you tell me about where you were at the time of the murder?”

“I was with Jean in my room on the third floor.  I give him a massage on his back and then the happy ending, I think you say it, with my mouth.”

Sherlock froze. He pictured the act in question.  His cock twitched.  “Take me to the room where you were.”  What? Sherlock’s inner voice screamed. Oh yes, Holmes, perfect way to stop imagining John having a blowjob by demanding to see where it happened. Perfect. 

Fabian led Sherlock and Lestrade to the room.  Sherlock used the time to study Bouchard.  From the scuffs at the back of Fabian’s trousers, he struggled to make ends meet despite working for a prestigious brothel. His shoes were polished but worn. His shirt was a Lyle and Scott rip-off rather than the real thing. From the state of Fabian’s nails and the slight tremor in his hands, he was a nervous man. Drug use? Possible. It was likely he used his abilities in the sexual arts to hide his social discomfort.  Sherlock made a mental note to find out how much the employees earned at the brothel.

The room had tall ceilings and cream carpet; Sherlock supposed the latter hid semen stains.  There was a door in the corner of the room.  It led to a bathroom, which had a toilet, sink and shower cubicle. The walls of the main room were burgundy. The bed was covered with white sheets and, in them, lay the imprint of John Watson.  Sherlock walked over and sniffed the sheets without thinking.  John’s aftershave, the Paul Smith one.  There were oily marks on the bed, consistent with Fabian’s story.

“The massage oil?” Fabian handed Sherlock the bottle.  He slipped the cap and sniffed it. Fig and Orange blossom[5].   Sherlock remembered having smelt a hint of the scent on John previously.  He’d mistaken it for a woman’s perfume.  He passed back the bottle. 

“And where were you at the moment in question?”  Sherlock wanted to go home and watch John sleep and stop him from ever paying for sex ever again.

“When I was blowing Jean?”  Fabian walked over to a blank spot on the carpet. “Jean sat on the edge of the bed, here. I knelt here.”

 “And when were you aware of the incident?  What did you hear?”  Sherlock struggled to drag his eyes from the space on the bed where John sat and let this dreadful Frenchman touch him. 

“I don’t know,” Fabian shrugged. “Jean is very vocal, you know?  I didn’t hear anything until Simon screamed.  Jean had just come. Would you like to see the condom?”

Lestrade started to cough.  He choked, in fact. Sherlock thumped his back with far more force than necessary. 

“Oh, I’ll leave that to Lestrade.  Thank you mister Bouche[6], I’m sure we’ll be in touch should we need your assistance any further.”  Sherlock swept out of the room. Hateful little French trollop.  “Lestrade!” he yelled.  “Do we know where the victim fell from on this landing?” 

***

[1] Langridge’s – the whore house in question – is partly based on places like Aspinall’s Casino and the Ritz Casino in London. They’re beautifully and extravagantly decorated for their wealthy, mostly male, clientele.

[2] Bouchon means plug, or cork

[3] My God!

[4] Genius

[5] https://www.coco-de-mer.com/products/coco-de-mer-enraptured-figment-massage-oil-100ml/

[6] mouth (or stuffy, oddly enough).

Chapter Text

John woke up achy and still tired.   He picked up his phone from his bedside table, disconnected the charger and checked the time.  Nine-fifteen.  Rosie should’ve woken him up before now.  Even when she was with Mrs Hudson, she woke up early.  John got up, needed an urgent wee, went to the bathroom and then looked for his daughter.  He found her in the living room with Sherlock, who was reading the paper. 

Rosie was in her high-chair next to the table.  Her food tray held a bowl of baby porridge, a Tommy Tippee cup full of milk and some chopped up strawberries and blueberries. From the mess around Rosie’s mouth, she was thoroughly enjoying her breakfast.  When she saw John, she squealed.

“Addeee, addeeee,” Rosie kicked her legs and shoved more fruit into her mouth. John kissed her on the forehead and dodged her pudgy, porridge-covered fingers so she didn’t mark his pyjamas. Again.

“Morning, Sherlock,” John said.  He stared at the floor. “I didn’t hear Rosie during the night.”

“I disturbed her when I came in,” Sherlock replied. “We dozed until an hour or so ago.”

John glanced over to the sofa.  He pictured Sherlock slouched with Rosie laid across his chest fast asleep.  Her regular, snuffly little breaths would have lulled Sherlock to sleep until the sun streamed in and they both felt the need for a morning drink.  It was funny that the one thing guaranteed to make the great, unrested Sherlock Holmes sleep was a tiny girl who was yet to reach her second birthday.  

“Thank you,” John said. “For taking her. When did you get in?” 

“Ugh.” Sherlock waved his hand in front of his face.  “Whenever.  I spoke to your…” Sherlock stopped abruptly.   “Lestrade. We have to speak to Simon today.”

“My Lestrade?” John shook his head and wandered over to the toaster.  He sighed. Simon.  “Jason was a lovely bloke, you know. And, Sherlock?”  John turned. He managed to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  “I’m sorry about all of this.  I won’t be going there again. I decided last night. Your brother shouldn’t have to clean up after me and my fucking mid-life sexuality crisis or whatever.  From now on, I’m going to focus on Rosie.”  He took a deep breath; he was putting aside his hopes of actually being with Sherlock too.  He looked at him. Sherlock didn’t move.  His face was blank, but John knew that didn’t mean that massive brain wasn’t whirring madly.  Finally, silently, Sherlock nodded. He lifted his newspaper.

John made a plateful of toast, put it in the centre of the table and plonked the jar of strawberry jam down heavily. It was John’s usual way of informing Sherlock that he should eat some bloody breakfast. 

**

It was almost eleven o’clock when Simon Turner arrived at 221B Baker Street. It was as clear to John as it was to Sherlock that he had not slept.  When John opened the door, he took two steps in and sagged into John’s open arms.  It seemed that the tears, at least, were used up last night.  His red-rimmed eyes failed to focus, and he seemed drawn and empty.

Simon was a thin, blonde man of average height and in his mid-twenties. He’d grown up in Manchester and been brought to Langridge’s brothel by Charles.

“It seems daft,” Simon said.  He sat in the client chair. “But Charles is like me dad.  He picked me up off the street in Manchester, told me I was better ‘an ‘at and he bought me ‘ere.  I know sellin’ sex is sellin’ sex, but it’s still safer than a street corner. Or so I thought.”

“You worked as a prostitute at first?” Sherlock asked.  He looked at John, an unspoken question hung between them.   John knew that Sherlock wondered just how many of the men he’d slept with. 

“For a bit,” Simon admitted. “Then Jase came.  When I met him, I knew I couldn’t go shaggin’ other blokes. Neither of us could.”

“Any clients who didn’t take it well when you stopped?”  John frowned. There was one, wasn’t there, a man who didn’t take well to Simon or Jason’s retirement from hands-on sex-work?

“Only Stephen Daniels,” Simon replied. “He were mine.  ‘Cause Jase and I were all coupled up quick, he didn’t have any regulars yet. He got a few odd messages on Facebook.  He wouldn’t show me ‘em or tell me what they said, though.  He didn’t wanna upset me.”

“And what did Charles think of your relationship with Jason?” Sherlock asked. 

“I think it were inconvenient.”  Simon looked at his shoes.  “But I think he were ‘appy, in a way.  I mean, Jase was the baby of us all, you know?  I think we all liked to look after ‘im and Charles were no exception.  Besides, he needed people on reception after that bloody woman left.”

John choked on his tea. The ‘bloody woman’ was Marianne, the previous receptionist.  She’d acted as though the brothel were the Ritz and she was the manager. Not even clients had liked her, despite her simpering at them.  The whole atmosphere changed when Simon and Jason took over reception. They may not have had Marianne’s class, but they put people at ease and that was essential when you were facilitating criminal activities.

“Bloody woman?”  Sherlock looked puzzled. 

“I’ll, um, fill you in on her later,” John said.  He looked over at Simon.  “Can you think of anyone who would do this, Simon?  Anyone at all?”

Simon looked at his hands and blinked rapidly.  Tears slipped down his face, leaving fresh marks in the chalky stains previous tears had made.  He hiccoughed but his voice was stronger than John expected.

“You know as well as I do, John, everyone loved Jase. He were the other lads’ kid brother. Charles treated him like a son.  The clients liked him. No one could stay angry wi’ ‘im. I used to make ‘im deal with the blokes whose cards got declined ‘cause I knew they wouldn’t be arseholes to Jase.” 

“John?”  Sherlock’s gaze remained on Simon.  “Do you concur?”

 “I do,” John agreed.  “Jason was a decent kid.  I never saw anyone lose their temper with him, and I never saw him lose his temper with anyone either.”

“And what were Jason’s duties at the brothel?”  Sherlock put his fingertips together and turned his gaze to John.  The two men focused only each other as Simon began to speak.

“Jase greeted customers, he refilled the condom bowls, he took the payments, gave people their invoices or receipts.  We’ve got bathrooms on each floor and a sauna and Jacuzzi on level three, so he used to change the towels, that’s what he were doing last night, when…”

“Who cleaned the sex toys?” Sherlock’s gaze flicked back to Simon.  

“Normally me,” Simon replied. “Why?”

“I noticed when I walked in yesterday that there was an object under one of the chairs in the lobby area. I made the police bag it. Jason may have been carrying it when he fell. I believe that the item was what is colloquially known as a butt plug.  So, was Jason likely to have been carrying it with the intention of cleaning the item?” 

“No, no.”  Simon shook his head. “There are hampers for sex toys in each room. We collect up the hampers at the end of the day. That way we make sure the right toys return to the right rooms.  We’ve got a steam cleaner and a dishwasher in the cellar for ‘em.  We don’t touch ‘em til everyone’s gone.  They’re not always, well, clean, if you get my meaning. So, you don’t walk around wi’ ‘em.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “John, do you have any other questions?” 

“No, no, I don’t think I do.   I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry, Simon. This just shouldn’t have happened. I’m, well, I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”   John looked down at his hands.  He’d been taking notes and he had ink smudges on his skin.  What was there to say?

“I miss him already,” Simon replied, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to go ‘ome because he won’t be there.  How do I carry on, John?”   

John could feel pinpricks at the back of his eyes.   He remembered the first time he’d walked into their home after Mary died and the way the silence tormented him. If it hadn’t for Rosie, he’d never have gone back.  His misguided rage at Sherlock, no matter how wrong, had helped him to get through each day more than he could ever admit.

“You just manage a day at a time.” John watched his own thumb as he ran it down the seam of his jeans.  “Concentrate on something you’ll stay alive for and you cling to it. I had Rosie, but you find something, whether it’s Charles or your mum or just because you know it’s what Jase would have wanted, and you’ll repeat it over and over until doing anything else makes you feel physically ill.” 

Simon nodded.  Tears dripped off his chin and left wet patches on his shirt.

“Do you want a cuppa, before you go?”  John stood, desperate to stop the whole conversation.  He pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets until he saw grey mist.  When he took his hand away, Simon was gone.

**

Charles Langridge was seventy-eight years of age and almost as round as he was tall.   His teeth were stained and looked worn. He had a close-cropped beard and a thick sweep of grey hair atop his head.  His suit looked expensive and his shoes were polished and pristine. He wore a gold chain dangling from his waistcoat, presumably linked to a pocket watch.  He didn’t look nervous.  John wondered whether Mycroft had made a deal with Scotland Yard for Charles’ sake too.

“John, I’d say it was a pleasure to see you, but, well, the circumstances aren’t what we would desire, are they?”   Charles’ voice boomed across his office.

John nodded and introduced Charles to Sherlock.  They appraised each other coldly.   

“The famous Mr Holmes,” Charles said. He shook Sherlock’s hand. John knew Charles’ hand felt like a wet fish.  “I’m delighted that you’ve condescended to take the case.”

“John was fond of the victim,” Sherlock murmured.   

“Indeed,” Charles agreed. “John was fond of a few of my boys.” He laughed at his own joke.  “I am sorry, Dr Watson.  I couldn’t resist. Your next visit here will, of course, be on the house.”

“There won’t be another visit, Charles,” John said. He shifted in his seat. “Jason’s death has made me, um, reassess.”

“I am dreadful sorry to hear that, John.  Fabian will miss you terribly. Please do stop in on him before you leave.”

“Not today, hmm?”  John replied.  “Um, Sherlock, can I have a word?”   John stood and led Sherlock out of the office.   “I’m not sure I should be here.  Charles is a slippery bastard. He’ll use me to worm his way out of answering every single question.  You’d be better interviewing him alone.”

“Quite the contrary, John.” Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder.  “Mr Langridge may give something away in his jibes. Indeed, he may have done so already. I know this is…” Sherlock paused and sighed. “Uncomfortable for you.  However, I value your input.”

Sherlock’s eyes turned golden-green in the warm light of the corridor.  John nodded.  John reached for the door handle and thrust out his chest.  

“Sorry for the delay, Mr Langridge,” Sherlock said.  “We just had to consult for moment.  Can we begin by you telling me how you came to know the victim?” 

John returned to his seat. Sherlock stood, looking at the paintings on the wall of Langridge’s office.

“Jason came to us as a result of a meeting I had in Milton Keynes.” Charles stroked his beard. “I invest in casinos, nightclubs and the like.  I met Jason at one of those venues.  He was, well, servicing a client at the time.”  

John glanced over at Sherlock.

“Servicing?”  Sherlock turned to face Charles.  “Please, elucidate.”

“Jason was giving a gentleman oral sex, Mr Holmes.  I’d been told that you weren’t entirely comfortable with sex.”  

“You were misinformed,” Sherlock replied. “So, did you interrupt or just start an orderly queue?” 

John choked on his tea.  

Charles laughed.  “I watched, Mr Holmes.  I admired his technique and, when he was finished, I engaged him in conversation.   Whether you like me or not, Mr Holmes, I see myself as someone who looks after those who choose to sell their bodies for sex.”

“Indeed,’ Sherlock agreed. “Pimps often do.”

“I dislike that word, Mr Holmes.  You can ask Dr Watson if I ever encouraged him to have sex with anyone here.  I simply rent rooms to gay gentlemen so they can entertain their friends.  We’re like any other gentleman’s club in that we charge a fee, in this case, that fee is an hourly one. It is entirely up to the men that work here what they do in the privacy of their rooms.   When I met Jason, he informed me that he was living on the streets and performing sexual favours in order to eat. I offered him a place to stay. Some of my boys live here, you know. Of course, since Simon and Jason met, they had their own flat. Others, like Fabian, consider this to be their home.”

“So how much do you earn from of each of your boys, Mr Langridge?” 

“I don’t earn from them, I earn from renting a room, Mr Holmes.”

“Tedious. I want to know what you earn from each room.”

“Why don’t you ask Dr Watson, Mr Holmes.  He knows perfectly well what we charge.”  

John looked up from his notebook.  He resisted the urge to look uncomfortable, to feel uncomfortable. He stretched his neck.  “£190.00 an hour.”

Sherlock’s gaze returned to Langridge. “And how much of that money ends up in your pocket?”

“We take in all the money and take a percentage of the fee for the room hire.  I understand that many of the workers charge more, or less, money, depending on how much their company is valued.”

“And the percentage?” 

“Depends on the size and type of room. Really, I don’t keep the records. You should speak to Shirley in billing.  I fail to see how this helps discover how Jason died.” 

“I think what Sherlock is getting at, Charles, is that when Jason and Simon got together, they stopped hiring rooms from you and ended up on your payroll. They no longer earned you money and started to cost you money.  Was that frustrating for you?”

“I think the world of Simon and I felt the same way about Jason.” Charles voice grew louder. “We were all delighted that they found each other.  Whatever you think of me, Mr Holmes, I appreciate the value of love above that of money.  I’m sure Dr Watson could instruct you on that.  After all, he visits Fabian for a reason. Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do.” Charles stood and walked over to the office door, yanked it open and hurried John and Sherlock out of the room. 

They stood in the corridor for a while. John looked at Sherlock. He smiled and, without speaking, he strode down the corridor and headed for the exit.

***

Sherlock was used to not sleeping much when he was involved with a case.  Somehow, the continuance and constancy of his mental processes seemed to arrive at a resolution far faster than the off-and-on repetitiveness of prescribed times to be awake or asleep.   Many of his hours of thought were, in their own way, an approximation of a restful state like meditation which, in Sherlock’s opinion, was just as useful as sleep for restoring peak mental faculties.  

That said, Sherlock was tired. He lay in bed and considered the events of the day. He’d dismissed Simon as a suspect immediately. He had nothing to gain from Jason’s death and his dominant emotion had been grief.  As it was, with his lover and second income gone, he’d probably lose his flat and return to prostitution.  There’d also been a number of witnesses who vouched for Simon being on the ground floor at the time of the incident. His reaction to the death of his lover was entirely consistent with bog-standard grief and shock.  Simon, then, was of little use.  He also wore ghastly shirts.

Whenever Sherlock attempted to think about Charles, the man’s barbs about John got in the way.  John took over Sherlock’s thoughts.  He was unsure when he’d started to entertain the notion that romantic relationships were a good idea.  Mary’s death and the discovery of Eurus had thawed something in Sherlock. He’d glimpsed a world beyond work.

On several previous occasions, Sherlock had considered the pros and cons of the immediate initiation of a sexual relationship with John Watson.  He loved John and that love went beyond mere friendship.  Indeed, even Mycroft had noticed and commented on it before now.   However, something always stopped Sherlock from pursuing a sexual dynamic to their relationship.  Each time, Sherlock decided that the potential benefits of such an arrangement were outweighed by not only undesirable outcomes, but also the lack of data on John’s willingness to participate. After all, it was all very well for Sherlock to decide, but it was also clearly necessary for one’s potential partner to equally desire the engagement of sexual activity.   

Before Jason’s murder, Sherlock had been unaware that John Watson had even considered having sex with another man, let alone him.   Recent circumstances made it clear that not only did John Watson enjoy sexual congress with men, but that he did so with men who resembled Sherlock.  Ergo, it was likely that John Watson did, in fact, want to have sex with Sherlock Holmes.   In the past, when other potential mates had offered him the possibility of sexual union, Sherlock had been uninterested.   Sherlock was very interested in sexual union with John Watson.  His brain was interested, his emotions were interested and, perhaps most disturbingly of all, his cock was thoroughly interested.  

When John lived at 221B in the pre-Mary years, he indulged in sexual practices with his girlfriends.  By careful analysis of the sounds that emanated from his room during coitus, Sherlock had deduced that John was a successful and considerate lover.  Therefore, if he were to initiate a sexual relationship with John Watson, there was a good chance that Sherlock would be sexually satisfied by proceedings.   There was good evidence that John was capable of deep regard for those he loved. After all, few people voluntarily put up with Sherlock for as long as John Watson.  However, prior to Mary, John had been unable to maintain a long-term relationship.  After his marriage, he’d admitted to having an affair, albeit one stage-managed by Eurus and devoid of sexual intercourse.  So, what conclusion should Sherlock draw from these details? 

Sherlock knew he was a difficult man to get on with.  If he had the self-awareness to recognise that he was an arrogant, irritating arsehole, it was only because John had taught him a level of cognisance that was hitherto beyond him. Therefore, Sherlock should be on his best behaviour to give himself the option of a potential relationship with John. That wasn’t a hard decision; John made him want to be the very best version of Sherlock Holmes he could be.

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned to lie on his side.  He pulled a pillow into his arms, curled around it and thought more about John.

**

Chapter Text

Chapter Three  

John left the clinic at four o’ clock in the afternoon.  Since Mary’s death and his return to Baker Street, he’d worked mainly as a locum and, today, his shift had been at a surgery in Crouch End.  The shift was over and he was headed to Archway Underground station when a familiar black Jaguar pulled up beside him.  He didn’t bother to argue, just climbed in and greeted Mycroft. 

“John, how distinctly mediocre it is to see you,” Mycroft said.  “I was just on my way to see Sherlock and thought I would offer you a lift as we were passing.” 

“Because of course you knew where I was working today?”   John put on his seatbelt because it annoyed Mycroft.

“A mere coincidence, of course. I saw you from the window, you know.  Now, are we heading straight to Baker Street or do we need to pick up the child?”

“We need to pick up Rosie, yes.  Sherlock’s spent the day at Scotland Yard. I know it’s safe, but it’s not really the right place for my daughter to spend time.”

“Of course, one moment.”  Mycroft pressed the intercom to speak to his driver.  “Harris, we need to stop at Dr Watson’s child minder’s house. Oh, and we’ll need the baby seat from the boot.”

John smirked. It amused him that Mycroft Holmes, the man who ran the country, Theresa May be damned, carried a child seat for Rosie in the boot of his chauffeur-driven Jag. 

“Now, I did just want to speak to you about Sherlock,” Mycroft began.  “Has he spoken to you about your favourite rent boy?”  

John hoped Rosie puked in Mycroft’s Jag.  Explosively.  “If he had, do you think I’d tell you?”

“You see, John, Sherlock is so unworldly in some ways.  He cannot, however, fail to notice that you favour boys who look like him. He might think that you have designs on him, don’t you see?  I really wouldn’t like him to be hurt.”

“As you are no doubt aware, I told Sherlock yesterday that I have no intention of seeing Fabian or anyone else again.” John caught Mycroft as he raised one eyebrow.  “I said that my focus is on Rosie and I mean it.  From now on, Rosie is all that matters. I don’t need a lover, I don’t need a wife, I just need my daughter. You know, I sat in that place with Jason’s blood all over me and I realised something, Mycroft. I could have ended my medical career right then and there if I’d been arrested for sleeping with a prostitute. If the press got hold of the story, I could’ve ruined Sherlock’s career because he was associated with me.  I know I have you to thank for that not happening and I’m grateful. So, I’m going to show it by not putting myself in that position again. I have my work, I can help Sherlock with his work and I can bring up my daughter. I don’t need anything else. I’m done.”

Mycroft did not look reassured.  “I’m sure Sherlock would try to make you happy.”

John let out a mirthless laugh.  “If Sherlock ever wants a relationship, it needs to be with someone who can devote themselves to him.  Love, sex, all of that, it’ll be hard for him.  He needs someone better than me to go through that with him.  Someone who doesn’t have Rosie and everything.” 

“She’s only a child, John,” Mycroft said. “I have it on good authority that many people manage to have children and relationships with other people. I believe Harris has a child, a wife, a job and several friends.”

“But not with Sherlock.” John shook his head. “No one wants Sherlock to find love more than me, but I’m not the person to be that for him. Not anymore. I need to just settle down and worry about what’s right for Rosie.”

“What’s wrong with Sherlock?  He seems to be as functional physically as I’m able to judge. I’m sure he’d take instruction on sexual matters. I understand that he won’t be as well practised as Fabian, but he’s a quick study.”

“Enough!” John turned to face Mycroft.  “Are you pimping your brother out to me?”

Mycroft looked out of the window.  “Oh, isn’t this the house of your child minder?”

John looked too. It was.  “You’ll wait, yes?”

“Of course. I’ll have Harris install Rosie’s seat.  You know how I love to see your offspring.” 

**

Sherlock turned and smiled when John walked in carrying Rosie.  He’d been waiting for John to arrive.  His day had been spent reading Scotland Yard’s interviews of Langridge’s occupants and clientele from Monday.   He sat with a list in hand of the people he wanted to interview himself. However, yesterday had taught him that he should speak to John beforehand.  For the first time, the pieces of the puzzle were at least close at hand, even if they weren’t about to click into place.

When Mycroft walked in, Sherlock’s face dropped. 

“Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft said.  “I just wanted to see what sort of progress you’re making.”

“With the money-laundering case or with Langridge’s?”

“Langridge’s, of course. You may take a break from the laundering case, unless you’ve managed to connect it to the Marquês de Evora[1], or someone equally tempting.” 

The Marquês was generally regarded as the Portuguese king of crime and corruption.  His tendrils had spread across Europe.  As such, Sherlock realised, he was likely causing Mycroft considerable inconvenience to even be mentioned.

“Not even close,” Sherlock replied. “As for Langridge’s, are important people missing their bi-weekly whipping sessions?” The penny dropped.  “Not that I was making a judgement, John.”

John rolled his eyes and sat down in his chair with Rosie. 

“Do you really think that Langridge’s is closed, brother-mine?”   Mycroft grinned.  He lifted his umbrella, spun it and thumbed the end back down onto the wooden floor.  “Charles reopened the brothel yesterday.  Boys will have their boys.”  His eyes flicked to John who steadfastly ignored him. 

“Which member of the Cabinet demanded that it be reopened regardless of the destruction of evidence?” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly say.  It would be very bad for the state of my health.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“So, suspects?”  Mycroft demanded.  “Tell me you have at least one.”

“Oh, I have plenty,” Sherlock replied.  “But evidence is rather lacking. Thank heavens the crime scene is still preserved. Oh, hang on a minute, it isn’t.”

“Sherlock, we can’t just keep these places closed forever. Life goes on.”

“But not for Jason, does it?  Or Simon,” John said quietly. 

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “What about the boyfriend, actually?  Surely he’s the chief suspect?” 

“He’s not even remotely important.” Sherlock caught John’s eye. Shit.  “To the investigation, I mean.”  Too late.   

“Not important?  He’s just lost the person he loved and he’s not important?”   John stood and grabbed his coat from the arm of the settee.  “Sometimes, I really dislike being around you two.” John Watson walked out of the flat and down the stairs. 

Rosie began to cry.

**

John stood outside 221 Baker Street and paced.  He was tired and fed up of the bloody Holmes’.  They didn’t mean to be so callous; John had accepted it as a side-effect of genius years ago.   There was no malice meant and, generally, John ignored them.  But John Watson knew what Simon felt, because John Watson knew grief.  

Sherlock’s death had broken John.  He wasn’t proud of the fact that Sherlock’s loss had hit him harder and deeper than anyone before.  Sherlock had given John the life he needed, the life he thought he was incapable of after he lost his life in the forces.  As a medical man, John had helped his men, had even helped sick relatives.  To not be able to stop the suicide of his best friend had been simply and utterly tragic. Sherlock’s death had been so wrong, so unexpected, so ridiculous, that it plunged John into a morass from which he’d thought he would never emerge.

Mary’s death had also devastated John.  He loved his wife then and now. Yes, she’d lied. Yes, she’d shot Sherlock.  Yes, she’d thrown herself in front of a bullet with no thought for her daughter or husband.  Those were things he might have hated her for.  But, the hatred never came. How could he hate the woman who’d saved him from himself?   He’d been half dead when he met her, just as he’d been when he met Sherlock.  Both saved John from the most dangerous opponent a Watson ever faced: themselves.  No matter how many bottles Harry Watson had looked at the bottom of, she never killed her demons.  Her brother was an army man. He knew the importance of having allies.  Did it matter if John’s allies were morally deviant, to say the least?  Sherlock and Mary had brought him back from the edge and, for that, they would always have his loyalty and his heart. So yes, John grieved for his wife.  He also grieved for the loss of his daughter’s mother. 

Then, Sherlock saved him all over again.

Whether it was the circumstance or the timing, Jason’s death made John wonder how he’d cope with Sherlock’s death again.  It hurt. Yes, Mycroft’s jibes about using sex workers hurt. John knew Mycroft might, at some point, use it against him. Oddly, he knew he’d handle Mycroft when it came.  He’d taken, and would take, responsibility for his actions. However, in that moment, when Jason’s body lay on the marble floor, John had seen Sherlock’s body all over again and it had shaken him.

The sound of Mycroft opening the door behind him lifted John from his reverie.

“My apologies, Dr Watson, for my insensitivity,” Mycroft said.  “I’ll leave you now.  Please, return to Sherlock, he regrets what he said.”

John frowned.  He hated doing what Mycroft wanted. He waited until the Jaguar was out of sight before he went back inside.  When John walked into the flat, Sherlock was feeding Rosie.   John squeezed his shoulder by way of apology and ordered takeaway curry for dinner.  He poured two glasses of Kingfisher, set the table and watched his daughter and his best friend interact.   His blood pressure dropped little by little.  His ghosts returned to the shadows. 

When the food arrived, John dished up and he and Sherlock ate.   They spoke about the money laundering case for a while.  Someone under Mycroft employ had received information that money was being laundered through Larkin’s, an exclusive milliner’s shop on Mayfair.  They regularly overcharged the credit cards of customers and then refunded money in cash.  The laundered funds were then fraudulently reconciled and transferred to an offshore account owned by an unknown source.  

Sherlock had delivered the evidence he found to Mycroft but, on a hunch, he also discovered that the directors of the firm were involved in others, either directly or through spouses.  The directors covered their tracks with various company names and even simple misspellings that made the trail harder to follow.  Once the list of firms was complete, Sherlock hoped to deduce which of them were involved in the money laundering operation.  It was dull and laborious work.  Sherlock excelled at it, even if he found it tedious. Mycroft also paid well. 

Once dinner was finished, John took Rosie for her bath. 

“Are you at the surgery tomorrow?”  Sherlock asked as he walked through the bathroom door. 

“Nope. They don’t need me until next week now.  What’s on your mind?” 

“Would you rather interview suspects with me or plod through Mycroft’s boring work?” 

“Tempting choices, hmm?”  John smirked. 

“Interviewing with me, then?” 

“Of course, you great twat.  You’re not leaving me here.” 

“I’ll pop down and ask Mrs Hudson to look after Rosie for us, shall I?” 

“Please, oh, and bring me another beer, will you?” 

Sherlock disappeared off for a while. Indeed, Rosie was out of the bath, wrapped in a towel and sitting on the settee with John when Sherlock ran back upstairs.  The front door flew back on his hinges and Sherlock emerged, mobile in hand. 

“John!  Mrs Hudson’s on her way up. We need to go. There’s been another murder.”

**

When John and Sherlock arrived at Langridge’s, they were met with an impressively pissed-off wall of clients.  Mycroft ushered a man who was clearly a second-rate politician into a side room, whilst Lestrade argued with Charles Langridge. One of the men who worked at the club, Sonny, walked over. 

“John.  Mr Holmes.” He shook their hands.  “Any news on the murderer?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “Since there’s been another murder, surely it’s obvious that we’ve not found the killer.”

Sonny smirked. “Of course.” 

Sherlock led them in the direction of Donovan, but before they reached her Fabian ran over and threw his arms around John’s neck. 

“Jean, I am so happy to see you,” Bouchard buried his face against John’s neck.  “I am so scared, Jean. Who will be next?  Can you protect me?”  Sherlock watched and scowled.

“I’m sure the police will do everything they can.” John patted Fabian’s back.  He blushed when he noticed Sherlock’s gaze.  “Have you met Sherlock?”

Fabian released his grip on John and held out a trembling hand.  Face to face, Sherlock noticed that Fabian looked pale, with red rings around bloodshot eyes.  Sherlock shook his hand, turning his wrist out as he did so.  Well, well, well.

“We met on the night of Jason’s murder,” Fabian said to John.   “I am sorry if I was effronté[2] that night, Sherlock. I meant no harm.”

John raised an eyebrow but, before Sherlock spoke, Donovan came over.

“This looks cosy.” Even Donovan hadn’t failed to notice that Fabian was holding Sherlock and John’s hands. “Shall I take you in to see the body?” 

Sherlock nodded.  “John?  Would you like to stay here, or...?” He shrugged.

“I’m coming with you, Sherlock. Fabian, stay here.”  John pulled his hand away from Fabian, straightened his collar and followed Sherlock and Donovan through the lobby and out to a doorway on the left.  They found themselves in a large room.  Sherlock guessed that it may have been a lounge in the days when Langridge’s was a more conventional gentleman’s club. Prior to that, it had probably been a ballroom.  Langridge had split the large space into three distinct areas.  They walked through the first part, where curved couches had been arranged around tables to form private booths.   It reminded Sherlock of a bar or even a restaurant with cool, blue lighting.

After they’d made their way between the tables, they reached the second area. The space was mostly empty and eight shiny chrome poles were installed from the high ceiling to the floor.  Sherlock deduced that this was a stage where boys danced for potential clients.   Beyond the dancefloor was a low, glass bricked wall that created the boundary into the final space. 

The third area had couches around three walls and on the fourth hung a cinema-style screen.  A porn movie silently played, long forgotten by spectators.  The lights were low, but one bright white light was suspended in the middle of ceiling.  Below it, the floor dropped down three steps to a large circular bed and, in its centre, lay a dead man. 

“Do you recognise the victim, John?”  Sherlock asked. 

“Can’t say I do.  What’s his name?” 

Sally tapped her pockets until she found her notebook.   “This is Brandon Cox.  He’s an Australian and he’s worked here for about three years.  We’re not sure of his age, but we know that he mostly worked in this area of the club.  Charles called him a ‘host’, whatever that means. Anderson thinks he was mid-shag when he died.”

“Here?” Sherlock asked. “He was having sex in front of anyone sitting on these sofas?” 

“Looks that way. The bloke who was doing him is giving his statement in the kitchen out there.” Donovan pointed to a side door.  “I’ll tell the officers to let you know when they’re finished so you can speak to him, shall I?” 

Sherlock nodded.    He stole a quick look at John, who’d already started pulling on a blue forensics suit so he could examine the body.   Sherlock took a breath and stepped down into the bed-pit.   Brandon’s body had no obvious sign of trauma, but his lips were swollen and there were blue blotches at the edges.  Sherlock slipped on some latex gloves and waited for John to climb down beside him.   He opened the victim’s mouth.   John flicked on his medical torch.

“Airway’s virtually closed,” Sherlock noted. 

“Look here,” John said, running gloved fingers over Brandon’s neck.  “Acute urticaria.  This is an allergic reaction.” 

“But allergic to what?”  Sherlock asked.

John swept his gaze over the body. He paused when he reached Brandon’s backside.  The urticaria, in the form of red welts, was more concentrated on his arse.   John looked up at Sherlock and their eyes met.  A barely perceptible nod and John eased Brandon’s buttocks apart. 

“Fuck,” John whispered.  

“That’ll be the source.” Sherlock stood.  “The lubricant.  It would be far easier to slip an allergen into a liquid and for it not to be noticed.  It may have even been worn on the hands.”   Sherlock put his hands either side of imaginary hips and thrust his hips forward. 

John grimaced.  “We need to speak to the man who was having sex with Brandon then.”  

Sherlock nodded. He turned and looked up.  On screen, a muscular, tanned man had his back to the camera.  A similarly fit man sucked his dick.  It all seemed ridiculous, staged and sordid.  But, more than that, it occurred to Sherlock that sex was an act of trust.  Was that the reason it had never appealed to him?  He looked back towards John. 

“I can’t imagine you being in this place, John,” Sherlock said.  “What made you come here?” 

John sighed.   “I don’t know.  Have you ever looked for something even though you’ve got no idea what you were looking for?  Maybe I was looking in the wrong place.  After Mary, after all that, maybe I just needed something uncomplicated.  Whatever it was, I realised when Jason died that I haven’t found it.” 

Sherlock squeezed his lips together. He gave John a single nod. 

“Mr Holmes?”   A young police officer asked.  “The man who was with the victim at the time of death is ready to speak to you.” 

John and Sherlock walked into the back room.  A man wrapped in a blanket waited, seated at a chipped table on an uncomfortable-looking chair. He turned and acknowledged them.  Immediately, Sherlock noted that he wore a vintage Rolex watch.  He had manicured fingernails and a tattooed wedding band on his left hand.    Sherlock also noted that the man recognised them. It happened, of course, but this man was very interested in John in particular.

“Can I check with you, Officer, that you have the lubricant and condom used by Mr...?” 

“Tyler,” the man replied. “Mark Tyler.”

“We’ve got the condom bagged for Forensics, sir.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed.  “And the lubricant?” 

“It’s on the counter, there.” Tyler pointed to a clear bottle. 

Sherlock watched the police officer put the lubricant into an evidence bag.  “Can I ask you, then, Mr Tyler, where you procured the condom and the lubricant that you used?”

“The condom was from the dish of them on the glass wall,” Tyler answered.  “I think the police have them.  I didn’t see who gave me the lubricant. One of the guys on the sofa just passed it to me. There was a bright light on over the bed pit and I couldn’t see anyone around us.  Someone gave me the bottle and I used it.”

“So, you just used any old random bottle of stuff some stranger gave you? Did you even check the bottle?”  John held the bagged lube in his hand. 

“No, this is a sex club, or didn’t you know?  If someone hands you something, you trust them.”

“This is a brothel, Mr Tyler, and most of the people here are customers just like you,” Sherlock said.  “I shouldn’t have to tell you that things like trafficking, money laundering, drug dealing and slavery are linked to prostitution and to brothels. Anyone, from the Marquês de Evora to ISIS could be linked to the men who work here. Therefore, you are in an environment in which you should be on your guard, not least because you could be found to be engaging in illegal activity yourself.  So, the question remains, did you check the bottle?”   Sherlock tilted his head.

“No, I didn’t check the bloody bottle,” Tyler said.  “Members of the sodding government come here.  Is it lube?” 

“It says it is,” John admitted.  He unzipped the evidence bag and sniffed it, then passed it to Sherlock to do the same.  Interesting.

“We’ve no further questions, officer.  Thank you for your time.”   Sherlock swept out of the room. He heard John follow him.  As they walked back into the main room, Sherlock noted Charles Langridge talking to Lestrade. 

“Mr Langridge,” Sherlock said.  “Do you happen to ask the people who work here for lists of allergies?” 

“I’ve already been asked this,” Langridge replied.  “Yes, we do.  Brandon Cox wasn’t allergic to Latex or any of the common ingredients found in the kind of lubricant we stock here.”

“But he was allergic to ibuprofen and non-steroidal anti-inflammatories, wasn’t he?”  Sherlock asked.  Langridge nodded.  “Lestrade, when you run tests on the lubricant, you will find that the bottle contains ibuprofen gel.  Now, we need a list of all the people in this building who were present tonight and for the death of Jason. I’d also like the names of those who knew Brandon had an ibuprofen allergy.”

Lestrade nodded and began to scribble into his notebook. 

“I can tell you here and now, who knew about Brandon’s allergies,” Langridge said.  “We all did.  He even asked his clients if they used the stuff.  Even when he helped out Justin Ellis, our BDSM specialist, and he asked his clients too.  Brandon wasn’t shy about it.”

“Well that narrows down the list of suspects to co-workers and to Brandon’s and Ellis’ clients,” Sherlock said. “How many of those people were here for both murders?” 

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know offhand,” Lestrade said.  “I can give you the lists of who was here for both nights. Langridge can give you a list of clients. If you want to wait for us to figure it out, don’t count on getting a quick answer.  We’ll be taking statements for the next few days. This place was heaving.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock flipped up his collar.  “I’ll expect the lists first thing tomorrow, if I may.  Mr Langridge, I have an appointment to see your billing clerk tomorrow. Will she be able to give me a list of the relevant clients then?” 

“I’ll make sure of it, Mr Holmes,” Langridge agreed.  “I want my club open again as soon as possible.  That makes you and your insufferable questions a necessary evil.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.  He looked around the room and, from the corner of his eye, saw Fabian enter the blue area of the room.  “Come along, John.” Sherlock took hold of John’s cuff and marched them to the nearest exit.  He barely let John remove his forensics suit before he was bundled out onto the street. 

Langridge wasn’t the only one who wanted the case sorted as soon as possible.

***

[1] Made up title as far as I am aware. Evora is an area of Portugal and Marquês is the Portuguese Marquis. Portugal, as far as I can tell, doesn’t have any major issues with organised crime, with the exception of some crossover with Spanish mafia groups and small level gangs. Portugal has some of the most lenient drug laws in the West, in that they have decriminalised the use of drugs and the carrying of ten days (or less) supply of narcotics in favour of focusing on trafficking, dealing and links to organised crime. However, Portugal is a well-known transit route for immigrants, from Africa, and drugs, from South America and from the east.  My invented Marquês is involved in the trade of both.

[2] cheeky

Chapter Text

Sherlock stretched.  It was nine fifty-seven in the morning.  He’d only climbed into bed a few hours prior, but his brain whirred at full speed.  He heard John pottering around the kitchen and Rosie throwing something around in the living room.  Sherlock smiled.  He’d never have thought that domesticity suited him. 

Last night, Sherlock’s mind had been focused on the case. In the morning light, Sherlock’s brain pictured just one thing.  He pushed off his pyjama trousers and took himself in hand as he remembered his dreams.  Sherlock pictured the scene. 

The circular bed in Langridge’s.  He didn’t know who watched, but knew who lay beneath him.  John was naked, his neck flushed with arousal, his eyes dark.   He pulled Sherlock down and they kissed.  John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist. 

“I want you inside me,” he whispered.  Dream John handed Sherlock a bottle of lube.  “I brought it from home.  You can trust me.”

Sherlock’s mind turned white.  

Sherlock looked at the little bottle in the palm of his hand. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” Imaginary John whined.  “Hurry.” 

A door creaked open in Sherlock’s mind palace.

He fumbled the bottle open.  He trusted John, whether he was real or not. Sherlock lathered lube on his cock and into his hand.  He reached to prepare John, who chuckled and whispered, “I’m ready. I made myself ready for you.” 

Sherlock’s mind flickered up a picture on the porn screen. 

John was alone on the round bed surrounded by hungry faces, bodies moaning and writhing.  In the centre, oblivious to the crowd, John finger-fucked himself ready for his Holmes.

Lain in bed at home, Sherlock’s cock thickened.  He paused to spit into his palm and began to stroke himself faster and firmer than before. 

Sherlock pushed into John’s body, driven mad with desire by the thought of John fingering himself in readiness.  He was rewarded with red heat that flooded his vision.

Dream John lifted his legs up and yelled, “Fuck me, Sherlock. I can’t hold on.” 

“Touch yourself.” Sherlock’s voice was nothing but an exhale but John obeyed. 

The faceless people that surrounded the bed cheered as Sherlock fucked illusory John hard. John’s legs, wrapped around his waist, thudded against him.  He drove deeper and deeper.  His eyes misted, blinded by sweat, and it wasn’t enough, not one bit.  John screamed and came in thick spurts.  The rhythmic clench around Sherlock made him think he might just go mad. 

At home in 221B, Sherlock’s hips arched off the bed.  His hand was a blur on his cock and he turned his head to bite his pillow rather than moan. 

John, sweat-soaked and gorgeous, begged Sherlock to come inside him. 

Eyes shut tight and mouth full of expensive linen, Sherlock trembled on the edge of release.

“Aren’t you awake yet?”  Real John knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door. “I’ve got the kettle on.”

For a moment, Sherlock expected John, his John, to walk in.  That transient moment of alarm tipped him over the edge.  With a jolt Sherlock came hard, eyes forced open with panic.  His come splattered across his chest and he forced his fingers into his mouth alongside the pillow case.   His heart thundered as he gasped his way back to normal respiration. 

“Sherlock, we’ve got to see that Shirley woman in an hour,” John’s voice filtered through the door.  “You need to get your arse up. I hope you’re decent because I’m going to bring you in a cup of coffee in a minute.” 

Sherlock climbed out of bed.  His thighs trembled as he fought with his pyjama trousers and pulled them, back to front, up his legs.   Sherlock grabbed a handful of tissues, mopped his chest and reached for his dressing gown.  He threw it on, tied it, turned and was greeted by the smiling face of John Hamish Watson.

“Morning sunshine.” John handed him a cup of tea.  “Want anything for breakfast?”

**

Shirley Patterson was a small, dark haired woman.  In John’s mind, she looked like a mole, all myopic behind thick glasses.  Her demeanour was friendly and delighted that someone had an interested in her work. 

“I helped design the system myself,” she said in a soft and lilting Scottish accent.  She explained that the software issued an invoice as soon as the customer’s name and needs were entered.   “It means that Simon and dear Jason, God rest his soul, would simply give the customer their invoice and receipt immediately.  A lot of our clients don’t want the paperwork, but we keep their copies if they don’t take them. I run a tight ship, Mr Holmes.”

“So, how much do the prostitutes earn?”  Sherlock asked.

“I’ve no idea, Mr Holmes,” Shirley said. Her eyes and nostrils flared.   “We hire rooms to our male entertainers.   Because they don’t have billing capabilities, we take their funds combined with ours.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “We take 25% as a starting rate. After the entertainers have been here a wee while, we negotiate that figure according to the size of the room they hire.”

“So how much did Simon and Jason’s changing roles in the company cost Langridge’s?” John asked. 

“Well, that’s difficult to quantify, Dr Watson.” Shirley replied.  “Yes, they were then employed by Langridge’s, but their wages, like mine, are paid by members fees.” 

Sherlock frowned. 

“Everyone pays an annual fee to be a member of Langridge’s,” John explained.  “As an ex-serviceman, I get a discount.” John blushed.  “I paid £280 for a single year’s membership.”

“The regular fees are £850 per year plus a £500 joining fee which we waive for those from the armed and emergency services,” Shirley admitted.  “And those are just the basic fees.   The deluxe membership is £1,300 and that includes access to some of the specialist suites on the fourth floor.  To have access to the room where poor Brandon died, you have to be a VIP member. They pay almost £2,000 per year membership.”

Sherlock nodded at Shirley to continue.

“Our membership figures have increased since Simon and Jason took over reception. And they had ideas for monthly membership deals and taster evenings, where people could sample what the club has to offer.  I can’t tell you exact figures, Mr Holmes, but Simon and Jason have probably brought more money into the club as receptionists than they ever did as entertainers.”  

“Who would stand to lose from Brandon and Jason’s deaths?”  John asked. He wasn’t expecting an answer.

“I can’t say for sure, Dr Watson, but I’m sure Doubles down the road is pretty happy about all of this mess.” 

“Doubles?” Sherlock asked. 

“Och, they apparently do what we do but they’re no’ as classy as we are,” Shirley replied.  “They don’t offer anywhere near the amount of services we do.  All our boys have access to sexual health nurses and testing, prophylactics and the like.  They don’t at Doubles.  I only know that because Brandon told me all about it.  Oh, that reminds me, here’s the list of Brandon’s clients and the ones he saw with Justin.  Brandon was a lovely boy.  But he worked at Doubles before he came here, you know.   The stories he told. He wasn’t the only lad who moved over here, either.  If I were you, Mr Holmes, I’d go take a wee look at Doubles.”

*

Before Sherlock and John left the club, they went to see Simon to find out where Langridge’s got their lubricant and who had access to it.  John was sure that the lube he’d used at the club was a different brand to the one that killed Cox.  Simon confirmed it. 

“A lot of the boys like different ones,” Simon said.  “Some are better than others for use with toys and that.  But, as a general rule, we always use Coco de Mer[1] water-based lube. One sec, let me give you a bottle.”  Simon disappeared behind the reception desk and appeared a moment later with several small, brown boxes.  “On the house.”

Sherlock took the boxes but blushed to the roots of his hair.   “Shall we go, John?” 

John chuckled, hugged Simon and followed in Sherlock’s wake. 

**

When they perused the list, Sherlock and John discovered there were five clients in common from the list of attendees on the nights of Jason and Brandon’s murders.  Three of them had been on Brandon’s client list and one of those two had seen Ellis.  All of them featured on Sherlock’s list of suspects from the day before.  

“Do you know any of these men, John?”  Sherlock asked as he handed over the list. 

“Stephen Daniels… He sounds familiar.”

“Just left the country, apparently. Won’t be back for several days. Murphy’s in Liverpool.  Conveniently dying mother.”

“Ah, I know him.”  John pointed at a name on the list. “You do too. Keith Candlar.” 

“How would I know him?” Sherlock peered at the name John pointed at.  

“He’s on the telly, Sherlock.  He does that show, y’know, the quiz thing.  The one you don’t like because you always say that the right answers are always wrong.”

“You’ve just described every quiz show on television, John.”

“For Pete’s sake, Sherlock!   I can’t remember what it’s called.  It’s got that weird treadmill thing on it.” 

“Oh, the aerobic activator round?”

“That’s the one!  Well, Keith Candlar hosts that show.” 

“Right.  Well, he’ll be here in half an hour.  I’ve arranged it.”

“Anyone else coming today?” 

“Lord Robbesmere.”

“Who?” 

“Him.” Sherlock pointed to another name on the list. 

“Great.”

*

Middle-aged, orange in hue, overweight and wearing a toupee, Kevin Candlar was accompanied by his Shih Tzu, Jessica.

“You won’t tell my agent about this, will you?”  Candlar said before he’d even shaken Sherlock’s hand.   “She knows that I, well, dabble, but I don’t think she’d like me to be a member of Langridge’s.  The media are so judgemental about these things.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  He opened his mouth and then saw John’s face, all thunder and warning lights, so closed it again with a sigh.

“We are very discrete,” John said.   “Have you been a member of Langridge’s for long?” 

“Ten years,” Candlar replied. “I’ve wanted to be a member since well before that, though. Do you know the history?”  

Sherlock shook his head.  Kevin Candlar was a man of many secrets; that much was obvious from his jewellery.  He was clearly not to be trusted.

“Charles’ father, Henry, had a gentleman’s club on the site. Grandfather too. It was one of the greats, along with Diogenes.  Henry didn’t approve of Charles’ sexuality. Not one bit. Made him marry a woman, some heiress or other, who bore him a child and then promptly died.  He claimed he was too heartbroken to marry again, sent the son to Harrow and carried on shagging his butler.  When the old man died, Charles took over and immediately turned the place into the sort of club where men like him could always be safe to be the way they wanted. To be who they really were, you know.  He’s been in charge since the 1960’s.  It was a riskier place to run then than it is now.”

“Charles’ son will inherit Langridge’s?” 

“Not on your nelly,” Candlar replied.  “Son died in a car accident.   Charles had a daughter with Dossie Hartley.  Now she was a dear old girl. She used to work at Jo-Jo[2]’s in my day, called herself the dyke with a pipe.  Anyway, she wanted a kid, Charles offered and Elizabeth was born.  Elizabeth takes after her mother, I can tell you.  She’s a fan of the fairer sex.”

“Is it likely she might admit women to Langridge’s?”  John asked. 

“That is the concern,” Candlar admitted. “Think Charles has some sort of codicil to his will though. I’m not sure she can. That said, Lizzie’s been helping at Langridge’s for years. The place is in her blood. I can’t see her making sweeping changes.”

“And you knew Jason and Brandon well?” 

“Not Jason so much,” Candlar admitted. “I’ve seen him there, of course.  I preferred it when Marianne worked reception, truth be told. I thought she brought an air of class to the place.”

“And Brandon?”  John prompted.

“Brandon was a darling boy.  I was his first customer at Langridge’s, you know. I heard he’d worked at Doubles before. That made me wonder.  I only saw Brandon or Christopher at Langridge’s.”

“You visit Doubles too?” Sherlock asked.  A faint tremor shivered across Candlar’s fingers.  Sherlock narrowed his gaze and thought about stimulants.

“Far less often,” Candlar admitted. “I like that they have a private entrance for VIP’s.   My favourite there has moved to Langridge’s though. I don’t know that I’ll go back to Doubles again.”

“Have you ever picked up any animosity between the two clubs?”  Sherlock sipped his tea.  Candlar remembered his own cup and rattled it in its saucer.

“In spades, Mr Holmes, in spades.  I tell you what. I’m about to cancel the membership anyway. Why don’t I give you my membership card and you can see for yourself? There’s a private entrance on Livonia Street.” Candlar handed over a black card with the club name written on in silver writing.  “I’ll cancel at the end of the month. That gives you a few weeks to see what I mean.” 

Sherlock nodded.  “Thank you.  Just one more question.  Can you think of any reason why Brandon or Jason may have been murdered?” 

“No,” Candlar said.  “If you ask me, they’re accidental. Horrible and coincidental, but accidental. Brandon was dreadfully allergic and Jason hated being on the upper floors of the building. It all seems logical to me that these were entirely accidental incidents.”

The attempt Sherlock made not to tell Candlar he was a moron physically pained him.  He glanced towards John, but Jessica, the Shih Tzu, drew his eye as she walked across the room and insolently peed in the kitchen doorway.   John turned, then met Sherlock’s gaze. He looked angry.

“Yes, well, I see why that sparkling intellect is put to good use on your tiresome quiz show.” Sherlock hurried Candlar to the door, sweeping the Shih Tzu with him.  “Are you aware that your researchers have used incorrect information questions a total of one hundred and forty-three times in the last year alone?  No?  Of course not. The rodent on your head is more intelligent than you. Good day, Mr Candlar, you tangerine horror.”  And, with that, Sherlock slammed the door behind their guest.                                                                                                                                                   

“You could have got him to clean up the dog piss first.”

“Bugger off, John.” 

Sherlock walked over to this chair and looked at the Doubles card on the armrest. Candlar would cancel it now. All attempts to visit the club discretely would be lost.  Sherlock picked up his mobile. It was time to call in a favour. 

**

“I can’t see why I have to come with you, Sherlock,” John said for the fifth time. Even he was bored of his own voice.  “You’re far better at disguises than I am.”

“I’ve told you before, John, we’re not going in disguise,” Sherlock called from his bedroom.  “We’re just not looking like ourselves.”

“I don’t wear clothes like this, Sherlock,” John said.  He stood in the living room and ruffled his hair.  “I wore combat trousers in combat, not for poncing around in Soho.”

“And that’s precisely why you’re wearing them,” Sherlock replied.  “You can’t ponce around in Soho the way you normally look because you look like a middle-aged doctor called John Watson.”  He walked into the room.  His hair was slicked back. Before John registered what he wore, Sherlock’s coat was on and he’d marched out of the flat.  “Come along, John.” 

Livonia Street was a narrow alley that led onto a narrow road that stopped abruptly in front of a white building.  As they neared the door, an entry phone was visible.  Sherlock swiped a black card underneath the speaker and a grey door swung open.  They were in. 

The first thing that struck John about Doubles was volume.  Langridge’s was quiet, serene and calm; Doubles was an aural assault on the senses.  A Britney Spears song rolled across the stained, beige carpet, and spotlights changed the colour of the white walls from blue to green and red, yellow then purple. The building smelled of sweat, spunk and soiled gym socks.

A cloakroom stood to their right and John handed over the black leather jacket that made up his outfit.  Sherlock passed over his coat; a Burberry trench that ended at his knees. Sherlock’s black jeans had a slick, almost wet look to them. They were tight, but not skin tight.  Sherlock’s t-shirt was much the same; it hinted at what was beneath rather than revealed it.

“Ready?”

John’s mouth felt dry and he swallowed before he could speak.  “Sure,” he replied. He followed Sherlock to the reception desk. 

“We’re here to see Piero?” Sherlock said.  “We’re a bit early though. Do you have anywhere we can sit and just chill for a bit?” His accent was rougher than normal, his tone a maybe an octave higher. 

“You must be Colin and Aaron?”  The receptionist looked them both up and down.  “Card?”

Sherlock handed the black card over.  “Aaron Sommers.  Lovely name,” the receptionist said.  He pouted a little at Sherlock who winked back.   “You’ve got a lively one here, Colin.”

“Just married,” Sherlock said, unabashed. He reached over and took John’s hand.  “We’ve  been together four years now. Seems like yesterday.”  Sherlock kissed his cheek. John blushed.  

“Oh, aren’t you two just the picture of happiness?”  The receptionist swiped the membership card and handed it back to Sherlock. “When I get old, I hope me and my husband are as happy as you two.”

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath.  Shit, John thought. To his surprise, Sherlock just laughed. 

“How dare you?” Sherlock winked again.

“If you two want to take the green door on the left, that’s our lounge and bar area for waiting VIP’s.  You can have a drink in there and watch the floorshow.  Have a beautiful evening.”  The receptionist pressed a button and the green door buzzed and opened. 

There were three other men in the VIP lounge.  They were sitting on a long, black couch that faced a small, empty stage.  Right in front of them, to left of the stage, was a small bar. John glanced at the other VIPs.  One looked like a bloke from one reality show or other, but the other two men didn’t seem familiar. He smiled and followed Sherlock to the bar, hand still in his. 

“Can I have a glass of apple juice please?” Sherlock asked the barman.  “Col?”  he winked at John.  Of all the names, John did not feel like a Colin.   

“I’ll have a whisky and coke please,” John replied.  “Scotch, if you’ve got it.” 

“There’s Jack Daniels or Teachers?” the barman asked. 

John didn’t try to hide his scowl.  “Teachers,” he replied.  Sherlock squeezed his hand; he knew how particular John was about his whisky.

Sherlock paid the barman and he and John walked over to the couch to wait for Piero, whoever he was.

“More lively than Langridge’s isn’t it?” Sherlock said in the chippy tone he’d adopted.  John nodded. 

The reality TV star chuckled.  “Less fucking boring, more like.” 

A taped drumroll sounded and a man walked onto the small stage area.  He wore a pair of silver spandex trousers and some ballet shoes.  A pole dropped from the ceiling.  The man bowed.  ‘Careless Whisper’ crackled through the speakers and the man swayed, off-time. 

John sipped of his drink. It was vile. He leant his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and whispered to him. “This is going to be the slowest pole-dance in the history of mankind, isn’t it?”  No sooner had the words left his mouth than the man onstage climbed onto his pole.  “Told you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “Mrs Hudson’s sexier than this.”

John took another sip of his drink to hide his grin.  “She can pole-dance better than this, too.” 

The man climbed up the pole, gripped it with his thighs and threw his torso backwards.  He slid down slowly. The friction of spandex against metal made a squeaky fart noise. 

The reality TV star yelled, “Yeah baby.” 

John attempted to crawl inside Sherlock’s t-shirt.  His neck hurt from clenching his teeth to stifle laughter.  

The pole dancer climbed the pole again and leant so far back his head hit the bar behind him.  Jolted, he fell off the pole and cracked his head on the stage.  He attempted to make rubbing his sore crown part of the routine.   Sherlock’s resultant coughing fit sounded remarkably like laughter. 

“This is shit,” said one of the men on the sofa.  He had ginger hair and wore an Anthrax t-shirt.  “If this is what passes for VIP entertainment, can you imagine what it’s like in the main lounge?”  He hooted with laughter.

John sniggered. So too did Sherlock.   

“Shut up, the fucking lot of ya,” the reality TV star retorted.  “He’s gorgeous.  Go on love,” he yelled at the man on stage who stood motionless rubbing his head.  “Carry on, you’re doing well.” 

“He fookin’ well isn’t,” said the Anthrax fan.  “I could do better than him.” 

The pole dancer stamped hard on the stage.  “If you think you can do better, you just come and do it. I’ve had enough working for you ungrateful bastards. I’m going to Langridge’s, you know.”

“What doing?” said the other man on the sofa. He was John’s age and bald.  “Washing up?”

“You fuckers,” yelled the pole dancer. He fell off the back of the stage.

“Well done,” said the reality TV star. “You’ve ruined the entertainment now.  I bloody hate sitting in silence.”

“I’ll dance for ya, if you’d like?” said Anthrax.  

“Do it,” said Reality.   

John put his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder and closed his eyes.  “Save me,” he whispered.  “I don’t think I can cope with this.”  

“I know for damn sure that I can’t.  Piero is late for our appointment.”

“Wooo!” screamed Reality. 

John opened an eye.  Anthrax was good at pole dancing.  He spun in a wide arc, the pole gripped firmly between his knees.

“Aaron Sommers?”  A man put his head around the door.  John was hypnotised by Anthrax.  “Aaron Sommers!” 

“Fuck, that’s us, Colin.” Sherlock pulled John to his feet.  “Piero?” 

“In the flesh, sweetheart.”

[1] https://www.coco-de-mer.com/products/coco-de-mer-radiant-bloom-anal-lubricant-100ml/

[2] Madame Jojo’s was a legendary burlesque/cabaret/comedy/music club in Soho in London. It’s apparently reopening in 2018. 

Chapter Text

In John Watson’s life, his top three happiest occasions had been:

1. The birth of his daughter
2. His stag night
3. His wedding.

His top three least happy moments had a new entry at number three:  

1. Sherlock’s death
2. Mary’s death
3. Being in a room with Piero and Sherlock to discuss their sex life

“Now, this is a special hands-on session,” Piero said as he removed his trousers.

Hands-on, it seemed, meant that John and Sherlock should be naked apart from their pants, and that it involved them touching with every comment they made.  Sherlock, under the guise of Aaron Sommers, had booked them in to see Piero Fibonacci, who specialised in couples’ sexual therapy.   According to Sherlock, this was the best possible way to get some insight into any role the staff of Doubles might have played in the murders at Langridge’s.

John shivered a little.  His pants didn’t offer much warmth.  Sherlock’s rested his hand on his knee and he shifted a little closer.   John barely held back a whimper. All that Sherlock flesh on show and he wasn’t in a position to ogle. Colin, John’s disguise, had been with Aaron for years.  ‘Aaron’s’ arse was nothing special to ‘Colin’.  Damn him. 

“If you can tell me what brought you here, we can go from there,” Piero said.  He was a short, muscular, Italian man with kind eyes and a massive penis.  His pants were very tight. It really was difficult not to look. “And remember, every sentence comes with a caress.  Aaron, you begin.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened wide.  Oh Jesus.  “I found out last week that Colin goes to Langridge’s,” Sherlock said.   John hadn’t expected to hear the truth and he flinched when Sherlock stroked his arm.  He wondered if a punch qualified as a caress.  

“Classy,” Piero said. “What is it like at Langridge’s, please?” 

“Nice,” John said.  “Very comfortable. Good whisky.” 

“So, I should not ask,” Piero said, “but why did you come here for this?”

Tears ran down Sherlock’s face.  John knew they weren’t real. “He has sex with a man who looks like me.”   Sherlock patted John’s knee.  

Piero pulled a face.  “Really?” 

“Well, me and Sh-Aaron don’t have sex!”  John stroked Sherlock’s back.  He snuck a sneaky look at Sherlock’s body.  His skin was smooth, save for the mess of scars from his ‘dead’ years. His pants were black and didn’t give much away. 

“You want to have sex with each other?”  Piero asked.  “Why don’t you two just have sex?” 

“It’s complicated,” John replied.  “I lived with Aaron, but he died. Then I met Ma-Marilyn. Then she died. Now Aaron and I are busy bringing up Marilyn’s and my daughter.” John pulled Sherlock in for a half-hug and snuck another look at his groin.  Fucking black well-engineered pants.

“Kids are tough,” Piero agreed.  “You need to make time for you also. Plus, I do not think you should call your boyfriend Sharon.” 

“It’s only when he’s angry,” Sherlock said through tears.  He stroked the inside of John’s thigh and oh, that was dangerous because of the just-wearing-pants-thing.

“You faked your own death for two years!” John poked Sherlock in the ribs.

“Harsh,” Piero said.  “I just walk out for just a few hours. To pretend you are dead and sulk for two years?  That is next level.”

“Tell me about it!” John took a deep breath and stroked the back of Sherlock’s neck.  “Aaron came back, and Marilyn died, and I really don’t have a lot of sexual experience with men.”

“You do now,” Sherlock said.  “I met Fabian, remember?”  He squeezed John’s knee.

“You go with Fabby?”  Piero asked.  “I love Fabby. He’s always telling me to quit here and go to Langridge’s. However, I like that I work with normal people, you know?” 

“Great. Someone else who loves Fabian.  That’s all I need.” Sherlock crossed his arms. 

“But he isn’t you,” John replied.  “He was practice.  An experiment.  I couldn’t do that to you.”  John squeezed Sherlock’s bicep. It was firm, lean.  John hoped he’d stopped squeezing before it got creepy.

“Hang on,” Piero said. “You are John.” He pointed at John.  “You are Sherlock.” He pointed to Sherlock.  “Oh my God, you two are even more strange than Fabby said.”

“We’re investigating two murders,” Sherlock said. He wiped away his tears. The sham was over.  “We discovered that the people who seemed to have the most to gain from the two deaths would be the owners of this place.  Thoughts?”

“There are bad men at Langridge’s too.”  Piero began to dress. John and Sherlock followed his lead.  “But that is not my story to tell.  On the whole though, I agree with you. I don’t know that they are so smart here though.  The manager is like a puppet for someone else. Strange shit happens.” 

“Do you think you could keep your eyes and ears open?  Maybe ask around?”  John was almost fully dressed now.

“Only if you do something for me,” Piero said. He now wore a silky lounge suit. He still had a very large penis.  “You put in good words with Charles for me after.  Normal people or not, it would be good to work in a nicer place.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said. “Anything else?”

“Just one thing,” Piero said.  “You two need to have sex. Soon. You will not get younger.  Have sex before you need Viagra.”

*

When Sherlock and John arrived home, John thanked Mrs Hudson for babysitting Rosie and went straight to bed. Sherlock stood in the living room and thought about the conversation with Piero.   He knew he should think about the case, but an army doctor had crawled into his head and refused to move. 

John had said that he was finished with Langridge’s. He planned to devote himself entirely to Rosie. From the conversation with Piero, it also appeared that John had experimented with Fabian as a precursor to a sexual relationship with Sherlock. Was that option gone?

Sherlock wanted John Watson. He wanted him body and soul.  Thus far, he’d tried to be the sort of man John might consider engaging with in a romantic capacity.  It was hard work. Sherlock knew his deductive abilities were impeded by constant attempts to say or do the right thing.  He lapsed more often than he wanted to admit. It was time, then, to re-focus.

Romantic and sexual partners performed a variety of roles. Sherlock made a mental list.  Apart from sex, he already fulfilled many of them.  He enjoyed the time he spent with John and Rosie. He liked to make them both happy. He gave John the requisite level of danger consistent with his mental health needs.  The consultancy work provided for them financially to a sufficient extent, supplemented by John’s income as a locum.

Should he start to cook, Sherlock wondered.  He should certainly pay more attention to John’s feelings. John had looked at Sherlock a lot tonight, even when he was only in his pants.  He would try to be sexier for John.  Sherlock should also make it clear to John that he found him attractive, he decided.

Those questions resolved, he picked up his violin.  It was time to think about murder.

**

John fell asleep to the plaintive strains of the violin and awoke to the smell of bacon.  He said a silent thank you to Mrs Hudson and climbed out of bed.  Rosie was already up, so Sherlock must’ve heard her stir and come in to collect her.  It never failed to amaze John how Sherlock seemed to be attuned to his daughter’s sleeping habits.   After a shower, John put on his boxers and his dressing gown and went downstairs. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock said.   “Breakfast is almost ready.  Rosie’s had some fruit and I thought she might have some scrambled egg and baked beans. What do you think?”

“Only if the beans are low sodium, low sugar ones.  She can have egg as long as it’s cooked to death and there’s no salt in it.”

“Good, as I expected.  In that case, Rosie, the fry-up is on!” Rosie squealed with delight.  She probably didn’t understand the concept of a fry-up, but she responded to his joy.  “You sit here, John.” Sherlock led him to a seat.  “I’ll bring breakfast over in a moment.” 

John chatted to Rosie. She squeezed a slice of pear to within an inch of its life and then threw it on John’s naked leg.   He stared at it for a bit.  This morning was very surreal.  Sherlock put a full English breakfast in front of him. It looked edible. Mrs Hudson wasn’t in sight.  Rosie pushed a baked bean into his ear.  He ate his breakfast.  It was better than edible.  There was even black pudding and even though, as a doctor, he told his patients it was a dreadful thing to eat, John loved it. 

“Thanks for breakfast, Sherlock,” John said once he’d shovelled the last, delicious forkful into his mouth.  “That was, well, nice.  You know, you don’t have to get Rosie up in the morning.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied as he cleared plates from the table.  “I’m in the process of cataloguing her sleep times and how they relate to sunlight and stimuli. Nothing that would disturb her. It’s interesting what sounds she’s used to. She hardly notices me playing the violin.”

“Just so long as you don’t torture the bloody thing,” John added. Sherlock paused in the middle of the kitchen.  He pulled out his mobile and read the screen. “What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing, John. In fact, we’ve had a breakthrough on the case.” 

“Really?” 

“Piero sent me a text message.  He’s given me the name of someone his manager named as a shareholder.  Would you care to guess?” 

“Candlar?”  John asked.  “He was a right shifty git.”

“Good guess, good reason, but wrong.  Mark Tyler.”

“The bloke with the lube?  The one who shagged Brandon?”

“One and the same.”

“That’s a bit dull.”

“I thought that until I looked him up last night. Did you know that Mark Tyler is married to Lesley Shaw, the woman who owns Larkins?”

“The one from Mycroft’s fraud case? Fucking hell.”

“We’ve got the names, we’ve just got to figure what on earth is going on.” 

“So where do we start?” 

Sherlock picked up his laptop.  “Let’s do some roleplay.”

“Kinky.”

“Would you like to pretend to be Mycroft or shall I?”

“Well that’s ruined it.  Next time I get to decide who we’re going to be.”

Sherlock grinned.  “Online roleplay only.  Give me ten minutes, then we can go see some hookers.”

John pouted. “Again?  Hookers are like Belgian Chocolate. It’s great at first and then, after a while, you feel a bit queasy and think, ‘meh’.”

“Go dress your small child, John.”

John picked up Rosie and left Sherlock looking for very bad people on very secret websites. When John returned, Sherlock was printing out information and gave John the precis of what he’d found.  

Lesley Shaw and the man known as Mark Tyler married eighteen months previously. All signs were that the marriage was purely convenient for the blackmailing operation.  Tyler’s real name was Frank Little, a known criminal with links to organised crime, including a certain Marquês.  A businessman, the real Tyler, was declared missing in 2004.  Little was likely responsible for his death. Apart from the connection to Doubles, there was no reason why he’d have killed Jason Liverson or Brandon Cox.  

“What next?” John asked.

“We go see your friend, Fabian.”

“Bollocks.”

“John!  Fabian has feelings, you know.”

“Fuck off.”

**

John Watson was thoroughly bored of Fabian Bouchard.  He wondered what he’d ever seen in him.  Bouchard was short, irritating and incredibly clingy. His pupils were huge.  John assumed it was due to the amount of sex he had.  Fabian didn’t wear enough clothes either. He was standing with a short dressing gown on and was clearly naked beneath.

“Jean, I have missed you.” Fabian draped himself over John and sighed.  “I fear for my life every day.  Sherlock Holmes cannot be so much of a genie if the murderer is still out there.”

“We’re working on it.” John disengaged himself from Fabian and waited for Sherlock to arrive.  When they had reached Langridge’s, Sherlock had told John to ask for Fabian while he found Charles.   They’d agreed to meet at Reception. Simon gave John a sympathetic look.

Fabian stroked John’s back.  “I miss you, Jean,” he said.  “You have very powerful buttocks.”  

Simon tutted.  “It’s really up to the client to decide on what terms and when they see you, Fabian.  John and Sherlock are very busy people, especially right now.”

“Je m’en fous![1]”

“Monsieur Bouchard!” Charles Langridge walked across the foyer.  “That is hardly acceptable language for reception.”

“Je suis désolé[2],” Fabian said. “It is the fear that makes me lose my manners.”

“Perhaps you aren’t the right man for the job after all,” Sherlock said as he reached John’s side.  “We came to ask for your help. It seems I judged you to be a stronger person than you are.” 

 “Sherlock, people are being killed. If Fabian isn’t right for this he isn’t. Don’t try and manipulate him into it. Please.”  John wanted to explain that he couldn’t take more of Fabian’s drama, but he stopped himself.  Sherlock had told him to convince Fabian, not put him off. 

“What do you need?” Fabian asked. He puffed out his chest. “Tell me and I will decide.”

“Would you consider a matter of seduction?” Sherlock smoothed the lapels of Fabian’s flimsy dressing gown.  “The gentleman who had sex with Brandon when he died is returning to Langridge’s tonight. Charles has offered to pay for his entertainment this evening with one of the best men here.  We thought of you. If you’re not up to it, of course, then we can find someone else.”

“It’s as simple as that?” Fabian put his hand over Sherlock’s.  

“Not quite,” Sherlock said. “You’ll be entertaining Mr Tyler in the film room. Although Mr Tyler won’t be able to see us, John and I will be present. We simply want to observe his behaviour.”

“You think he will try to kill me?” Fabian picked up Sherlock’s hand and licked the fingertips.

Sherlock pulled his hand away. “I do not.”   

“Then I will do it.  After all, Jean will be there to protect me, non?”

“Indeed, he will, Mr Boucherie[3].” Sherlock smiled. “Now, if you’ll excuse John and I we have work to do. We’ll see you this evening.” 

John led Sherlock out of Langridge’s and into the bright summer sunshine.  

“Did you have to get him involved?” John asked as they attempted to hail a taxi.  “He’s a drama queen.”

“I thought you were worried about him because you’ve had intimate relations, John.  You never fail to surprise me.”

“You narrowly missed him talking about the strength of my arse.”

“Is that how you plan to protect him this evening?”  Sherlock flashed him a smile. 

John laughed.  He had a vision of him attempting to fight someone off with his backside.  His laugh turned to giggles and then he was bent double. Tears rolled down his face. He looked at Sherlock, who just stood looking bemused.  John laughed so much, he didn’t even spot the taxi that drew up.   Sherlock guided him into the car. “I’m sorry,” he said between gasps for air. 

“You call me a drama queen too,” Sherlock said.  “Maybe Fabian is more like me than I thought.”

The laughter died in John’s throat. He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “You’re nothing like Fabian Bouchard. Nothing at all. Thank God.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock replied. “Just one more thing. Is that a baked bean in your ear?”

**

“Sherlock and Dr Watson,” Mycroft said with a slight yawn.  “How utterly middling to see you again.   I do hope you have good news for me.”

Mycroft’s private room at the Diogenes was dark. It smelled of stale smoke and polished wood.  Sherlock had noticed some crumbs on a tea plate within 0.8 seconds.

“Mycroft ate all the cake, John.” Sherlock lifted the plate to sniff the crumbs.  “Madeira cake.  Mrs Hudson’s favourite.  I will have to inform her that you didn’t save any for her.”

“Sherlock, Mrs Hudson isn’t here.  She doesn’t save cake for me. She knows I love her cream horns.  Oh, grow up, John! You are not a child.”

“Were you aware of the connection between Mark Tyler and Doubles, bruv?”  Sherlock sat down and indicated to John that he should do the same.

Mycroft frowned.  “No.  Doubles is a little common for my circles.” He offered Sherlock a brief smile. 

“Not for Lesley Shaw,” John replied.  “Her husband owns shares in Doubles.  He was the man who buggered Brandon Cox to death.”

“It’s not possible,” Mycroft stuttered. “The connection simply can’t have got past my people.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock answered.  “What might we deduce from that?”  

“Either Mr Tyler isn’t who he says he is, or I have a mole.”  Mycroft picked up his tea cup and took a sip.   “I shall endeavour to find out, Sherlock.”

“No need,” Sherlock looked over at John, who pulled the envelope containing their findings out of his pocket.   He passed it to Mycroft and explained the contents.   

Sherlock observed his own fingernails. “I don’t understand why, but I know Tyler is up to something.”

“People often are.  Whilst all this is fascinating, I fail to see why you’re here telling me this.” Mycroft leant back in his chair.   He opened the envelope and shuffled through the contents until he noticed a photograph.  “Oh, I see.”

“I assume you don’t want me to question the Right Honourable Ste…”

“Leave it to me,” Mycroft interrupted.  “That is, if you were unsure, an order. I can add threats of violence if necessary.” 

John laughed.  “You should be on the stage, Mycroft.  You really are very funny.” 

“And you’re very short, Dr Watson.”

“We’ll be seeing Mr Tyler at eight-thirty.  If you have any information before then, you will let me know, won’t you?”  Sherlock stood.  John followed his lead. 

“Oh, you’ll know.”

“It’s been a bore as normal, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouted as he swept out of the room and out of the Diogenes.

***

[1] I don’t give a fuck.

[2] I’m sorry

[3] Butcher’s shop

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

John was dressed all in black.   That meant wearing the bloody combat trousers again, but so be it.  The cool metal of his gun against his back calmed him.  Sherlock wore black too.  John decided he looked like a sex ninja.  He was very pleased that Sherlock had worn his Belstaff so no one but John saw his arse in those trousers.

At Langridge’s, the main room, which incorporated the VIP lounge, pole dancing area and film room, was still closed.  Charles had let John and Sherlock in through the back door. They sat themselves on the sofas that surrounded the bed pit in the darkest corner.  After a brief wait, Lestrade arrived. 

“Look at you, sitting there being all thin and mysterious,” Lestrade commented to Sherlock as he took a seat next to them.  “You look like the sodding Milk-Tray man.”[1]  He paused, looked Sherlock up and down, then glanced at John. “Evening.” 

“I think John looks far more dashing than I do, Lestrade,” Sherlock said.   John grinned with embarrassment. “A man who has seen combat and who still looks debonair in combat trousers can never fail to be any less than impressive, surely?” 

“Fuck me.” Greg shook his head.  “You better watch out, John.  That stream of loquacious rubbish might just pass for flirting in Sherlock-land.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  John couldn’t discern if he looked a little embarrassed too?  The room was too dark to tell if his skin was flushed.  John smiled, and Sherlock met his eye.  The air crystallised around them for a moment. Everything stopped, just for a second.

“I’m going for a fag,” Lestrade announced. “You could cut the sexual tension in here with a bloody rolling pin. Try not to be in that bed by the time I get back.” He motioned to the bed pit. 

“Maybe this place is rubbing off on you,” John said. Sherlock seemed temptingly close. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Worry about what, John?”

“The rubbing off.”

“Was that an offer, Dr Watson?”  Sherlock’s skin blazed ivory in the dim light and his eyes sparkled like polished silver. 

“No, no, I just mean that this place makes you think about sex.  You can’t help it. Before you know it, everything is sexual innuendo and slapped arses.”  They were even closer now.

“If there’s going to be slapping, perhaps we should have a safe-word.” Sherlock was so close his words ghosted across John’s lips. He swallowed and looked at Sherlock’s mouth. He was going to kiss Sherlock fucking Holmes. His lips opened…

“Woo-hoo!” 

Fucking Fabian, that cock-blocking prick. 

“Secret agent Bouchard ready for duty.  Who shall I salute to?”   He was naked apart from a Royal Navy Officer’s cap. He stood with his back towards the bed and fell backwards onto the mattress.   “Would you like to help me warm the bed, Jean?”

John’s head spun.  Sherlock was too far away.  John closed his eyes.  “We’re here on business, Fabian.” His throat felt thick with unshared caresses. 

“You’re not as much fun, Jean, when Sherlock is with you,” Fabian continued. “I’ll suck him off first if you want to watch.”  Sherlock crossed his legs.  He looked crestfallen.  

John scowled at Bouchard. Even for him, this was not normal behaviour.  “Are you pissed, Fabian?” 

“Just a little champagne,” he replied.  “A little fizz to give me courage, non?”

“Fucking hell.” John crossed his arms. 

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock murmured.  “I suspect Tyler won’t mind.”

Lestrade walked back in. 

“Inspector.” Fabian got to his knees and waved.  With everything. “You look tired, Mr Policeman. Would you like me to give you a little pick-me-up?”    

“I’m good thanks.”  Greg took a wide-line around the bed pit.  “What’s the matter with him?” he asked John under his breath.  John shrugged.   “The nutter just reminded me, Sherlock, I got the lab results back on the butt plug.”  Sherlock gave Lestrade his full attention.  “DNA belonged to Gabe Smith, Gabriel. He was with Stephen Daniels at the time of Jason’s death.  There was also Jason’s DNA on it. A lot of Jason’s DNA on it. Oh, and lime scale deposits. That could be from washing, or from any other contact with water.  There was chlorine though, which is odd.” 

Sherlock sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.  The low light made his cheekbones more pronounced.  John was captivated.

Without warning, the film screen flickered to life behind them.  The light above the bed pit came on. 

Fabian moaned.  “I can’t see my favourite doctor anymore.”  

“Enough,” Sherlock ordered. 

In the distance, the main room door opened.  Charles Langridge’s voice floated in the air. 

“This way, Mr Tyler. I remembered you saying that you found the film room exciting. Fabian is very keen to meet you.” 

Tyler wore a dressing gown. Behind him and Charles, other people started to enter the VIP lounge.  It’d been agreed that several undercover officers and Langridge’s employees would come straight to the film room along with the club’s VIP’s. 

Fabian climbed to the edge of the bed-pit and tousled his hair.  He bit his lips a few times to pink them up and tweaked his nipples into hard nubs.  He stroked his cock back to full hardness and lined up the condom bowl and a bottle of lube at the edge of the pit.  

When Mark Tyler saw Fabian reclined on the edge of the bed pit, his hand slipped immediately beneath his robe.   He stood before Fabian, who drew himself up to his knees and nudged Tyler’s pelvis with his nose. 

“He’s gorgeous, Charles,” Tyler said.  “I think he’ll do very nicely indeed.”   He peeled off his robe and dropped it to the floor.   Fabian ripped open a packet, put a condom in his mouth and rolled it onto Tyler with his lips.  “Fuck, yes.”

John crossed his legs. His body had a Pavlovian response to Fabian Bouchard’s party trick, even if he didn’t want to. He froze when he Sherlock hand rested hot in the small of his back.  

“Relax, John,” Sherlock whispered.  “I won’t be offended if you become aroused.” 

John shifted in his seat.  Sherlock’s offence was one thing, but Lestrade was with them too.

Tyler’s legs sagged.  “I need to get in the bed, babe,” he said to Fabian. “Let me lie on the bed and you can have more of daddy’s cock.”

“Oh Jesus.”  Greg grabbed John’s arm.  “They’re not related, are they?” 

“Of course they’re not,” Sherlock replied.  “Do either of you recognise anyone?” 

John looked towards the entrance, such as it was, of the film room.   One by one various men drifted in. 

“The first three are police officers,” Lestrade admitted. “They’re numpties. I told them not to come in all at once.” 

“The next person in is Jamie,” John said. “He works here.” John did not say that he saw Jamie before Fabian had arrived at Langridge’s.   “Don’t know the next one. One after him works here too. I don’t know his name. Behind him is Sonny, who you’ve met.”

“So that leaves us three men we can’t account for so far,” Sherlock added.   “Someone working here is involved in the murders, so we need to watch them too.  I assume you can vouch for your officers, Lestrade?” 

“As much as I can.” 

“Good. Oh.”  Sherlock’s fingernails dug into John’s back. In the bed pit, Fabian was fingering his own arse.  Tyler’s cock was in his mouth.

“Let’s keep it professional, boys.” Lestrade crossed his legs, his voice huskier than before.

“Fuck him,” came a voice from one of the sofas.   Whoever said it, leant forward into a sliver of light. John only saw part of his chiselled face from behind his dark, seemingly black, hair.  He didn’t recognise him as one of Lestrade’s officers or one of the sex workers.  “Fuck him hard,” the man demanded.

Tyler pulled his cock free of Fabian’s mouth.  “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

Fabian’s mouth and chin glistened with saliva and his pink lips dropped open.   He wiped his mouth and nodded.  

“Give me your arse,” Tyler grunted. 

Fabian turned himself around.  Tyler grabbed the lube, dribbled some into his hand and swiftly pushed three fingers into Fabian. 

“You’re tight, little man,” said Tyler.  “How do you stay so tight when you’re a whore, hmm?”   Tyler finger-fucked Fabian hard with three and then four digits. 

John narrowed his eyes. He knew what Fabian was, but it seemed like bad form to remind him of it. Bouchard’s eyes squeezed shut and he dug his fingers into the mattress.  John didn’t know whether it was pleasure or pain. 

“I’m sure he’s fine, John.” Sherlock tapped John’s hand and he realised he’d been clutching Sherlock’s knee with some force.  “Look at his penis.” 

Glittering, beaded strings of precome connected the head of Fabian’s dick to the white bed sheets.  

“It’s a human reflex,” John replied.  “An autonomic reaction beyond his control or his desire.”    

“Fuck, harder!” Fabian yelled.  “Get your cock in me!”

“Oh.”

Sherlock stroked circles in the hollow of John’s back.  “Do you recognise him?” 

 John looked at the watchers.  A stranger took the last space on the sofa. “Nope,” John replied.  “Lestrade?”  He nodded towards the new arrival. 

“Not mine.”

“Stop hanging around,” said a familiar voice from the sofa. It was the man who’d spoken earlier.  “He wants you to fuck him.”

“Hold your horses.”  Tyler pulled his fingers free of Fabian, who whimpered at the loss.  He slicked himself up and slid inside Fabian’s arse.  He took a few slow, steady thrusts.

“Fuck me, do it.” Fabian pushed back against Tyler’s cock.   John’s gaze flicked to the sofas.  Langridge’s staff were earning their money; Sonny had a dick in each hand and Jamie dropped to the floor and began to crawl towards the pit. 

“Can I come in?”

Tyler nodded.   He already looked as though he was struggling to hang on.  His sweat dripped onto Fabian’s back as he thrust inside the man.  Every so often, he paused to get his control back, but Fabian pushed back and disallowed it.   To give him respite, Jamie dropped into the bed, manoeuvred himself below them, and took Fabian’s cock into his mouth.  Immediately, Bouchard responded by fucking Jamie’s mouth rather than Tyler’s cock. 

Sherlock’s hand tapped John’s back in time with Tyler’s thrusts.  Every nerve in John’s body shifted to that spot and tingled at the touch.  Feeling his arousal was obvious, John glanced at Lestrade. He sat with his legs crossed tight, his eyes focused only on the three men fucking in the middle of the room. 

John shifted focus to look at the men on the sofas. At least one of Lestrade’s officers was stroking his dick.  The very vocal man had his hand knotted in the hair of a guy giving him a blow job. 

“Sonny,” Sherlock said. 

John found the man in the dim light. He still had a dick in each hand, but one of the men he caressed no longer noticed. He scratched at his neck, ripped at his shorts and gasped in distress.   Sex show forgotten, John made his way over to him.   Sonny finally noticed one of his punters was pained and he concentrated on the other man. 

“I’m a doctor,” John said to his patient.  “Tell me what the matter is.”  

“Itchy,” the man said. “So itchy.  Help me.”  John pulled the man to his feet and led him out of the film room, through the side door and into the small kitchen.  In the full light, it was clear that the man was high. His pupils were wide and he’d ripped his flesh. 

“What did you take?”  John asked.  “You need to tell me.” 

“Some stuff that bloke gave me,” the man said.  His eyes rolled up into his head when he attempted to focus on John. 

“What man?” John demanded.  “What did he look like?” 

“In the bed, in the pit.” The man lost consciousness.

*

“What the fuck?”  Mark Tyler shouted.  He dropped backwards and his cock fell free from where it’d been buried in Fabian’s backside.  “What’s going on?”  He put his hand to his head and wobbled on his feet.  Then, with no further warning, he bent over and vomited violently.

Sherlock only partly paid attention to Tyler.  He watched Fabian, the other man this evening had been designed to test.  When Tyler pulled out, Fabian pushed Jamie from his crotch and climbed from the pit.   Surrounded by groaning men, he ran for the pole dancing area.  Sherlock, who’d lost his interest in the sex when John left the room, jumped up and after Fabian in a matter of moments.  He rugby-tackled the Frenchman a quarter of the way into the dancing area and quickly straddled him.

“Lestrade!”  Sherlock yelled.  “Some help would be useful.”

Sherlock looked around. Lestrade just shouted into his radio and pointed at different people and was not, in any way, useful to him.  Sherlock readied himself to yell again when John appeared beside him. 

“Do I want to ask?” John grinned and pulled his gun from the back of his trousers. He reached into Sherlock’s coat pocket to retrieve his handcuffs.  

“Best not,” Sherlock took the cuffs from John, slapped them around Fabian’s wrists and pulled him to his feet. 

“What are you doing?”  Fabian screamed. “I ran for my life.  Jean left and I was scared.”

John raised his eyebrows and shook his head.  

“No, you’re high on the same drug as Mark Tyler and the man John dragged out of the club,” Sherlock said. “I want to know where you got it from and who you gave it to.  I saw you slip a pill to Tyler.”

Fabian laughed.  “The pills are nothing,” he said.  “They’re like a few glasses of champagne. I give one to Tyler with my mouth. And I give some to people waiting to come in here earlier.  I drugged two policemen, they were so obvious.”

“Where did you get the drugs from, Fabian?”  

“I’m surprised you don’t know, druggie boy.” Fabian grinned at Sherlock.  “You and I have more than Jean in common, non?”

“Wiggins?” John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head.  Wiggins was a chemist, almost an artist. Whoever had made the drugs Fabian used didn’t care who they hurt. 

“The classiest drugs come from the classiest people,” Fabian said.   “I don’t play with amateurs.”

“I do believe, brother dear, that Monsieur Bouchard will come with me.” 

Mycroft.

“Just for now. Wheels are in motion, Sherlock, and Fabian here is in far more trouble than he thinks.”

“Jean, I will go with Jean only,” Fabian demanded.  Two men in black suits stood either side of Fabian.  Sherlock moved to let them take control of the Frenchman.  “I will only talk to Jean.  No one else. Only to Jean!” 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Sherlock. I did worry that you might feel territorial in light of Mr Bouchard’s relationship with John.”

Sherlock turned and walked back toward Lestrade. He refused to dignify a suggestion like that with an answer.  

*

Mark Tyler was escorted to hospital with three others to be treated for whatever drug they were given.  Lestrade took statements from everyone else.   Charles Langridge had threatened to throw out anyone from Langridge’s who took or distributed to drugs.   Things did not look good for Fabian.

Sherlock called Billy Wiggins just to see if he could throw any light on the drug supplier. He said he’d ask around. With nothing else to do, Sherlock and John headed home.  To his continued annoyance, Sherlock had more questions than ever and most of them revolved around John.  He spent the taxi journey back to Baker Street thinking about John demanding to be fucked immediately. 

When they arrived at Baker Street, John took Rosie to bed.  Sherlock sat, lost in thought.

“Tea?” John asked when he returned.

“Please.” Sherlock walked into the kitchen behind John.  “Can I ask you a question?  I am afraid it might be too personal, but I find myself unable to focus on the case.”

“You’d better ask me then.” John put the filled kettle back onto its base and clicked it on.  He turned to face Sherlock. 

“Do you think Fabian looks like me?” Sherlock looked at his fingernails. That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask at all. He had another go. “Why did you decide to have sex with someone who looks like me?”

John smiled. He took a deep breath and shook his head.  “Isn’t it obvious?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it isn’t.” John sighed.  “You know what I said to Piero that I loved you and you died and then Mary and then you saved me?”

“I remember.” 

“It occurred to me that I didn’t want to just have sex with someone who I felt nothing for.  I didn’t want Rosie to see me have a hundred girlfriends because I was too scared to think about being with a man. Because that was the issue, Sherlock. I realised, when Mary died, and I blamed you, that I didn’t just love you as a friend but that I wanted to be with you romantically.  I was terrified.  But, when I cried that night and I told you about my affair, it just seemed right. Your arms around me felt right. Since then, well, you’ve cared for me and my daughter. She has us both and I hope she always does.”

“I will always be there for you and your child, John.”

“I know. Thing is, once I knew I wanted more, I needed to know that I would be able to have sex with a man.  Do you have any sexual experience, Sherlock?”

“There were moments.” Sherlock paused.  He didn’t want to go down that road.  He changed tack. “I’ve had sex.  Done things.  Even with a woman. It was dull.”

“I’m guessing she didn’t have a penis.”

“No. I think I might have been more interested if she had.”

“Well that’s good. But here’s the thing, if I was going to come to you and say, ‘Hey, Sherlock, let’s make love’ and all of that, then I needed to be able to show you how to do those things. I know how to live with you and to love you because you’re my friend.  I just didn’t know how to make love to you. I always knew that was my job. If we do bedroom things, I need to take care of you.”  

“Why?”  Sherlock asked. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a grown man, John.”

“I know you are, Sherlock, but I wanted it to be good for you.” John rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t want to start to make love to you and to have a panic attack or think I couldn’t do it or I do something wrong.   Can you imagine if I convinced you to have sex with me and then I couldn’t get an erection?  It would be awful for you, Sherlock.  I owe you more than that.”

“Do you think that would happen now?” 

“No, Sherlock.   The fact you’re wearing tight trousers practically gave me a hard-on earlier.  If you even suggest that you want to have sex with me now, I will probably get a hard-on.  But you know what?  Even if he is an utter dickhead, if I hadn’t slept with Fabian I wouldn’t have known.  And if you decide that you want us to have sex, then I know I can make love to you properly.”

“Can I tell you something, John?” Sherlock asked.  His heartbeat thumped in his head, in his throat, in his whole body.  He stared at John’s lips and wished they were crushed against his.  Sherlock took John’s hand in his and bought it to the front of his trousers where his erection was pushed hard against the zip.  “I really want us to have sex.”

**

[1] The Milk Tray man was a James Bond-esque chap who appeared in adverts for Cadbury’s Milk Tray chocolates. He broke into women’s houses and left them chocolate because that’s what passed for romance back then: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0ya5kh4_ZM

Chapter Text

The covers on Sherlock’s bed were still ruffled from earlier.  John pushed them down.

“Come here, I want to undress you.”

Sherlock stepped towards John, eyes closed.  He focused on a few deep breaths.  Arousal increased respiration rates, but this was ridiculous.  When he opened his eyes again, John was sitting on the bed.

“Are you okay?” John asked.  Sherlock nodded. “Now, I’ve been to the sexual health clinic and been tested. I’m clean and I’m really fucking relieved.”  Sherlock grinned.  “We know you’re clean,” John went on, “thanks to Mycroft’s insistence in testing you constantly. But now’s the time to tell me if you want to use condoms.”

“I don’t want to use condoms if you don’t. I trust you.”  

“And I, you.”  John pushed up Sherlock’s t-shirt to expose his stomach and pressed his face against the revealed skin.   “You smell amazing,” he whispered. He dipped his tongue into Sherlock’s navel and Oh God, when was that linked to other places?   John stood to pull the t-shirt off. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck then sat down again.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered as John pulled at his belt.  “John, my John.”  The front of his pants were damp with precome.  He couldn’t coordinate his thoughts enough to be embarrassed and shit, oh, fucking hell.  John sucked the wet patch into his mouth while his hands pushed Sherlock’s trousers down, down. 

John stopped.  “We really should have taken your shoes off first.” He smiled.   “How about I take off my shoes and you take off yours and then we’ll carry on with the seduction part?”  

Sherlock nodded and sat down. That was eager; was it too eager? Why weren’t his fucking shoelaces undoing, bloody things, oh, one off, sock off, trousers in the way and next foot, why was there a double bow, ow, damn thing, hit toe, sock off, bit cheesy, trousers off and John, John, look at you.

John was sat on the bed and leant back on his elbows, his trousers tented at the crotch.  “Want to get rid of some of my clothes now?”  His smile was sex and heaven.  He sat up, lifted his hands and offered himself to Sherlock.  Dangerous.  Sherlock threw a leg over John, sat in his lap and pulled off his rugby shirt.   He touched the silvery bumps of John’s gunshot wound with his fingers and then his tongue.

“Trousers, Sherlock, please.”  John’s voice was breathy.  Sherlock slipped from John’s lap down, off the bed and onto his knees.

“Stand for me?”  Sherlock looked up.  John’s eyes looked heavy. He had fuzzy hair around his nipples and a strip from his navel down.   Sherlock tugged at his belt, then at the fastening of his trousers and let them drop.  John’s cock pushed at the fly of his tartan boxers.  Sherlock hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband. John gave him a barely perceptible nod. In seconds, John was naked.  And beautiful. Fascinating.

“Come back up here?” 

Sherlock wrapped those long, musician’s fingers around John’s cock.  He brought the tip to his mouth and sucked the glans inside. 

“Fucking hell, Sherlock.” John stroked Sherlock’s hair with unsteady fingers and looked down at him.  “I’m supposed to be taking the lead.”  Sherlock sucked more of John’s cock into his mouth. His tongue flicked over the glans and down, around the rim and frænulum.  He let John’s cock slide free of his mouth.

“I wanted to taste.”  Sherlock tilted his neck, dipped his head and licked John’s scrotum.

“You’re going to end up with spunk your ear if you’re not careful,” John said. He tilted his groin back, away from Sherlock and pulled him to his feet.    “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this with you?”  Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged.  “A long while. My self-control is not going to be good this first time and I’d like to at least get you out of your pants before I come. Sound okay?” 

Sherlock grinned and dropped his pants.  He stood, naked and still for a moment. John took a shaky breath and exhaled. Sherlock followed the path of his gaze as it skimmed over pale skin, down his flushed chest to his engorged cock.

“Lie down, you gorgeous man,” John said.   “It’s time I had my wicked way with you.”

Sherlock climbed on the bed and walked to the centre on his knees. His courage left him once he was off his feet.  He wanted to curl into a ball, but John clambered beside him and pushed Sherlock’s shoulders into the mattress and kissed him.   Their first kiss was ruthless and clumsy. Teeth clashed and noses were squashed until John titled Sherlock’s head a little and stroked his cheek to still him.  He sucked Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth and nibbled it.

“John,” Sherlock moaned on an inhale.  The kiss seemed more intimate than anything they had done so far.  His cock thickened and he arched his body up to find friction. In the end, he simply grabbed John’s hand and drew it down to his crotch.  “More.”

“Shhh.” John stroked Sherlock’s thigh. “You’re a fucking firecracker, aren’t you?  I want to go slow and you’re just determined to go fast aren’t you?”  He eased his hand closer to Sherlock’s cock, touching it with just the tip of a finger. 

“Please,” Sherlock whispered.  “I’ve researched. This is our first time. According to the internet, everywhere says the first time is rubbish.  If this is going to be awful, then let’s get on so we get to the good stuff.”  

John laughed. “It doesn’t have to be rubbish.” He curled his hand around Sherlock’s cock lightly and gave it a gentle tug.   “If you’ve researched, then you have an idea of what you want.” He leaned close to Sherlock’s ear and lowered his voice. “Tell me.”   

“Sure?”  Sherlock turned his head, so they were eye to eye.  He kissed the tip of John’s nose.

John giggled.  “Sure.”

Sherlock rolled over and captured John beneath him.   He crushed their lips together and rolled his hips to get the friction he so desperately wanted.   Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth and threaded his hand between their bodies to try to bring their cocks into alignment. 

“Wait a minute.” John rolled them back onto their sides. “Lube. Have you got any lube?” 

“Drawer,” Sherlock said and leaned in to lick the side of John’s neck.  “Hurry.”  

John groaned and sat up, walked around the bed and went through Sherlock’s drawer. He took out a bottle of Langridge’s lube and then crawled back onto the bed.  

“Right,” John said. “Give me your hand.” Sherlock lifted his hand, palm up and waited for John to dribble the slick liquid into his palm. John then tipped lube onto Sherlock’s crotch and into his own hand. He capped the bottle and threw it on the bed, then rolled on top of Sherlock.  

John pushed a knee between Sherlock’s legs and thrust against him. The slipperiness heightened the feeling when their bodies rocked together. John wriggled his hand between their bodies to align their cocks.

“More,” Sherlock demanded. He brought his hand to John’s arse and dribbled lube from his palm between the cheeks. He rubbed John’s perineum before circling his hole and pushing the tip of his finger inside.  “I fantasized about you, John,” he said. He pushed his finger inside. “I imagined you in the bed pit fingering yourself.  You wanted me inside you.  I wanted it too.”  Sherlock thrust up against John’s body, against his cock.  

“Did you want to fuck me in front of everyone, Sherlock?”  John asked.  “Is that what you wanted?” He rolled his hips and picked up the pace of his thrusts.

 “Just want to fuck you, John,” Sherlock replied. He angled his finger inside and pressed forward.  John’s body slammed forward and back, clenched around Sherlock’s finger.

“Do that again.  Yes, yes.”  John pressed his open mouth to Sherlock’s neck.  He moved forward against Sherlock’s cock, then back against his hand.    Sherlock pulled out his finger and pressed another alongside it and into John.  He found the spot again and John roared.

“I don’t care who sees or doesn’t see. Just you, John.”  Sherlock wrapped a leg around John’s body.  This was better, so much better, than Sherlock had imagined. “Want you all the time. Every day.  Just the knowledge that you wanted me made me desperate for you.”  

Bodies glistening with sweat, they rutted together faster and faster. Sherlock dug his heels into the mattress and pushed his cock through John’s fist. Heat concentrated in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach and all rational thought crumbled.  The pleasure rounded in on him and he came with a cry, eyes closed and head thrown back against the bed. 

John clutched at Sherlock, rocked against him another three or four times and then stiffened.  His arse clenched around Sherlock’s fingers so hard it almost hurt, and he murmured a litany of assent.   When John’s body collapsed on top of his, Sherlock rolled them over and tried to get his breath back.  He watched John’s face until he opened his eyes. 

“If you say that was rubbish,” John said. “I may have to thump you.” 

Sherlock smiled.  “It was good,” he agreed. “Very good.  If next time’s better, we may have to buy Mrs Hudson some ear protectors. You’re loud.”

“And you’re not, Mr-more-John-more.”

“You’re also quite sploodgey.  I think I’ve got come on my chin.”

“That’s your own fault. If you’re going to do that to my prostate then I will explode.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

Sherlock pulled his sticky body away from John’s and struggled to a stand on rubbery legs. “I need a shower and a drink and then, Dr Watson, I need to think about…” 

“Staying in bed with me.” John sat up.  “I’ve waited a long time for this.  I, for once, am going to make a demand. I want post-coital snuggles for fuck’s sake. That’s just the way it is and you’re going to give it to me.”  John looked concerned, as if he was as shocked as Sherlock at what he'd just said. 

Sherlock immediately relented.  “Okay, we’ll do that.” Sherlock sat back on the bed.   “John, you can have whatever you need. I promise.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why it’s so important.” John blushed.

“It is,” Sherlock said.  “That’s all that matters.  If you tell me what you want, I will try to do it. Always.”

John smiled.    

Sherlock smiled.

Maybe all this sex and relationship stuff was going to be all right. 

**

Rosie woke up at five in the morning.  When John got to her cot, she interspersed yells with talking to her feet.

“I’ll have to put this on my spreadsheet.” Sherlock appeared beside him. “She’ll need a nap this afternoon to maximise her sleep to activity ratio.”  He wandered off. 

John let him go.   He scratched his bollocks and then picked up his daughter.  “Morning beautiful.  How’s your nappy?  Poo! We’ll change that, shall we?”  He pulled her changing mat over to his still-made bed, undressed her lower half and started to deal with the napocalypse.   

Sherlock reappeared.  “Are we getting up now or not?  I thought I might make tea. Would you like a bacon sandwich?  I can start washing Rosie’s fruit as well.”

“Well,” John said. “It’s up to you, but I thought I might see if Rosie will go back to sleep for an hour or so with a clean nappy. Then, I could take you back to bed and try out my blow job technique.”

“That would be new.”

“I thought so.”

Rosie picked up her bagged dirty nappy and threw it at Sherlock.  “She seems quite awake.”

“Just be calm and relaxed and she might get sleepy. We just don’t have to excite her.”  John flicked Sudacrem up his nose by accident. Rosie squealed with laughter.   Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “I’ll just pop her back down in her cot and we’ll go downstairs.”

John lay Rosie down. She grabbed his ear and clung on. He pulled away from her and crept to the door, then turned out the light and bundled Sherlock downstairs.  They stood in the living room and waited. 

Rosie wailed.

“Just let her calm down again.  If we don’t go up she’ll quieten down.”  John put his hands behind his back and waited. Sherlock took a single, cynical nod and crossed his arms.

Rosie screamed and began to cry in earnest.

“I’m sure she will. We just need to wait.  Don’t you think?” 

“I wouldn’t like to say?” 

John sighed.  “Go on.”

“When Rosie’s awake, she’s awake.  I’ve noted that she will wake up and wants to get up immediately.  Unless the flat is entirely quiet, or she has body contact with you or me, she normally stays awake until lunch.  She gets drowsy afterwards and will go to sleep for an hour or two before dinner. Then she’s awake until it’s time for bed.”

“How do you know more about my child’s routine than me?” 

“I’ve studied it. I also look after her when you’re at work. If we’re here together then you’re normally pottering around or whatever, so I just make sure she keeps to her routine. If we’re out, then Mrs Hudson makes sure she does.”

Rosie wailed and cried and cried. It broke John’s heart.

“Is there any chance she’s going to sleep so I can suck your knob?”

“No.”

“Fuck.” John stomped upstairs and picked up his red-faced, snotty daughter.  He held her close and jiggled her gently until her wails came to end with great gulping breaths.  “I’m sorry, so sorry,” he murmured.  “I promised to focus on you and I’ve been with Sherlock for less than twenty-four hours and I’ve already neglected you.” 

“Hardly.” John pushed open the bedroom door. Sherlock was sitting on the top step.  “I wondered when you were going to remember that.” 

“I just feel guilty, Sherlock. She hasn’t got a mum and she needs me. I go to work, I help you and you’ve already told me that I ignore her when I’m here. Now you and I are together.  I can’t fit it all in.” 

“Except you can, John,” Sherlock replied. “I won’t take up anymore time of yours than I currently do. The only difference is that we sleep together. And what does it matter if I know her routine? She has you and me and Mrs Hudson and Molly and even Lestrade and Mycroft make allowances for her.  My parents have offered to look after her if we need them to next time they’re in town.”

“But why should you have to look after her?”  John sat down on the top step next to Sherlock.

“For God’s sake, she has a family, John. You will always be her father and she will always love you, but the rest of us can share your burden. Rosie likes the violin. She likes to sit and play while I make her breakfast. She likes to draw pictures with Mrs Hudson.  She even likes a bit of Iron Maiden. She thinks Molly is hilarious and she likes to benignly batter her cat. But, she also loves playing and reading with her daddy. She loves bath times because she gets you all to herself. She likes to play with your stethoscope and pull your ears. All of those things make up Rosie Watson’s life and none of them will change because you have sex with me.”

“What if I’m not very good at it?” He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“At what, John?”  

“Being her dad. Being your lover.”

“Then we’ll tell you what we need, just like you told me what you needed last night.  You won’t be perfect all the time, John. Neither will I. Neither will Rosie.  I suspect we’ll have to just work on it together.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting relationship advice from Sherlock-fucking-Holmes.”

“I’ve just done what I always do; I told you the result of my observations and my deductions. Oh, and try not to swear in front of Rosie. I expect her vocabulary will increase exponentially at this stage. Mrs Hudson won’t be impressed if she hears Rosie say ‘fuck’.

John laughed.  “It’d be quite funny though.”

“Says the man who invaded Afghanistan.”

“Ffff-ffff-go away.” John lifted his head and leaned towards Sherlock. His lips were like gravity and they pulled him in.

“No,” Sherlock replied against John’s mouth. He tilted his head and they kissed.  It started chaste and simple.  Then Sherlock slipped his tongue against John’s lower lip and he opened his mouth because he just did and, for a moment, there was nothing but Sherlock and John. It was beautiful and when the kiss ended, John knew his eyes glistered with emotion he held back.

**

“There will be a car outside in one hour for you and Dr Watson. Be in it. Mycroft”

“Who is this? SH”

“You know it’s Mycroft. Mycroft.”

“I’m sure you would normally ask for our presence, wouldn’t you? SH” 

“The Frenchman will only talk to John. I don’t have time for games. Mycroft”

“The Englishman will not get into the Mercedes with the doctor and his daughter unless you ask nicely. SH”

“Must the child come? Mycroft”

“Yes, she must. No babysitters today. Rosie comes first. SH”

“Fine.  You can look after the child whilst John talks to the Frenchman. Mycroft.”

“The doctor is not going near the damn Frenchman alone. SH”

“You can observe. Mycroft.”

“You can piss off. SH”

“Fine. I will find an agent to look after the child. Mycroft.”

“Unacceptable. You can look after Rosie. You’re family. SH”

“I’m a busy man, Sherlock. I am not a childminder. Mycroft.”

“Then the Englishman and the doctor and his daughter will stay at home instead. SH”

“Oh, and send the car in two hours. Rosie needs her nap. SH”

“I hate you. Mycroft.”

**

When John and Sherlock arrived at Mycroft’s office, they were told Fabian had rescinded his offer to talk to John.  They stood in a room and looked at Bouchard through a two-way mirror. He sat in a grey room on an uncomfortable chair, looking nervous and tired.  Mycroft’s team negotiated with Fabian and his lawyers.  He agreed to talk, but it took what seemed like hours for him to accept that if he spoke to John, Sherlock would be present.  When they finally walked into the room, it took Fabian less than a minute to realise why.  

“Oh, I see,” Fabian said.  “He got you then?” He looked at Sherlock. 

John saw the jealousy in Bouchard’s expression.   He felt sad for him, in a way. He knew the feeling would not last for long. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Just remember genie, that I taught him everything he does to you.”  Fabian smiled a dark smile. “Every time he makes love to you, it is with hands that touched me first. Je lui ai tout appris.”[1]

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John’s fury started to burn within him. Sherlock took his hand and squeezed.

“John and I are both middle-aged men. Every time we touch each other it’s with hands that touched all our previous lovers. That’s just the way it is.  Except, of course, that after six weeks or so, every skin cell will be entirely new.  Not one little bit of skin that you touched will remain.  I suspect that in six weeks, or six years, I will still know John Watson. You will not. Might we move on now?” 

Fabian closed his mouth so tightly his lips went white. He shook his head.  “I’m so sorry for this.  I did not want to hurt anyone.”

“What have you done?”  John asked.  “Tell me from the beginning.” 

Fabian took a deep breath.  He explained that he’d moved to the UK from Paris six years previously. Once they met, Kevin Candlar introduced him to the party scene. After that, he’d worked as a male escort and for Doubles, for a while. By that time, he already used poppers, ecstasy and benzos.  When he joined Langridge’s, Candlar threatened to tell Charles about Fabian’s habit unless he agreed to work for him distributing drugs to clients and workers.  

“I don’t know when it changed,” Fabian said.  “I learned Candlar did very bad things.  I knew it when Brandon owed us money.  But I don’t think Kevin is in charge. And Candlar is not brave enough to kill, Jean.  I know it. He’s a druggie and he is an arsehole, but he’s not a killer.  I think it is Tyler who kills, yes?” 

“Has Candlar been in touch since all of this happened?” 

“Oui. He tell me to keep quiet and to… how you say?  Aider la police dans leurs enquêtes?[2]”  Sherlock nodded.  “To do anything else would be suspicious. Was I a good actor, Jean?” 

John thought. He’d found Fabian annoying since the Jason’s death. Was it because Fabian was different? Or was it because, in the cold light of day, he realised that Fabian’s resemblance to Sherlock was barely even skin deep.  

“Jean, did I make you believe I enjoyed spending time with you?” 

John shrugged. He paid for Fabian’s time. He never failed to assume that money was the driving factor. 

“I deserve an award for my acting, Jean.” 

Sherlock stood. He put both hands on the table and leaned over until he was close to Fabian’s face. “You deserve nothing,” he said.  “And you’ve had quite enough of John Watson’s time.”

***

[1] I taught him everything he knows.

[2] Assist the police with their enquiries.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight 

“Candlar’s been brought in for questioning,” Mycroft said.  He dabbed at a vomit stain on his tie, a souvenir from Rosie. “The important thing is to capture anyone else involved in the crime.  Tell me about your suspects.”            

“You’re still looking into Mark Tyler’s past.”  Sherlock paused until Mycroft nodded.  “I think Bouchard mentioned him because we did. Perhaps he thought it was the name we wanted to hear.  Beyond him, the only suspects we have outstanding are Stephen Daniels and a man called Dan Murphy,” Sherlock replied.  “Daniels was allegedly called away on business the day following Cox’s murder. He’s somewhere abroad. Murphy’s mother took ill the same day and Murphy returned to Liverpool where she lives. According to Lestrade, he’s checked in with the police daily at their request.  He returns to London tomorrow.”

“And Daniels?” Mycroft asked.  “Would that be the MP Stephen Daniels?” 

Sherlock shrugged.  It was always enjoyable to pretend to Mycroft that he knew nothing about politics. 

John chuckled. “Pretty sure it is.”

“Leave Daniels to me,” Mycroft replied. “I’ll convince him to return to the UK.  I’ll also suggest to Lestrade that Murphy returns to London immediately for questioning.  Let me know if you uncover any further suspects, will you?” 

“I’ll consider it.  I trust you haven’t taught Rosie anything unpleasant?” 

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow.  

*

Sherlock, John and Rosie were in the car and heading back to Baker Street when Molly texted.  Sherlock rerouted the car to Bart’s.

“Hello gorgeous one,” Molly said, as Sherlock, John and Rosie arrived.  She walked straight up to Sherlock and took Rosie from his arms.  “You’re just the best thing I’ve seen all week aren’t you beautiful?” 

Sherlock stood, bemused. He turned to John, who laughed.  “I think you’ve been supplanted in Molly’s affections, Sherlock.  It’s all over.”

“Rosie’s far better than silly Sherlock, isn’t she?”  Molly said to the child in her arms. Rosie grabbed Molly’s nose and pulled. “On second thoughts…” 

“You said you needed to see us?”  John said. He tickled Rosie until she let go of Molly’s nose.  

“I’ve got samples of the drugs from Langridge’s last night.” Molly passed Rosie to John.  “They match samples taken from Brandon Cox’s body.  They also match a tox screen from a body that came in two weeks ago. The guy’s name was Zach Thomas. He was found dead in a graveyard in Stoke Newington[1].  We all thought it was a copycat killing after that bloke in Dagenham.[2]  Then, yesterday, Lestrade told me that someone handed themselves in for it. A bloke called Pero or Piro or something.”

John looked at Sherlock, aghast.  “There’s no way Piero could be involved in this, right? I mean, if it’s him, he really doesn’t seem like a killer.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Thomas?” 

“Nothing significant. He’d had sex with someone wearing a condom prior to death, no DNA from semen. He had a Liverpool FC tattoo and dyed blonde hair.  Oh, and he had a Prince Albert piercing. That’s about it.”

“And the drugs?” 

“I haven’t seen this particular concentration before, but it’s essentially GHB with a higher concentration of Sodium oxybate and added Benzodiazepines.”

John tilted his head.  “Can Sodium oxybate make people feel sick?”

“Symptoms were consistent with the drug and the dose.”

“Sodium oxybate is used as a medication in some countries,” Sherlock said. His inspired, shrewd look made John want to rip off all his clothes.  “Would it be possible to isolate whether the concentration in these drugs were manufactured for medicinal use and where?” 

“Might be,” Molly replied. “You’re a better chemist than I am, but it may be possible.”

“I have someone who can help you.” Sherlock smiled.  “You’ll like him. Just don’t leave him unattended.”

John pulled Sherlock aside. “Are you talking about Wiggins?  You can’t leave Molly with him. Come on!”

“I’ll tell him to be on his best behaviour,” Sherlock said. He squeezed John’s hand. “I’d never risk the safety of Rosie’s godmother like that.” John raised his eyebrows. “Or my friend Molly’s.”

“Git.”

“Tosser.”

*

Sherlock texted Lestrade to ask to speak to Piero.  Lestrade told him it was the weekend and to fuck off. He also said that Dan Murphy would be back in London on Monday, so Sherlock could wait until then.  Sherlock stomped around the flat, yelled at the TV and generally behaved like a spoiled brat.  What surprised John was that Sherlock only did it for quarter of an hour.  Then, he sat down in front of the TV with Rosie and watched ‘In The Night Garden[3]’.  John made cottage pie.

After dinner and her bath, John took Rosie up to bed. When he returned to the living room, Sherlock was waiting for him, reclined in his chair. Naked.

“Good evening, Dr Watson,” Sherlock replied. “I wondered if you might like to give me a physical this evening?” 

“Feeling unwell, Mr Holmes?” John unbuttoned his shirt. 

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied. “Just a check-up, I think.”

“Any areas of concern?” John dropped his shirt and started on his trousers. 

“Well, I do have some topical swelling.” Sherlock pushed his groin forward in the chair and spread his legs.  “In fact, I think you suggested that you might want to examine the area this morning?”

“So I did.” John kicked off his jeans and pants, then bent down to remove his socks.  Once he was naked, he dropped to his knees between Sherlock’s legs. He ran his hands up the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.  “Your cock does appear to be quite swollen, Mr Holmes.” When his hands were at the apex, John gently grasped Sherlock’s bollocks to stroke and tug at them.  

“Fuh-uh,” Sherlock moaned. “That’s a little sensitive, doctor.”  His hips lifted and he pushed even further forward to give John easier access. 

“You seem to have a little discharge from the head of your cock, Mr Holmes. I think I ought to investigate.”  John blew cool breath over the glistening head. 

“What would you suggest, doctor?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and hesitant. 

Without further hesitation, John wrapped one hand around the root of Sherlock’s cock and took the head into his mouth.  Sherlock tasted salty and warm. The skin beneath John’s tongue was soft and responsive with each flick, suck or movement rewarded with an intake of breath or yearning sound. It might have been the hottest thing John had ever done.

“I approve of your methods of investigation in this matter, Doctor Watson.”  Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s hair. 

John moved his hand in time with his head up and down Sherlock’s cock. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, for a dozen relentless strokes and then pulled away.  “That seems to be in order.” John’s voice sounded breathless and aroused, even to his own ears.  

“Oh, you bastard.”  Sherlock’s hips thrust upward.  He moved to take hold of his cock, but John slapped his hand away. 

“I was thinking we might move on to an examination of the perineum?  Now, I’ll take your cock in my mouth to best gauge the responsiveness. Would that be acceptable?” 

“Yes, yes, hurry John.”  Sherlock pulled him where he wanted him by the hair.

John covered Sherlock’s cock with his mouth and fingers of one hand whilst he slipped the other down.  He tugged Sherlock’s balls a little, then behind to press against his perineum. Sherlock’s cock twitched in his mouth.

John lifted his head. “Prostate exam?”  he offered. 

Sherlock flushed.  He shook his head hesitantly.  “Not, well, not, well…”

John smiled and rubbed Sherlock’s somewhat diminished cock with his hand.  He winked.  “Another time.”  John sucked the head of Sherlock’s dick between his lips and swirled his tongue around the head. 

“Yes, God, yes.” Sherlock’s voice was barely an exhale.  His hand slipped down John’s face and he stroked the lips stretched around him.  Saliva gathered and dripped from the corners of John’s mouth.  “You look so amazing like this, doctor.”

John gathered some of the saliva on his hand and rubbed Sherlock’s perineum in time with his ministrations on his cock.  Sherlock’s hips bobbed in time.  John sucked harder and then withdrew.   He repeated it until Sherlock muttered formless words and grabbed John’s hair tight.

John knew he was in control.  Everything about Sherlock’s response made John want and want. His cock throbbed, and he surreptitiously rubbed it against the leather of Sherlock’s chair.   He quickened his movements; his jaw ached, his chin was covered in spit and he wanted to feel Sherlock come in his mouth.  John looked up. Sherlock’s legs twitched and his chest heaved. He met John’s gaze with heavy-lidded eyes.  His teeth dug into his bottom lip. He came with a gasp.

John swallowed as best he could. He let Sherlock’s cock drop from his lips and milked the last spurts of ejaculate with his hand. He licked up the remnants until, quite suddenly, he found himself pushed backward.  Sherlock kissed him with a fervour that took John’s breath away. 

Sherlock’s warm, dry hands wrapped around John’s cock and the friction should have been wrong.  As it was, after a few quick, sharp strokes John came. He screamed into Sherlock’s mouth and wrapped his arms and legs around him. He knew his fingernails were digging into Sherlock’s shoulders, but he seemed to be stretched so taut, pulled apart by pleasure, all he could do was hold on tight.

“Shhh,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear.  “Relax, doctor,”

John smiled. His respiratory rate was high, his heart beat loud in his ears and every muscle seemed… Ow.

Ow!

Cramp. 

 John rolled Sherlock off him and stumbled to his feet. His left calf muscle was on fire.  Eyes scrunched tight, he limped around the living room and although he heard the high pitched little noises he made, he was more concerned with his world of pain. On the second lap, the pain eased.  He slowed up and opened his eyes. Sherlock lay naked and satiated in front of the fire.  His amusement at John’s predicament was clear in the curve of his lips. 

“Do you know something, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked. “I can’t tell you when it happened or why, but I think I’ve realised that I might just be in love with you.”

John stopped limping around the lounge. He stared at Sherlock. Love. Love was huge.  It was too much. Was it?  At this precise moment, John Watson worried that it wasn’t the mechanics of sex with a man he should have practised.  One word stopped his heart and made him want to cry.  Why?

Sherlock’s face rearranged itself with care. Somewhere in that massive brain, a wall was rebuilt. No longer amused, Sherlock simply suggested, “too soon?  Clearly too soon.  Well, I think I might just go and put my pyjamas on. 

“Stop,” John said at the sight of 6 feet of gangly naked detective pulling himself to his feet.  “Stop.” He blocked Sherlock’s way.  “I need to figure this out,” he said.  Sherlock’s skin was pale, so pale.  His face was less open, less relaxed. Less happy. John felt like a complete and utter prick.  “Bear with me, just for a day or two?   I want to be sure for you as well as me.”

“I understand,” Sherlock said. He grasped John’s chin with shaky fingers.  “I’m sorry. Take all the time you need, John.”  The kiss Sherlock gave him was chaste and beautiful and John’s heart bled.  “Pyjamas. That’s what we need.” 

**

John awoke at four in the morning. Sherlock was fast asleep and, since he slept irregularly anyway, John tried not to disturb him. Instead, he climbed out of bed, tiptoed to the kitchen and got himself a drink of water from the tap. 

He took his drink over to the desk, opened his laptop and started to write a blog post he didn’t intend to publish.

‘Sherlock Holmes loves me,’ he wrote.  ‘He says he is in love with me. I love Sherlock. Am I in love with him?  Do I love Sherlock the way I always have?  Was it just the desire to make love to him that changed or was it everything?

‘If it’s the same love, did I marry my wife while I was in love with someone else?  How could I do that in all good conscience?  No decent man would do that.

‘If my love changed, when did it happen? Do I need to know?  I must need to if I want to tell Sherlock I love him in the way he loves me. Or is what I feel enough? I love Sherlock, that isn’t in doubt. He’s my best friend and a dreadful pain in the arse. But now I want that arse. Hell, fucking yes, I want that arse. So how do I reconcile this with who we are and who I am? And where the hell does Mary fit in all of this?

‘What the fuck is love anyway?’ 

John closed his laptop when he heard the familiar noise of bare feet slapping against the kitchen floor.  

“Are you okay?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and sleepy.

John did not turn. He put his head in his hands and shook his head. 

Moments passed and Sherlock’s hand rested on his shoulder.  “Is there anything I can do?

John shook his head again.  “I don’t think so,” he said. His voice felt thick and solid.

“I’m sorry, John.  I have a certain amount of inexperience with human relationships. I never believed that I would have any sort of long-term relationship with anyone, regardless of whether it is one of friendship or love. You have proved to be the exception to the rule. Sadly, that also means you must deal with my ineptitude in this area. I imagine that normal people learn how and when to express themselves. Alas, I do not know the rules.  Forgive me, John. I never meant to cause you distress.”

John put his hand over Sherlock’s.  “I know.  It’s fine.  It’s just all been a bit quick.”  

“I see,” Sherlock replied. “Would you prefer to go back to how we were?”

“Maybe. Just for a while.”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s voice was so controlled it was almost robotic and John knew, he knew, that it meant his friend had just fallen apart inside.  John knew he was lying and blaming Sherlock for things that were his fault, only his fault, but the truth was too much, far too fucking much.  All of it had crashed in and he didn’t know how not to betray Mary or Sherlock.

“There’s something else,” John said. “I’m going away for a few days.  I’m taking Rosie to see Harry. I just need a change of pace. Scenery. Whatever.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stepped forward and stared at the floor as if it held the secrets of the universe.  “I might just pop back to bed then.”  Without another word, Sherlock walked away, into his bedroom and out of John’s way. 

*

Sherlock got up at ten. He walked into the kitchen. No John. No John’s laptop. Rosie’s high chair was folded and stacked in the corner but her favourite toys were gone. Sherlock climbed the stairs to John and Rosie’s room. Empty.  Rosie’s cot was still there and some of hers and John’s clothes were still in the wardrobe.  He wondered how long was a while.

When Sherlock returned to the living room, he found the note.  It sat in the seat of Sherlock’s chair.

‘Sherlock,

‘I just need to think. None of this, NONE of this, is your fault, Sherlock. You’re my best friend and I love you, even if I can’t get my head around it.  Forgive me for being a twat.  I’ll be back by the end of the week.

‘Love,

John'

Sherlock crumpled the letter and was about to throw the damn thing across the room when his phone rang. Lestrade.  It was Sunday; it was worth answering.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing, well not nothing.” Lestrade sounded hesitant and uncomfortable.  “Look, have you seen John’s blog post this morning?”

“No, I’ve just got up. John’s gone away for a bit.”  Sherlock wrapped his free arm around himself and stroked his other arm.

“Sounds right. He’s not answering when I call him,” Lestrade said.  “Anyway, I’ve been sent links to three different news websites that are talking about you both. It’s not really like John to post things like that.”

“Lestrade, please, don’t be tiresome. I haven’t read the post. I informed you of that less than a minute ago.”

“Go read it then!” Lestrade said. “I’ll text you the link if you want. Read it and tell me whether you want me to get a few patrols out looking for John. You know him best.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He rubbed his face with one hand.  He wondered if he knew John at all. He hadn’t realised he’d said it aloud. 

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Lestrade replied. “Listen, just remember that he’s been grieving and all that stuff. He might not be over Mary and he’s a single dad, and then he’s realised that he’s in love with you. I mean, he says he doesn’t know but he is. I know it and you do, don’t you?”

Sherlock snorted. He wouldn’t have ever expected John to leave.  John was a doctor, a soldier. He was supposed to be good in a crisis.

“Fuck, look, I think he does,” Lestrade replied.  “Read the damn post and then let me know if you need me, yeah?” 

Sherlock nodded and hung up.   He picked up his computer and went to John’s blog.  ‘Sherlock Holmes loves me…’ the post began. He read until the end. Then he read the comments.  Some people were delighted, others shocked.  Sherlock was certain that was bad news from his point of view.  He took out his mobile and texted John, then he made himself coffee and had a shower.  When he re-emerged, Mycroft was sitting in John’s chair reading the letter.

“It’s most unsettling, brother dear, that Dr Watson has chosen to do his disappearing act now.” Mycroft put the letter down.  “The case is coming to a crucial stage. It’s hardly good timing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “The case brought up many questions in my relationship with John.  The case exacerbated his confusion. It is inaccurate to blame John.”

“Is that sympathy you’re expressing, Sherlock. Or even empathy?”  Mycroft sneered.  “As time goes on, I fear you become less and less like my brother.”

“Are you here for a reason?”

“I trust that you would like to know where your Dr Watson presently is?”  Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“He’s in Surrey visiting his sister,” Sherlock replied.  “It was hardly a major feat of deduction.”

“Quite so. I’m not sure I approve of him taking his daughter to spend time with an alcoholic, of course.” Mycroft thumped his umbrella against the floor. 

“Rosie lives with a drug addict, Mycroft. Don’t be pathetic.”

“You’re not a practising addict, Sherlock.  Harriet Watson used mouthwash two weeks ago when she had gastroenteritis.”

“I’m aware of that, Mycroft. She phoned here in tears. John made me speak to her.”

“And now he’s made his escape, leaving my addict brother in a fragile emotional state.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes.  “I really must tell Dr Watson next time I see him not to apply for work at any addiction treatment centres. I don’t think he’s ‘on-message’ as they say.” 

“He’s got to have some time alone, Mycroft.” 

“He hardly has a monopoly on heartbreak, brother dear.  Someone running away after taking your virginity is hardly a recommendation of your prowess.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock replied.  “I’m not a teenage girl. And who said I was a virgin?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and stared at Sherlock. He saw too much, as always.  “You’re actually hurt, aren’t you?   I trust that you intend to cease your romantic entanglement with Dr Watson for this little stunt?  It really wouldn’t do for you to be mawkish and take him back.” 

“I can’t take back someone who hasn’t left me. He’s gone away for a few days to visit his sister. He’ll be back later in the week.”

“I’ll have a team of operatives pick him up within the hour and return him to London. Just say the word.”

“Have you taken extra drama queen tablets this morning, Mycroft?  Please, just go.”

“I refuse.  You might do something stupid. You’re emotionally compromised.”

“I’m genetically compromised if you’re anything to go by.”

“I’m taking you to lunch at the Diogenes.  I insist.”

“Fine.” Sherlock really didn’t want to be alone.  “I don’t suppose you’re intending to drug me with sedatives to make it bearable?”

Mycroft sighed.

“Shame.”

**

[1]  The cemetery in Stoke Newington this is based on is Abney Park. It’s an old cemetery and somewhere where you can whittle a spoon. What more do you want?  Linky:       http://www.abneypark.org

[2] The bloke in Dagenham is the complete and utter creep that is Stephen Port.  He’s been convicted of killing four gay men but that could be a conservative estimate. The problem was that the police were far too willing to believe that the men he killed had died from drug-related misadventure.  More information, if you’re interested, here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-38045742

[3] In The Night Garden is a kid’s TV show and a work of utter genius. Who can argue with the voice of Derek Jacobi?  I may be 43 years of age this coming April, but I am utterly enchanted by it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCykClfwvkw

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

Sunday and Monday came and went.  Tuesday found John, Rosie and Harry sitting outside a café on Box Hill as they ate ice-creams. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” Harry said. “We’re going to have this conversation whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” John replied. “Why would I want to speak to you about Sherlock?”

“Because you blogged that Sherlock was in love with you and that you shagged and then you ran away.”

John blushed.  The blog post was embarrassing.  Everyone knew more than he’d wanted.  “I need time to think.”

“You’re gone in the head,” Harry said.  “I mean, I love you Johnny, but you’re fucking bonkers.  Don’t put it up your nose, Rosie, love.”

John sighed.  “And you know all about my situation, don’t you?”

“I know what it’s like to be in love with someone of your own gender, you wanker.” Harry shook her head. She ran her hand through her spiky blonde hair. “And I know what it’s like to come to terms with that.”

“Look, I’m not fourteen or some blushing schoolboy,” John replied. “Rosie, darling, don’t rub it in your hair.”

“I never said you were but being in love with someone of your own gender changes everything. That’s especially true when you’ve been in love with them for fucking years and never accepted it.”

“Stop swearing around Rosie.”

“Sorry.  You’re just making me angry, Johnny.  You’ve loved Sherlock forever and you’ve got such a stick up your arse about it.”

“And where does Mary fit in to all this in your deep understanding of my life?” 

“Where she always was, Johnny.  You can love more than one person at a time.  Besides, you cock, you fell in love with her pretty quick after Sherlock died. You didn’t worry about that, did you?” 

“Rosie, not in your ear, sweetheart.”

“See that’s the thing, Johnny boy, you’re very heteronormative in your ideas. You’ve got to come to terms with the fact that you’re just freaking out because you’ve finally accepted you’re in love with Sherlock.”

“I’m not a homophobe, Harry. I know it’s okay to be gay.”

“I never said you didn’t. Don’t be a cock, Johnny.  It’s an adjustment. Men react differently than women. They look different, they have different bits. There’s no point in thinking you’ll react to it in the same way.” Harry looked around.  “How do you think Sherlock’s dealing with all this?”

“He’s been great. He’s dealt with it well. He understands and he’s amazing with Rosie,” John said. “He’s brilliant.” 

“I don’t want to be crude, but has he done stuff before?  Rosie, angel, don’t paint with it.”

“Done a bit. Slept with some woman.  Not much.”

“So this is fucking huge for him?”  Harry sighed.  “Johnny, you’re being such a shit.”

“Don’t swear!”

“It’s true though. You went to a hooker to learn how to shag him so you didn’t upset him, but you’ll happily shaft him emotionally.  If he relapses it’s your fault.”

“Thanks, Harry.”  John put his head in his hands.  “As if I didn’t hate myself already.”

“Don’t hate yourself.  That won’t help.  Love you, love Rosie and love him.  He adores you, Johnny. The only reason you think he’s doing well is because he’s trying hard to make it easy for you.  He wants to make it simple for you to love him.”

John sighed. Sherlock was the most infuriating, selfish arsehole that ever lived most of the time. He’d changed though, after Mary and after Eurus. He was less self-obsessed, a better friend to John and a co-parent to Rosie.  However, since the case at Langridge’s, Sherlock was being almost perfect.  Much as he hated to admit it, what Harry said fitted. 

“What do I do, then?”  John asked.   

“What would you do if Sherlock was a woman?” 

“Don’t put the cone in your eye, Rosie.   When I met Mary I just let myself love her. I needed someone in my life to be there for me.  She wanted to be, so I let her.”

“Sounds like good advice, doctor.”

“I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I?” 

“Just a bit.  Oh, and one more thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t swear in front of my niece, you arse.”

**

Dan Murphy had dark hair, almost black. His eyes were bright blue. He was quite beautiful.  Too beautiful not to miss.  Sherlock would have been attracted but Murphy wasn’t blonde enough, or short enough, or John Watson-y enough. Sherlock watched him through a two-way mirror as he was interviewed by Lestrade. Murphy had only just arrived back in London. The only way to make him return was to send a car to collect him. Lestrade was not impressed.

“How many times do I need to tell you?” Murphy banged his palms against the table. “I really didn’t know Jason, and I went with Brandon because he and I got on. I never did the fuck-pit thing and I wasn’t interested in drugs.”

Sherlock looked at Murphy’s face. He maintained eye contact with Lestrade and he revealed few indictors of lying.   He was good at it.  Well-practised.  His voice sounded familiar. Sherlock had a link to Lestrade via earpiece.

“Would you ask him if he noticed whether Brandon or anyone else at Langridge’s seemed nervous?”

Lestrade relayed the question to Murphy.

“I know that Brandon wasn’t seeing anyone who wasn’t a regular client unless someone else vouched for them.  When I saw him, he was a bit nervy, like. But hookers are like actors, aren’t they?  There was a punter who was being a right tosser. He was a right posh bastard.” 

“Can you tell me what he looked like?” Lestrade asked.

“Dark hair but going bald, he was quite thin and he was in a suit. He kept demanding to see Charles and kept asking people if they knew who he was.  Simon came and calmed him down and he went off with someone else.”

“Any idea who?”

“Some French geezer.”

Lestrade looked through the two-way mirror and raised his eyebrows. 

“Quelle surprise,” Sherlock said.  

Lestrade ran his hands through his hair. “Look, mate, is there anything else you can think of that will help us?  It is a murder enquiry and you are one of several suspects, so it’s worth your while telling us if there’s anything you can think of.”

“Just one thing,” Murphy said. “That TV bloke tried to fuck me in the toilets one day. He gave me this stuff to take and I flushed it down the bog. I was about to leave and he pushed me back into a stall and tried to undo my trousers. I told him to fuck right off.  I meant to report it but Charles wasn’t in, then all the shit kicked off so I didn’t bother.”

“D’you want to press charges?”  Lestrade asked.  “I’d be happy to take a statement.”

Sherlock stood and turned off the mic.  This case was full of deflection and lies.  He left the room and texted Mycroft.  Stephen Daniels was the murderer. He knew it.

**

Mycroft walked around the worn rug at 221B Baker Street and looked at his brother. Sherlock was hurt. He knew Sherlock was focused on the case because he needed to push his pain and confusion aside.  He made a mental note to have a serious word with John Watson when he returned. 

Sherlock handed Mycroft a cup of tea and walked around the living room in the opposite direction, occasionally sipping from his own cup.  “Tell me about Stephen Daniels,” he demanded. 

“I’ve just given you the file.  It’s my understanding that you are capable of reading.”

“Talking helps with the deduction. It’s why John is so valuable to me. So, for heaven’s sake, just tell me.”

“You’ve bought me here so I can pretend to be a moderately intelligent ex-Army Doctor with an adrenalin problem?  Need I point out that I have more important things to do?  The Portuguese have demanded the Prime Minister’s help with the insufferable Marquês de Evora. That won’t sort itself out, you know.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft that look. The absolute shit. He knew damn well Mycroft couldn’t resist it. 

“Fine,” Mycroft said.  He snatched the file from the coffee table. “Stephen Daniels: MP for Milton Keynes[1].   Known by residents of that constituency and by parliament to be a bit of an idiot, but one that, generally, does a good job.  He is understood to be dating a local radio newsreader, Gemma Steele.  She is, however, his ‘beard’.”

“How can a woman be a beard?” Sherlock snapped.  “Is she suffering from a medical condition that makes her extremely hirsute?”

Mycroft sighed. “It’s a colloquial term, Sherlock. It means that she is pretending to be his girlfriend. She wants publicity, he doesn’t want his homosexuality to interfere with his political career.”

Sherlock twirled on the spot. “So, he has mixed thoughts about his homosexuality and, possibly, about homosexuals in general.  It is something to be hidden, a desire that can only be indulged in secrecy. He is closeted and, as a result, probably more likely to suffer mental health issues, substance abuse problems and is open to blackmail.  Continue.” 

Mycroft turned the page in his report. “Daniels met Jason Liverson when he joined Langridge’s and they spoke regularly about their mutual hometown, often while at the reception desk. We have discovered that Daniels may have used multiple aliases and IDs at Langridge’s in the past, but, because Liverson knew who he was and identified him to others, these were rendered useless.”

“So Liverson stopped Daniels from indulging in his desires in privacy.  Did Daniels and Liverson ever have a sexual relationship?”

“Not that we know of.  It is possible that Daniels visited Liverson in Milton Keynes for his services, but we can’t be sure.”

“So, with his views on his own sexuality and his fears regarding his career, I think we can deduce that he killed Liverson to keep him quiet. And, because of his twisted ideas of homosexuals, despite being one, he would likely not see killing Liverson as a bad act, per se.  Any other connections?”

“Kevin Candlar.  They met at university. They were once lovers both of each other and of drugs.  We know that their sexual relationship was kept quiet and that they don’t speak of it publicly to maintain Daniels’ secrecy over his sexual predilections.   We also know that Candlar was present during an episode in which Daniels overdosed after speedballing.  I know because my office kept the press unaware of the story.”

“Add paranoia and possible psychosis to Daniels’ list of mental health issues. On the evening of Liverson’s death, there was a sex toy beneath a chair where it fell, along with Jason.  The DNA on it was found to belong to Gabriel, one of the men who worked at the club, and to Jason himself.  We disregarded it. But there are also lime-scale deposits and chlorine, meaning that it may have been used in the Jacuzzi on the third floor. Jason went in to change the towels. He saw something that made Daniels snap.  He grabbed the toy and pushed it into Jason’s mouth, covering it with his DNA. They struggled and Liverson went over the bannister and fell to his death.”

“That would work,” Mycroft replied. “And Cox?” 

“Cox owed Candlar money. That may have come from Daniels too. What about connections to Sodium Oxybate? Molly texted me earlier to tell me that the Sodium Oxybate used in the GHB distributed by Bouchard was of medical grade.”

“Nothing official.  What about your sources?”  Mycroft raised an eyebrow. The two brothers looked at each other. A Mexican standoff. Mycroft knew Sherlock had connections in the drug world and he knew Sherlock wouldn’t give them up to him. Mycroft hated it.

“There were several robberies across Europe from Basie Pharmaceuticals[2].  Amongst other things, a substantial amount of Sodium oxybate was taken. That’s rare; it’s not inexpensive or difficult to get hold of. Stealing from a pharmaceutical company is too risky. However, the drug used in the compound from Langridge’s is consistent with the product Basie Pharmaceuticals make.  The most recent robbery was in Portugal.”   

“Which is where Daniels has been hiding. His grandmother lives in Lisbon.  I’ll get in touch with the Portuguese authorities, see if they have any intel.  I may have leverage if I offer help with the Marquês.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied.  “Ask about money laundering too. I suspect it’s linked to the drugs and to Mark Tyler.”

“Agreed.” Mycroft put his empty cup and the file down on the coffee table.   “You can deduce the rest from here?”

“Enough.  When is Daniels back in the country?”

“Now, I understand. He should be on his way from Portsmouth now.” Mycroft took his phone from his pocket and read a text.  “Hmmm, we may have a problem.”

**

Stephen Daniels stared at the spy and his cover story, or whatever the brat was.  They’d boarded the train at Guildford.   The spy pretended not to see him.  But Stephen saw him.  An internal voice he vaguely recognised as rational told him to stay calm. It was all okay.

Zach had been an accident. A night of pleasure that just went wrong. Jason had been a mistake. He’d been too heavy-handed.  However, Daniels regarded Cox as a bad man. It had surely been kill-or-be-killed.  Mycroft would understand.  That was his job, wasn’t it?  To clean up the messes the great and the good made, to manage the country in their stead and take none of the credit. Mycroft would be on his side.

But if that were true, why was there an agent, a spy, on this train?  Perhaps the great and the good had told Mycroft to finish him. Perhaps Holmes wanted power for himself. Yes, that would be it.

“I can see your fucking spy on this train, Mycroft,” Daniels texted.  “You said I wasn’t going to be arrested, but I see him, the bloody spook you set on me at Langridge’s.”  Daniels scratched at the injection site on his arm. It was bleeding. There was always bleeding.  “I’m going to kill your fucking agent,” Daniels texted to Mycroft. “Him and his accomplice.”

Stephen Daniels lurched to his feet.  The man sat at the far end of the carriage, near to the door that led down the train.   As Daniels got closer, he heard the conversation between the man and his smaller companion. 

“Are you looking forward to seeing Sherlock, Rosie?  I bet he’s missed you.”

The little one, who was strapped into a car seat, blew a raspberry and laughed.  “Erwock and addeeee.”

Stephen Daniels drew his gun.   Two women opposite screamed. A businessman in a horrible suit threw himself on the floor of the train. The agent did not move. 

“I know who you are,” Daniels shouted. “I know Mycroft sent you.  They’re framing me.  They’re all framing me. Candlar and the hooker and the dead ones, they want you to think I did it.  I won’t let them.”   Daniel’s text message alert went off.  He plucked his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers. 

“None of my men are on the train,” read Mycroft’s text.  “Whoever you can see, please believe me when I say that they weren’t sent by me.” 

Daniels screamed. He found Mycroft’s number and video-called him.  Mycroft was quick to answer. Daniels threw himself into the seat next to the agent.   “If you’ve got no one on this train, you lying bastard, who the fuck is this?” He tilted the phone to bring the agent into view.

“I have no idea,” Mycroft said.

“Bullshit,” Daniels interrupted. “I saw him at Langridge’s. He was there when that stupid boy fell off the landing.  I know you sent him there to spy on me.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes.  “Alright, I admit that I know that man,” he said.  “I didn’t send him to spy on you.  Ask him yourself.”

Daniels looked at the agent. He shushed his tiny colleague despite Daniels having his elbow against his throat to restrict his ability to breathe. “Like I’d trust anything one of your fucking spooks said,” Daniels said.  “I’m going to kill the little one first.” 

*

[1] The Milton Keynes constituency is split into two: Milton Keynes North and Milton Keynes South. I have kept this as just Milton Keynes – a non-existent constituency in its entirety - to make it clear that Stephen Daniels is not even remotely connecting to any past or current MP in Great Britain, let alone Milton Keynes.  Interestingly, but unrelated, Iain Steward is MP for MK South and he is openly gay. Hilariously, one of the links on his Wiki page links to a website that sells sex toys and features pictures of scantily clad ladies. 

[2] Made up company!  Though I took the name Basie from Count Basie, a Jazz musician whose real name was William and used another name for shits and giggles, just like a certain Mr Holmes.  Jazz has nothing to do with this fic. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

“She’s only a child!” Mycroft said.  “Please, don’t hurt her.”

“Do what you want with me,” the agent said in a voice that was nine-tenths wheeze. “Just let my daughter live. Please.”

“Suddenly everyone’s nice to me just because I want to kill the little one.” Daniels looked at the blond-haired child.  It was amazing how people could be disguised these days.  The agent lapsed into apparent unconsciousness. The little girl began to cry.

“Listen to me,” Mycroft said. “I promise you that I’ll stop the train and send a car to pick you up and take you anywhere you want to go. Or a helicopter. Just let Dr Watson and his daughter go free.”

Daniels squinted at Mycroft’s image. “I fucking hate Doctors.” He held his phone so Mycroft could see Dr Watson unconscious on the floor. The Doctor started to twitch. Daniels put his foot on his neck.  “Make the girl stop screaming,” he demanded from Mycroft. He turned the phone towards the little girl.

“Hello, Rosie,” Mycroft said.  “Can you be quiet for Uncle Mycroft?” 

Rosie began to cry harder.  She reached out to her father, who raised an arm to her.  “Addeee,” she sobbed. 

Before Daniels could speak, the train lurched.  His phone flew from one hand, his gun from the other and he tumbled forward and then back.  The movement of the train threw him down the train carriage and his body tumbled away from Watson and the child.  He hit his head with a clunk and purple spiders swam through his vision. 

*

The woman who’d yanked the emergency brake cord winked at John a second before she pulled it. When Daniels lifted his foot, John dove towards his daughter who rocked in her child seat.  He said a silent prayer of thanks to Harry, who’d insisted he brought Rosie’s car seat so she could pick them up from the station.

With a quick glance at the retreating form of Daniels, John grabbed the handle of Rosie’s chair and ran in the direction of the train driver’s cab.  His mobile rang. Sherlock. He answered on the hoof. 

“Hello?” John’s voice sounded weak and raspy.

“John? What’s going on? Mycroft’s line to Daniels just went dead.”

“Making my way to the driver’s cab. Someone pulled the brake.”

John heard Sherlock’s voice pull away from the phone to instruct Mycroft to tell the train driver to give John access to the cab.  “Good, are you and Rosie okay?”

“My throat’s temporarily buggered and Rosie’s scared shitless, but we’ll live.”

“Good.” He went silent for handful of tense heartbeats. “I’m just about to get on a chopper with Mycroft.  The local police have been called and we’ve got armed response in another helicopter.  We’re on our way. Get to the driver and sit tight.”

“Okay,” John replied.  He was at the driver’s cabin and banged on the door.  “Hang on,” he said into the phone and yelled his name through the door for the driver.   “Sherlock, I need to tell you that…”

“I need to go, the chopper’s about to take off and I can’t hear you.”

“Sherlock, wait, you need to know…”

“Pilot says we’ll be with you in eight minutes.  Please, John, hold tight until then.”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, I…” The phone went dead. Sherlock was gone. “I love you,” John whispered. 

The door into the driver’s cab opened and a young, golden-skinned woman pulled him in.  “I’m not being funny, but who the hell are you, mister?  I’ve got half the railway and the police telling me to make sure John Watson gets into my cab with his daughter.  Hello, sweetheart.”

“I’m just John Watson. This is my daughter, Rosie.” He held up Rosie’s car seat and she went silent for a moment, fascinated by the new stranger.

“Are you a famous actor or a politician or something?”  John couldn’t place the girl’s accent. He didn’t think she was from Surrey.

“Just a GP.”  John looked down for a moment. “I work with a detective called Sherlock Holmes. There’s a suspect on this train. He tried to kill me and Rosie.”

“Comforting.  My name’s Sharan,” said the driver.  She shook his hand with difficulty. The cabin was tiny.  There wasn’t even a spare seat. “I’ve been told not to start up the train again until, like, the army or something turns up.”

“Yeah,” John said, embarrassed. “Sherlock’s my boyfriend. His brother is, well, he’s part of the government, sort of thing.”

“That’s useful. Have you met the Queen?” 

“No. I’ve been to the Palace.”

“Me too. I went on a tour with me mum. She likes the Queen. D’you want a Fruit Pastille?”

“Ta.” John took a sweet. Someone thumped on the cab door behind him.   And again.  And they screamed out various colourful curses.  Several others shouted, then the sound of footsteps.  “I don’t want to scare you, but he’s got a gun.”

“Reinforced cabin, including the glass. Terrorism.  I mean, I don’t think it would survive forever but we’re probably alright for a bit.” Sharan rattled her car keys at Rosie who made a grab for them.

“You’re very calm,” John replied. “I’m impressed.”

Sharan looked into her side mirror.  “I think your friend is going to try and get in from the side or through the front window.” 

John nodded. “I think we should get down under the console if we can. I know something’s going to give eventually, but we can make it as hard as possible.” He crouched under the driver’s console and wrapped his body around Rosie as much as he could. Sharan crawled under her seat.  They waited. 

“Do you think the other passengers are alright?” Sharan asked.

“He seems to be preoccupied with hurting me and Rosie,” John replied.  “I think the other passengers are fine as long as they don’t try to help.”

Sharan nodded. 

The first few bullets ricocheted off the reinforced cab. 

“Any idea when the cavalry’s arriving then?” Sharan asked. 

“Um, just before you let me in, they said eight minutes.”

“Oh, any minute then.  That’s good.”

The next bullet put a crack in the windscreen. Two more shots plinked off the metal chassis.  All, apart from crunching footfalls in gravel, went silent.

Sharan lifted her head a little and looked in her side mirror again.  “I think he’s looking for something.  I bet it’s not the buffet car, whatever it is.”

“Can you hear a helicopter?”  John’s ears strained to pick up the sound. Was it there or was it wishful thinking that whirred in his head? 

“I can hear two helicopters,” Sharan said.  John frowned at her. “I grew up near RAF Benson. I know what helicopters sound like.” 

John nodded.  Now the aircraft neared, he heard two distinct motors.  “Any sign of our friend?”

Sharan looked through the mirror. “He’s carrying a big rock. He might actually take the windscreen out with it. Do you know anyone on those helicopters?”

“One of them.” John nodded.  “I’ll just send them up an update.”  He texted Sherlock and Mycroft and apprised them of the situation. “How’s he doing with the rock?”

“Keeps dropping it,” Sharan replied.  Several shots were fired. Sharan risked another look. “No way! There are blokes coming down from the helicopters on ropes.”

“It’s called fast-roping,” John replied. “Are they shooting?”

“Yup.  Him and the dude with his rock. Oops, now the dude’s been shot in the leg.  He’s dropped the rock.”

John received a text. Mycroft informed him bluntly that everything was in hand. It was nice to know that he was comfortable enough to be rude. Mycroft being nice meant that you were in serious danger.

“Urgh, that was disgusting. I think someone just shot the dude’s hand off,” Sharan said.  “I did not need to see that after having strawberry jam in my porridge this morning.”

“Have you ever thought about joining the army, Sharan?” John asked.  “You’d be good.”

“Are you kidding? Unless they let me drive my train in the army, I’m staying right here. I love my train, man. Besides, they’re upgrading all the rolling stock soon. In the new ones, we get cup-holders. Why would I quit now?” She smiled. If John had been younger and not in love with his best friend, he’d have chatted Sharan up right about now.

John heard the unmistakeable hum and air turbulence of a helicopter landing.  “How’s the dude?” he asked Sharan.

“He’s dropped his gun. He’s got a soldier sitting on him.”

“I think we can safely say that threat has been neutralised then.”

“Should we get out?” Sharan asked. She looked at someone or something through the rear-view mirror. “It’s just that there’s a man in a long coat on his way. Is he the government dude?”

“Does he have dark, wavy hair and pale skin?” 

“Yeah.”

“Sherlock,” John said. He smiled.  “Can I get out?” 

Sharan crawled up off the floor and opened the outside door of her cab.  She jumped down and reached up to take Rosie’s seat.  John jumped down beside her, took Rosie’s seat and looked down the length of the train’s exterior.

Sherlock stopped a few metres away. John saw him thrum with indecision.  For a moment, confusion.  Then, he realised that Sherlock had no idea how to define the relationship between them.  John resolved it by taking several big steps forward. He plopped Rosie’s seat down at Sherlock’s feet. 

“Erwock!” Rosie shouted at Sherlock. He crouched by her chair.  “Hello, Rosie.” Sherlock stroked her hair with trembling fingers.

John crouched too.  “We missed you,” he said. The roughness in his throat was less to do with Daniels’ strangulation and more to do with emotion.  “I messed everything up and I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “It’s fine.  You’ve gone through a lot and I don’t know what I’m doing, so…”

“So, nothing.” John cut him off. “Come here.” John leant forward, eyes on Sherlock’s lips.  The gap between them closed inch by inch until those beautiful, crooked, soft lips were against his.  John didn’t have time for tentative. He tilted his head, opened his mouth and slipped his tongue between Sherlock’s lips.   He tried to put every ounce of emotion he held into the kiss, to show his love.  It wasn’t enough, not for him and not for Sherlock. He drew back. They were still so close Sherlock was a little fuzzy.  Sherlock’s breaths ghosted over his wet lips.  “I love you,” John said, inches from another kiss. “I love you so much.”

“In love?” Sherlock asked. His heart and his hope were reflected in those greyish-bluey-green eyes.

“Very much in love with you,” John replied. “If you’ll have me?”

“Only if you have me.” Sherlock smirked.  “Regularly.”

John blushed. He looked at Rosie, who grinned. She had two handfuls of billowy Belstaff coat and she wasn’t letting go.  John knew the feeling.

**

Well, this is uncomfortable in more ways than one, Mycroft thought.  He sat, wedged into a corner of the helicopter.  To his left sat Sherlock and next to him, sat John. Rosie’s car seat was strapped into a smaller seat opposite them.  Mycroft wished, even though he didn’t normally mix with the proles, that he’d sat next to the pilot. 

Rosie was asleep. It was a blessed relief that she didn’t see the frankly nauseating display her father and Uncle Sherlock put on.   Sherlock had an arm around John and their knees faced each other. The body language itself made it clear where their affections lay.  John’s hand ran up and down Sherlock’s thigh and, if Mycroft wasn’t mistaken, the ruffled material in the seat of Sherlock’s crotch concealed a certain amount of arousal. 

Sherlock’s right hand and John’s left were stretched across their bodies.   Their fingers were entangled until, with no apparent reason, Sherlock’s hand moved to John’s cheek and they kissed with utterly sickening wet noises. Then John’s hand strayed to the front of Sherlock’s shirt. Mycroft heard his brother’s breath hitch and saw him tilt his head to rest on John’s.   Was that a nipple flick?  Mycroft angled his hip to face the side of the helicopter more. Annoyingly, he still saw them reflected in the window. 

John moaned.  Mycroft searched the reflection image to see where Sherlock’s hand was.  He couldn’t see it. Should he turn and look? 

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “You need to stop.  We’re not exactly alone.”  He moaned again. “Fuck.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, loudly. Sherlock’s shirt was open and John slipped a hand inside. 

“Your mouth is saying stop, Dr Watson,” Sherlock said.  His head tilted back and his eyelids fluttered.  “But your hands are saying something else entirely.”

Mycroft coughed and shot them a dirty look. Neither of them noticed.  Mycroft rubbed his face with his hand. 

“You’ve got extraordinarily sensitive nipples,” John whispered.  “What if I do this?” 

Mycroft saw John’s head drop to Sherlock’s chest.  His brother liked whatever John had done, because he gasped and shifted in his seat.  Then Mycroft saw, thank you very much, where Sherlock’s hand was and it beyond all levels of decency.  When John’s knee nudged Mycroft’s elbow, he looked around. John had straddled Sherlock, arse in his lap.

“Do you have to?” Mycroft asked under his breath. No one replied. 

“I want you,” Sherlock moaned against John’s neck.  “I want to be inside you.” 

Mycroft shifted in his seat and shook John’s arm.  “That’s quite enough,” he said in the sternest voice he could muster. “You need to stop this now. What?”

John shook with laughter. Sherlock bit his lip until giggles burst out of him.  Tears of hilarity rolled down John’s face. 

“Did you really think we were going to have sex in your helicopter, Mycroft?”  Sherlock asked. He leant his head back against the seat. He looked ridiculously happy. 

“You were extremely convincing,” Mycroft said.  “I’m sure your hand was in his trousers.”

Sherlock took his hand out of John’s pocket and waved John’s wallet in Mycroft’s face.  

“He does have very sensitive nipples though,” John said. He wiped his face and gave Sherlock’s nipple a tweak.  Sherlock jumped.  John looked down. “Is that a phone in your pocket or..?”

“Um, it seems my nipples really are very sensitive.” Sherlock blushed.  John looked up and licked his lips. He wriggled a little in Sherlock’s lap and smiled when Sherlock’s eyes closed. 

“You’re not going to fool me again,” Mycroft said. “Please move, Dr Watson. Rosie’s waking.”  Rosie had indeed stirred as the helicopter descended. 

John lifted the corner of Sherlock’s Belstaff to shield his crotch from Mycroft’s view and moved aside.   Sherlock took the edge of his coat and scrunched it into his lap.  He blushed and apologised to Mycroft.  It was then that Mycroft realised that his brother had, indeed, got a stiffy in a government helicopter. 

“We’ll be met by Lestrade who will take Daniels into custody. We can’t allow you to talk to him today. Protocols must be followed.  I shall inform Lestrade that Dr Watson is suffering some type of shock and that you must not be disturbed. You will be required to fill in the blanks for the poor man tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” John replied.  “I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock added. He wrapped his coat around him as he stepped from the helicopter. Mycroft was exceeding pleased that he didn’t have to share a car with them back to Baker Street.

**

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Once home, John checked his daughter over.  She was fine but exhausted by her ordeal.  Sherlock took them both to Angelo’s for dinner. Angelo was always delighted to see Rosie and he made her special meals he once made for his own daughters.  By the time they got back to the flat, Rosie was yawning, covered in tomato sauce and ready for her bath and bed.

Sherlock took Rosie for her bath while John unpacked.  After that, John gave her some milk and read her a story while Sherlock played some of her favourite songs on the violin. It didn’t take long before she started to fall asleep, so Sherlock took her upstairs.  When he got back downstairs, Sherlock found John in his bed.  Naked.

“What might I deduce, John, from your current position and state of undress?” Sherlock asked. He took off his jacket and hung it in his wardrobe.  If his fingers shook, he certainly wasn’t going to tell John.

“You might deduce that I got lost on my way to my bedroom and all my clothes fell off in a freak button-bursting incident.” 

“Seems unlikely.” Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. “I was thinking more that you, perhaps, might be cold and in need of body heat.”

“That could be the reason,” John replied. He rolled onto his side and stroked his chest. “But the truth is that I’d just really like you to fuck me.” Sherlock dropped his shirt on the floor and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, John smiled at him.  “Okay?”

Sherlock undid his trousers and let them fall. His cock was already half erect at John’s suggestion.  “Okay.” He eased off his socks, pants and trousers and walked towards the bed.  “I’ve wanted to hear you tell me you want me for so long.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” John said. He reached out a hand, which Sherlock took, and dragged him down onto the bed.  The kiss they shared started gently and then turned desperate. John rolled Sherlock onto his back and kissed him with real passion. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock whispered in between kisses.  “I need you.”   His hands roamed down John’s back and he squeezed his tight backside. John jumped a little and wriggled away. He moved down Sherlock’s body until his mouth was level with his chest, then swirled his tongue around one nipple. Sherlock gasped and carded his fingers through John’s hair.  He pushed his chest towards John’s mouth and was rewarded with a long suck.

John’s hand dropped down between Sherlock’s legs and took his fully erect cock in his grasp. Sherlock looked down and watched John’s mouth and hand work on him. John caught his eye.  “Have I told you how fucking hot you are?” He scrambled to his knees and reached for Sherlock’s bedside table. Lube bottle in hand, he knelt back down on the bed between Sherlock’s legs.  John squeezed some of the liquid into his hand and reached back to prepare himself.

Sherlock sat up.   “I need to see,” he said. He moved to the side, so he could see John’s fingers disappear between his arse cheeks.  “I fantasised about you preparing yourself for me.”  He watched John’s capable fingers push inside his hole and his expression go slack.  “It didn’t do you justice.” 

“Want to help?”  John asked. He rocked back against his fingers.  “I love this, you know,” he said.  “And you’ve got the most lovely, long fingers.”

Sherlock crawled around behind John. He watched for a while; two of John’s blunt fingers pushed inside that puckered entrance and stretched it all for Sherlock.   He grabbed the bottle of lube and emptied some on his fingers.  “Ready?” he asked and slipped a finger in,  alongside John’s.

“Oh, oh, yes.”  John’s body leaned forward. His bottom was in the air and his arm barely stretched back far enough to breach his arsehole.  

“Let me,” Sherlock said. John’s fingers dropped away and Sherlock re-lubed and pressed two of his digits inside with some ease.  He teased the area around John’s prostate without making direct contact. Then, Sherlock stretched his fingers apart and managed to slide in a third.  “How’s that?” he asked. 

John moaned his response.  “Fuck me with your fingers,” he said eventually. “I want to feel you.” 

John’s hand moved over his own cock.  A steady dribble of precome dripped from the head as his body opened.  Sherlock withdrew his fingers until only the tips remained inside, then pushed back in smoothly. He repeated the action, aiming closer and closer to John’s prostate. His slick fingers squelched as they moved in and out of John’s tight hole.

“Yes.” John rammed back against Sherlock’s fingers, fucking himself on them. “I need you, put your cock in me.”   

Sherlock withdrew his fingers and noticed that they still trembled.  He dribbled lube into his cock.   John turned and reached out to slick his own hand.  That done, he lay down on his side.  

“I want you to lie behind me and get your dick in me right now.” John’s eyes were dark blue. He stroked himself while he waited for Sherlock to move behind him. Once Sherlock was in place, John pushed out his bum, lifted his right leg and pulled him in. 

Sherlock spread John’s buttocks a little, grasped his cock, lined it up and pushed slowly inside the tight heat of John’s body.  He panted with the effort required to move gently and smoothly. Sherlock pushed in a little more. “Okay?  Am I hurting you?” he whispered. 

John shook his head and let his head drop back against Sherlock’s shoulder. There was enough of an angle for slightly sideways kiss. “You feel good,” John replied. Sherlock pushed in a little more.  “So good.”  

“Why this way?” Sherlock asked. He only just had a grip of his control and if he concentrated on talking to John, he might distract himself from the sensation that threatened to overtake him. 

“Saw it on the internet,” John replied. He hooked his arm around Sherlock and urged him forward.  “Ages ago. Wanted to do it with you. Before Mary even.”

Sherlock eased in as far as he could.  John rolled back and Sherlock leant with him, which gave him increased access to John’s body.  When Sherlock shuffled down the bed a little, the new angle pushed his cock in a little further. “Give me a minute.” He gasped. “It feels amazing. I want to just lose control and fuck you hard, but I want this to be good for you.”

“I don’t care, Sherlock. I don’t care if this lasts two seconds, two minutes or two hours.”

“It won’t be two hours, I promise you that,” Sherlock said.  “Have you done this before?” 

“I’ve had things up my arse.” John stroked Sherlock’s leg and his own dick with increasing speed.  “Never a real cock though. Waited for you.”

Sherlock’s body reacted. This was something only he and John shared. It was a primal feeling and one that he should have rationalised away. With his cock buried inside John, he really didn’t give a toss.  

“Sherlock?” John asked.  “I know you want to perform and all, but I really want you just to fuck me. I’m going to come on my own in a minute because just the fact that it’s you inside me is turning me on so much.  I want you. Please, just fuck me.”  

“I love you,” Sherlock said. He lifted John’s leg a little and began to thrust up.  John’s body clenched around him and then relaxed. 

“Love you,” John replied.   Sherlock reached around to take John’s cock in his hand.  John’s grasp dropped to his balls and he groaned.  Sherlock nuzzled into his neck. John pushed back into every thrust he made.  Sherlock’s nose was pushed into John’s neck and back and licked he a stripe over the warm skin. Even the rich, clean, masculine smell of the man intoxicated Sherlock. His own skin was hot and flushed and Sherlock could feel sweat begin to leave a sheen over both of their bodies.   They slid together.

Sherlock heard the downright embarrassing noises he made against John’s neck.  Not that John seemed to notice; he grunted with every thrust of Sherlock’s cock.  His free hand grasped Sherlock’s backside so firmly it was almost painful. 

“I’m almost there.  Kiss me.” John turned his head to face Sherlock and lifted his hand from Sherlock’s arse to his hair.  Sherlock leant forward and gave him a searching kiss.  It changed the angle of his thrusts and John cried out against Sherlock’s mouth as his climax wracked his body.  Come splattered the inside of Sherlock’s arm and John’s arse gripped his cock.   Sherlock grasped John’s body to him, dragging him into his arms. This moment was one Sherlock had never expected to have and now his world narrowed to the short, ex-Army doctor plastered across his chest.  

“Come for me,” John whispered.   His eyes were only half-open, lost to the momentary shudders that still claimed him.  “I want to feel you come in me.”    Sherlock’s hips moved of their own accord as they bucked against John.  He wanted to look away, embarrassed by the emotion he knew he would show, but he couldn’t.   John squeezed tight around him and Sherlock was lost. He came with a hard thrust, his cock buried deep.  For a moment, everything was bright, roaring silence but, slowly, the sounds of his breath and John’s touch started to drift in.

“You sexy bastard,” he heard John whisper as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.  John had moved and lay on his side facing Sherlock.  His head was rested on his hand and he looked ruffled and gorgeous.  “You look like an angel and fuck like the devil. I bet I’ve got spunk in my fucking windpipe, you were so far inside me, you mucky git.”

Sherlock chuckled.  He’d only lasted so long was because he kept picturing his brother in a PVC faux-nurses outfit.  “You can’t speak. The noises you make, should be illegal.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” John replied. His hand stroked idly through the mess on his stomach.  “I’m incredibly sweet and innocent.”  Come dripped from his index finger as he lifted it to his mouth and licked the tip. 

Sherlock’s stomach flipped. “If you think that sort of slutty behaviour is going to reduce my refractory period, you are mistaken, John.  To use your vernacular, I couldn’t get it up with a splint.”

John laughed. “I’ve already left my revenge.   I’m leaving a wet patch on your side of the bed.”  Sherlock frowned. His confusion must have been clear because John tried to explain. “What went up must come down?”

“I’m aware of human biology.” Sherlock blushed.  His cognitive function had suddenly become trapped behind a mental image of his come dribbling from John’s backside.  “Can we change the sheets?” 

“No, we bloody well can’t,” John replied. “At most, we can clean up and put a towel over the wet bit. Or we can go upstairs to my bed.”

“Bugger the stairs.” 

“I thought you couldn’t get it up again?”

“Are you always this perky after sex?”

“I’m quite tired today, what with the danger and everything. Normally, if anything, I’d say I’m normally perkier.  And you love me.  Bad luck.”

“Twat.”

“Arsehole.”

**

John woke up at three in the morning. Sherlock was star-fished in the centre of the bed. John went for a wee, then returned and rearranged Sherlock so they could comfortably share.  He cuddled against Sherlock’s body, head on his shoulder and closed his eyes. Sherlock put his arm around his back and pulled him in further. It was blissful.

It was in this state that Mary appeared, pictured by John at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, arms crossed and wearing a warm smile.

“Glad you didn’t turn up any earlier,” John said.   “You might have seen more than you expected. 

Mary laughed.  “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t wait longer,” John said.  “I worried it was indecent or something but God, Mary, I love him.”

“I always knew how much you loved him. You loved me too.  I know that. I want you to be happy. I want Rosie to be happy. And Sherlock.”

“Is it disrespectful? To you. To us.”

“I think the hooker was worse.”

John grinned. “Fuck knows what I was thinking.”

“You could just have talked to Sherlock. I’m sure he would have let you experiment on him.”

“He’d have fucking loved it.  Why didn’t I do that?”

“Because you’re a man,” Mary replied.  “Because you and Sherlock are idiots.  Because I jumped in front of a bullet meant for him. Because you were confused and conflicted and hurt.  I’m sorry for that, I really am.  I couldn’t let you lose him again though.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to choose if you’d left it to me.”

“I wouldn’t have let you choose,” Mary said.  “I loved you too much for that.  Now, I want you to do something for me.” She smiled and smoothed the covers at the end of the bed.  “I want you and him to love each other and love Rosie and be disgustingly happy.  No more attempts to jeopardise it, no more overthinking and being an idiot. Okay?” 

John chuckled. “You talk a lot of sense.  I miss that.”

“I know.”

“I miss it too,” Sherlock mumbled. “But I also like fucking your husband.”

Mary laughed as her image faded.  John sighed and flushed because Sherlock, his Sherlock, wanted him and that was almost too good to be true.

John looked up, Sherlock looked down, their dry, smooth lips touched and the kiss did not end until John was on top of Sherlock and tongues searched for answers to sleepy, hopeful, questions posed (a yes, a yes), and hands that were once on shoulders drifted down and charted new territory again; warm sleep-soaked palms and silky fingertips moved lower, those eager hands finally wrapped around each other’s ever-more interested cocks and John stroked Sherlock the way he liked, Sherlock learned fast, he mirrored deft fingers that pulled foreskin over glans, and, in willing response, they grunted into each other’s mouths and rutted against each other until the kiss turned rough, those grunts turned to cries, controlled strokes turned into frenzied tugs, harder, faster, (now, now, now), and it was Sherlock who came first, white skin over flesh turned rigid, those eyes that shone like the moon on stormy nights searched John’s face and found love, only love, which tipped John over the edge until he clung to pale shoulders, left purple-red crescents with blunt fingernails, as he roared his climax and clung on, before heavy breaths turned to even, steady, slow, steady, slow, they slipped back into their former sleeping positions, (steady-slow, steady-slow) and, once again, eyelids fluttered closed and heartbeats aligned; they surrendered into sleep. 

**

“Rough night, lads?” Lestrade stood and greeted them as Sherlock and John walked into his office at New Scotland Yard.   “I thought the train thing happened earlier in the day.”

John raised his eyebrows. He looked at Sherlock, took a step closer to him, squeezed his arse and then looked at the Detective Inspector again.   

Lestrade blushed a little and shook his head.  “I’m pleased you’ve sorted yourselves out.

I think you’ll make each other very happy.  Just don’t tell me who does what, if you know what I mean?  This case has opened my eyes far wider than I thought possible.”

John smiled. Sherlock stepped towards Lestrade and said something that John didn’t hear. He saw the blush that stained Lestrade’s cheek and the smile that bloomed on his face.  He patted Sherlock’s shoulder and then went back to his desk to sit down. 

“If we might move along?”  Lestrade said.  “We’ve got Daniels in custody and the CPS is happy to let us charge him with what happened on the train. However, his lawyer is going to push for bail any minute. I don’t think he’ll get it, but I’d prefer to be dropping a murder charge in his lap to make sure, yeah?”

John nodded. He didn’t know that much about the Crown Prosecution Service[1] but the fact Daniels had waved a gun around on a train must have been a convincing reason to keep Daniels in prison.

“So, what do you need?” Sherlock replied. 

“I need John’s statement first and yours, Sherlock, for what it’s worth. Then I need you two to come and sit with me and outline the case we have against Daniels as you see it.  It’s going to be dull as fuck, but it’s a complex case and I don’t want this scumbag to get away with any of it.”

John nodded. Sherlock would hate today but John knew he’d hate Daniels to get away with what he did even more.  John followed Donovan to have his statement taken and Sherlock stayed with Lestrade.

Later, after his statement was taken, John went back to Lestrade’s office and found Sherlock and the DI poring over paperwork. 

Sherlock’s theory about Daniels for Jason’s murder would be proven, in part, by the presence of oral microorganisms left on the butt plug bagged at the crime scene.  Gabriel Smith, the prostitute Daniels had spent time with on the evening of Jason’s murder, was already on the way to New Scotland Yard.

“What about Cox, then?”

“Daniels is conflicted with regards his homosexuality.”  Sherlock looked intently at Lestrade.  His deductions were practically dirty talk to John.  “It’s likely his drug use lead to psychosis, paranoia and hallucinations.  Yesterday, I noted from the marks on his trousers and the wear pattern on his shoes, that he has regular pain in his right leg, probably arthritis in the knee. One form of treatment would be ibuprofen gel or something similar; make a search of his home and office and I’m confident something of that nature will turn up.”  Sherlock took a deep breath.  “Brandon Cox specialised in very public, exhibitionist sex.  Daniels was both attracted to and scared by it.  One of the agents who handcuffed him told us that there were existing handcuff marks on Daniels’ wrists. He’s been in cuffs before.”

Hell, God, why did Sherlock mention handcuffs? John suddenly wanted to be handcuffed to a bed for Sherlock.    

“A look at the prostitutes he visited showed that Justin Ellis took part in an S&M session with Daniels in Langridge’s dungeons.  He was assisted, probably unbeknown to Daniels, by Cox.  Brandon was under pressure; he owed money to Bouchard, to Candlar and to Daniels.  He may well have wanted to hurt or scare Daniels. My suspicion, and you must question Justin, is that Ellis left the room at some point and Daniels was alone with Cox, who lost control. Daniels knew Cox was allergic to Ibuprofen, so he later put some of his ibuprofen gel into a lube bottle. He stayed on at the club and made sure Tyler used it during sex with Cox.

“The bottle needs to be checked for prints and, if you find Ibuprofen gel at Daniels’ office or home then it needs to be tested to see if it matches the gel used to kill Cox. You should interview Justin Ellis too.   Questions?”

It took a few moments for Lestrade to finish writing his notes.  When he was done, he flexed his hand.  Hell, John knew that feeling.

“What about the drug stuff with Fabian Bouchard? Did Daniels have a part in that?”

“I’ve thought about that,” Sherlock replied.  “I’ve nothing conclusive, but if someone wanted to throw the scent off Daniels, Tyler is an alternative, as is Bouchard. If this could all be written off as gay men getting high and shagging each other, it could be assumed the police wouldn’t look any further.  I suspect that Tyler is involved in some sort of money laundering operation that may well link to Daniels and his drug operation. Candlar is the most likely suspect as someone who may have tried to kill Tyler off as a potential source.”

“I can re-arrest Tyler for suspicion, but I’m going to need evidence,” Lestrade noted.  “He’s been a good boy and helped with our enquiries.  If he’s not innocent, then he’s an arrogant fuck-head and I want him banged up.”

“Arrest him and visit the family home. John and I would like to take a look at his home too. We’ve got an errand to run; let us know when you’ve secured the house.”

Lestrade sighed. “Nothing illegal, okay?” 

Sherlock stood and swooped his coat around his shoulders. “I’m sure I really don’t know what you’re suggesting with that comment, Detective Inspector.” 

“Course you don’t,” Lestrade added with a shake of the head. “Just remember that John’s already had a gun pointed at his head this week.  I don’t want anyone pulling the trigger.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock nodded. He looked abashed and a little worried.

“Oi, you two, I was a soldier, for fuck’s sake. I’ve had plenty of guns pointed at me and lived to tell the tale. Now, Sherlock, let’s go get some evidence for the nice policeman.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand, dragged him out of Lestrade’s office and all the way to the lift.  

The doors closed. They were alone. John pressed Sherlock back against the wall, jabbed the down button and gave his new boyfriend the sort of kiss that made it very clear that John Watson was very alive, indeed.

**

[1] The Crown Prosecution Service is the body that brings forth criminal prosecutions against criminals in the UK. The police can’t charge someone with a crime unless the CPS agree that the reason for doing so is sound.  More about the CPS: http://www.cps.gov.uk/about/index.html

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Lesley Shaw was a middle-aged woman with mousey-blonde hair. She wore a twin-set, pearls and a tweed skirt. She had on teal kitten-heeled shoes over American Tan tights. 

Shaw ran a Milliners called Larkins. She didn’t make the hats; she was just the front-woman. The actual hats were designed and made by a small army of Women’s Institute members in Chesham who blew the proceeds on chutney-making supplies.

Sherlock entered the shop holding John’s hand.  He grinned and giggled at Lesley.  “Hi,” he said. “My name’s Noel and this is my partner, Joseph. We’re engaged!”  He grinned and kissed the tip of John’s nose.  “Love you.” He turned back to Lesley.  “We’ve come to see whether you do man-hats and also to have a look at some hats for our mums. If we don’t buy them, they’ll go into hatmageddon and try to outdo each other.”

Lesley looked confused for a moment and then smiled.  “Well, congratulations, first of all. We do sell hats for gentlemen.  Are you thinking of the traditional top hats or are you thinking more about bowlers or something a little more recherché?[1]”

“What do you think, pom-bear?” Sherlock asked John. 

“I don’t know, fluffy-kins, what do you think?”  John grinned. “I think it depends what matches your floofy hair.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the memory.  John had mentioned Sherlock’s floofy hair earlier that morning when they’d showered together.  “Maybe we ought to try a few on?” 

Lesley nodded. “I’ll just get a selection of hats for you, shall I?”  She disappeared out of a doorway behind the counter.   Sherlock immediately leant over and retrieved Shaw’s mobile phone.  He tapped at it ferociously and then slipped it back down on the counter just before she entered the shop again. 

“I’ve brought toppers, trilby’s and bowlers for now. We’ll worry about your mothers’ hats later, shall we?” 

Sherlock grinned.  “How exciting!”   He put on a trilby.  “Do I look like a gangster?”  He winked at John, who smiled back with an expression of complete love.   Sherlock blushed. 

“You two,” Lesley said. “You’re adorable.” Her mobile phone bleeped. She went pale as she read the screen. 

“Is everything alright?”  John asked her. 

“Fine, fine, everything’s fine.”

“Anyone would think that your husband had just been arrested. Again,” Sherlock said. 

“I knew it was you.” Lesley ripped the Trilby from Sherlock’s head.  

“Who do you think we are?” John asked. 

“You’ve been sent by the Marquês, haven’t you?”

Something in Sherlock’s brain flickered.  “The Marquês de Evora?  Interesting.”

“I know I recognise you both.  Who are you?”  The fear in Shaw’s expression was unmistakeable. 

“I, Mrs Shaw,” said Sherlock, “am your only hope.  If the Marquês is involved in this then he’s got men across Europe who won’t have any difficulty in bringing harm to your doorstep.” 

“I didn’t want to do it, you know.” Shaw began to sob.  “I never wanted to.”

“Which is why you’re typical of the people the Marquês involves in his operation. I can help you but only if you help me.”

“You can’t bring down the Marquês. No one can.”

“But we can hurt him, Lesley. And we can protect you and get you away from all of this,” John pleaded.  “But you need to help us because innocent people are dying.”

Lesley tugged at her pearls. Sherlock knew they were fake. It was all fake. She didn’t have the posh accent she put on. She played a part because a rich man in another country blackmailed her.  She’d taken a wrong path and that led her to this point. 

“I’ll help,” Shaw said so quietly Sherlock almost didn’t hear it.  “I’ll help.”

Sherlock drew out his mobile. He’d phoned Mycroft when they entered the shop and let him listen throughout his and John’s exchange with the woman.  “Ready?” he asked his brother. 

“Always, brother dear,” Mycroft replied as he walked in.  “We’ll secure Mrs Shaw and these premises.  Lestrade awaits your arrival.”

*

Lesley Shaw and Mark Tyler’s home was a contemporary mansion, probably built in the last few years, John surmised. It was all sandy bricks and forbidding gates. Inside, the floors were polished wood and the walls were various shades of beige.  The whole house looked like it had been pulled out of an interior design magazine.

Sherlock paced around the house and only stopped when they reached Tyler’s office. Here, at least, it was obvious that Mark Tyler lived a lie.  There was a painting of a naked man on one wall and the screensaver on his computer which scrolled through various pornographic images that depicted men having sex with one another.  Before the police took it, Sherlock hacked into the PC with ridiculous ease.   He looked at a handful of files, began to print and instructed John to go through the bookshelf opposite the desk. 

“I want you to look for any books with notations, anything strange, papers shoved inside books, any hidden compartments,” Sherlock demanded.  “Go through the drawers then and look for money, links to Portugal, drugs, anything that makes you twitch.”

“On it,” John said. He started to go through the shelf. It mostly contained books on things like accounting, basic marketing and other business subjects.  A copy of “Tipping the Velvet” stuck out in more ways than one.  When John opened it up, the inside of the book had been hollowed out.   There, John found numerous memory sticks that he bagged and pocketed. In the chest of drawers beneath the bookshelf, John found several bags containing pills and money, together with a business card. 

“Sherlock, you need to see this,” John said as he held the card.  

“I just need to print off a few more documents and then…”

“You really need to see this,” John demanded.  He walked over to Sherlock and put the card between Sherlock’s face and the computer screen. 

“Damn,” Sherlock replied.  “Europol.”

“Yeah.” John fumbled through his pockets for his mobile. “I’ll just get onto Lestrade, shall I?”  

“Oh!” Sherlock was wide-eyed. John looked at the computer screen.  An email was open on Tyler’s computer.  The subject line was A.G.R.A. and the contents very clearly included an invoice for services rendered. The email was signed Rosamund.

**

“Mycroft Holmes, you need to level with me because I’m tired and I’m fed up and I’m sick of everything to do with this case. Why is there a fucking Europol agent in a cell on my authority without you tipping me off on it?”

Sherlock has never seen Lestrade so angry. His grey hair stood in sharp contrast to his red, almost purple face.

“I’ve done so much for you, Mycroft. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve searched Sherlock’s flat for drugs on your insistence.  I’ve exchanged information and I’ve been at your beck and call almost constantly. I didn’t even lose my temper when Sherlock let slip that this monster cock-up was connected to your money laundering case. I’ve been remarkably fucking patient.  Let me give you a little hint though. I’m not feeling it right now.  Right now, I think you’re an enormous festering penis for letting me arrest a member of Europol and for searching his house. Don’t even get me started on the A.G.R.A shit on John’s behalf.”  Lestrade paused to breathe. 

Mycroft looked a little pale.  Sherlock knew damn well that Mycroft rather liked Lestrade.  He would even grudgingly admit that they were connected because they both cared for Sherlock.  Even though Sherlock could interrupt, the truth was that Mycroft had kept Tyler being a Europol agent quiet from them too.  As a result, he was happy to sit back and watch Lestrade rip Mycroft a new backside. 

“Maybe I should have realised, what with you fucking off with my witnesses and taking Tyler’s wife into protective custody out of my control.  I admit, I was slow on the uptake. I thought all that was to do with Daniels being involved.  Not that you disabused me of that notion, you complete turd.  I even told you all about our little sting… Oh for fuck’s sake. What circle of special police hell do they burn you in for watching a Europol agent fuck a French druggie up the arse in some posh-wankers’ boy-brothel? Sorry, John.”

Lestrade’s hands shook as he fumbled through his wallet for a nicotine patch. Sherlock took the packet from his hands, tore it open and stuck the patch to Lestrade’s exposed forearm.   

“Do Europol pay Tyler’s fees to go and fuck people in the arse in front of other people? He was implicated in the death of Cox. That was the perfect time for you to take me aside and say, hey, buddy, maybe you should take it easy on the fella because he’s some poncey Europol git.  Jesus. I had one of my officer’s swab his cock. If I knew he was Europol I would have told him to do it himself at least.  Do you realise that we witnessed his attempted fucking murder? That would have been nice on my CV, wouldn’t it?  DI of New Scotland Yard watches Europol spook die as he fucks a slack-arsed French prozzie up the shitter.”  He stopped for breath again.  “Sorry John, sorry Sherlock, I don’t mean any disrespect, you understand.”  

“Might I interrupt?” Mycroft said.  “I was compelled by the Official Secrets Act not to advise you that Mr Tyler is, indeed, now a Europol agent. Indeed, you cannot tell anyone yourself. I need you to sign this document.” Mycroft put the paper on the table. “This confirms that you will not speak of Mr Tyler’s role at Europol. When you all sign this then we can speak more.”

Lestrade grumbled but signed the paper, as did Sherlock and John. If they imagined then that their questions would be answered, however, they were wrong.

“Thank you.  Now, if you will excuse me, I need to be debriefed myself on what information I can share. For now, Mr Tyler is merely a suspect. In the interim, Detective Lestrade, might I ask that you allow Sherlock and John to speak to Piero Fibonacci tomorrow? I think the conversation might prove fruitful.”

“So that’s it, then?” Lestrade said. His voice softened and became, in Sherlock’s mind, even more terrifying for it. “You’re going to dish out your orders and then swan off into the night and not tell me a goddamn thing?  You really are an insufferable cockwomble. Get out of my office, out of my building and out of my fucking city.”

Mycroft bristled, picked up his umbrella and swept out of the room. 

“And that really is as useful as he gets,” John added. 

**

John casually undressed.  He threw his shirt, pants and socks in the clothes hamper and folded his jeans.  He sat on the foot of the bed.

Everyone was fed and watered, Rosie was asleep, and Sherlock was in the shower.  The thought of Sherlock with water drizzling down his chest made John’s cock twitch, even though it wasn’t the first time it had. The difference was their relationship.  Sherlock pressed all his buttons on purpose and not by accident.  John stroked his cock, just a little. When he shifted back onto the bed, he was reminded of his deliciously sore arse.  All the same, he enjoyed his chilled out, lazy wank.  He was so engrossed in his minor exertions that he didn’t notice when Sherlock returned to the room until the bed dipped.  Sherlock’s mouth covered the head of John’s cock. 

“Oh, hello,” John said. He opened his eyes and looked down. Sherlock’s hair dripped with moisture and his pale skin was flushed. He gazed at John’s and smiled, as much as he could, around his mouthful. He draped half his body over the bed, wrapped one hand around John’s cock and moved the other to his perineum.

Sherlock lifted his head for a moment.  “Would I be correct in my deduction that you are experiencing some anal discomfort from our love-making yesterday?” 

John smiled.  “Some not unpleasant twinges, yes.  I think I’ll pass on any heavy arse activity.”

“Well, that just sounds deeply disagreeable, John,” Sherlock said. He widened his eyes and then dropped his head to lick the head of John’s cock.  In between licks, he asked, “Can you pass me some lube?  I think there might be some flavoured stuff, which would be perfect.”

John leant over to the private hell that was Sherlock’s bedside table drawer. The Coco de Mer lube was close to the front of the jumble, so John hooked that out anyway.  Then he pulled out the whole drawer and rifled around. In his search, he put aside a vibrating prostate massager and a tube of strawberry lube.  He also found a dildo, three torches, two bullet vibrators and a cock ring. He left them where they were for now. 

“You like sex toys then?” John passed the strawberry lube to Sherlock, who used it to slick the hand wrapped around the base of John’s cock. 

“I have my curiosities and my needs, John,” Sherlock replied.  “You taste wonderful by the way.  Very John-like.”  Sherlock fisted John’s cock before he swirled his tongue around it, then sucked at his frenulum.

“Oh, fucking hell, God, bloody Jesus.”

Sherlock grinned and then repeated the action while rubbing John’s perineum.  His blue eyes radiated enjoyment.

“Yes, you absolute fucking beauty.” 

Sherlock chose that moment to take John’s penis into his mouth as far as he could.  He rolled John’s balls in his hand and lifted his head until just the tip of John’s dick was between his lips. He then lowered and sucked him into his mouth. He did this over and over until John started to slightly thrust into Sherlock’s mouth.  He tried his best not to, but it was impossible not to entirely.  

“Yes, yes, yes, sorry! Yes, Sherlock, oh, yes, you’re so good, so good. Yes, there, there, yes.” The string of affirmation continued to drip from John’s lips.  He stroked Sherlock’s hair with one hand and his own chest with the other.  Warmth began to grow in the pit of his stomach and he could feel his skin pimple with goose-bumps of arousal.  His skin felt electrified and he could feel the muscles in his groin tense.  “I’m going to come, love. Really close.”

Sherlock carried on. His tongue seemed to go into overdrive.  He hummed against John’s cock and looked up at him, and those pools of shifting colour expressed pure love.   

When John came, it was with an intensity he didn't know was possible. Sherlock sucked and stroked John through his aftershocks.  His hands caressed John’s thighs and he moved up his body with a trail of kisses.  Sherlock circled John’s navel with his tongue and sucked his right nipple.  John’s body, spent from his orgasm, virtually jack-knifed in response.  Sherlock sniggered and lay across John’s legs.  He tugged at the nipple with his lips and grazed it with his teeth before he sucked it back into his mouth. 

“What are you doing to me, devil man,” John groaned. He pulled Sherlock up and brought their lips together.  He could taste the saltiness of his skin and the tang of his semen on Sherlock’s mouth and licked out every last hint of the taste with his tongue.  “You’re amazing.”

 “I’m so hard, John, I could do press-ups hands-free,” Sherlock replied.  He rubbed his cock against John’s hip to prove the point and left a trail of precome across the skin.  “I need you.”

John rolled a compliant Sherlock over onto his back.  “I want to make you scream,” he whispered.  “I want to love every inch of you.”  He nuzzled at Sherlock’s neck and gently nipped the skin. 

“I don’t care if you only love an inch of me as long as it’s on the end of my cock.” Sherlock thrust his body up against John and gasped at the touch.  “Hurry, John.”  

“You’re such a fucking diva, Sherlock Holmes.” John slid his hands down Sherlock’s chest, over his nipples and down to his waist.    “How about a little prostate massage?” John felt Sherlock tense as much as saw it in his face.  “What?”

“To be blunt, John, sometimes I like having things up my bum and sometimes I don’t.” Sherlock shrugged.  “I can’t tell whether this is a day I do or a day I don’t.”

John stroked Sherlock’s chest.  “It could be as simple as you’re more relaxed some days than others.” 

“Yes, John. I still can’t always tell.”

“How about we try and if it’s not good today, we’ll leave it.” John teased Sherlock’s nipples with his fingers. Whether this was a good day or not, John didn’t want Sherlock to become tense due to their conversation.  “No matter what, there are still lots of things I’d like to do with you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded. He still looked unconvinced. John dipped his head and teased a nipple with his lips, teeth and tongue.  He swept downwards and stroked Sherlock’s inner thighs and lower belly. 

Sherlock moaned and bucked upwards.  “You’re such a tease,” he said under his breath.  

John relented and grasped Sherlock’s balls to roll and tug at them gently.   He kissed along the top edge of his pubic hair.  The skin was salty with perspiration, warm and musky. Sherlock, who lifted his hips with every touch, poked John in the eye with his penis. 

John looked up.  “Really?”  It turned out precome stung a bit. Sherlock chuckled but stopped when John fondled his cock to keep it out of his eye.  Then, he dropped one hand between Sherlock’s legs and massaged his perineum.   “Move your bum forward a bit, love.” 

Sherlock rocked hips forward a bit and lifted his legs so they bent at the knee.  John lubed up his fingers and dipped them between the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse. At first, he gently rubbed his entrance and tapped gently at the pucker.  When Sherlock relaxed, he pushed the tip of his finger in. 

“Okay?” John asked.  Sherlock pushed down a little and John’s finger slipped inside further.

“Good.” Sherlock tilted his hips further forward and up. It gave John better access. 

John pushed inside enough to find the Sherlock’s prostate and massaged the edge so as not to overstimulate it.   He wiggled his finger around to stretch out the opening too.   When he thought Sherlock was open enough, John asked, “more?”

“More,” Sherlock agreed.  John pulled out and pushed two fingers back inside.  “Good.”  John allowed Sherlock’s body to relax before he rubbed the prostate again.  Sherlock moaned and his pale thighs shook a little. John licked the tip of Sherlock’s cock and received a hissed, “yes,” in response. 

John steadily stretched Sherlock’s entrance until he was able to painlessly press the prostate massager inside.  He lubed up the toy and then started to slip it into Sherlock’s body. 

“Oh, gently,” Sherlock murmured as the massager entered him.  He tensed when it was fully in, but John sucked the tip of Sherlock’s cock to distract him.  “I’m going to come before you turn the damn thing on if you do that,” Sherlock said. He clutched at John’s hair. 

“I’ll just crack on then, shall I?”  John waited for Sherlock’s nod and then turned the toy on at its lowest setting.   The noise that came from Sherlock also started low and grew louder.   His thighs shook and his hips thrust into thin air.   John lubed his hand and wrapped it around Sherlock’s cock.

“Touch my balls,” Sherlock demanded.  His eyes slipped shut and his hands fluttered in the air.  He seemed utterly overcome.  John took one of Sherlock’s bollocks into his mouth until the undulations of Sherlock’s writhing body became too much.  John turned the prostate massager up to the second level. 

“Fuck.” Sherlock was immediately louder. John barely managed to keep his hand around Sherlock’s cock because his body bucked so wildly.  “Oh, oh, oh.” Sherlock pulled John up and over his body. John slipped his hand between them and pulled and stroked Sherlock’s cock and balls.  “Not going to last long,” Sherlock murmured as he clutched John’s body to him.   

“Let go,” John whispered in response. Even though he was nowhere near hard himself, he writhed against Sherlock’s body and willed him to let pleasure take over.

Sherlock’s forehead creased into a frown and each inhale was ragged with arousal.  His gaze met John’s and his fingers dug into his biceps. When Sherlock finally came, it was with an unstructured yell and a look of complete surrender. He shuddered until John managed to turn off the massager and then he flopped lifeless on the bed.  Both of their stomachs were wet with spunk, lube and sweat.  The air was heavy with the warm, sharp-sweet smell of sex. 

John rolled off Sherlock’s body and left him to take deep lungsful of air as he recovered.  He slipped the massager free and took it to the bathroom to wash. When he returned, he put the lube away, then roused his motionless lover. 

“Come on, you need another shower and so do I.”

“I’m dead.”

“You’re not dead, you’ve just had an orgasm.”

“But I’m tired.”

“And in ten minutes, after a quick scrub, you can go to sleep.”

“I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t. You love me, and you’ll love me even more when you wake up tomorrow not stuck to the sheets.”

“You make too much sense.  I really do hate you.”

“I’ll start to believe you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and flung himself off the bed with a groan and a thump.  “We’re showering together and we need to be back in bed in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” John said. He smiled and followed Sherlock out of the bedroom. It wasn’t a bad sight at all.

[1] exotic or esoteric

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Piero Fibonacci looked dazed.  His dark hair was dull and his olive skin looked pale. He looked unkempt.  Even though he’d met him only once before, Sherlock deduced that Piero was a man who cared about how he looked and presented himself. Therefore, his appearance was both a bad sign and a useful, illuminating one for Sherlock.

They sat in a grey interview room. Fibonacci had arrived at New Scotland Yard from prison and sat with them accompanied by a lone police officer. At Lestrade’s request, Sally Donovan observed the meeting behind the two-way mirror.

“Good morning, Piero,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry to meet you again in these circumstances.  Are you at all well?”

Piero waved a wan hand. “The food is not good. I sleep little. My spirit is leaving me.”

“I expect it would be the same for any man who takes responsibility for a crime he did not commit.”  Sherlock watched Piero’s response carefully. He looked resigned, almost frustrated, but not guilty. Piero was a man who had been trapped, not caught.  “But let us come to that later.  Tell me what you know about Stephen Daniels.” 

“A hateful man,” Piero responded.  His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a scowl. “I saw him before he went to Langridge’s. He was cruel and unpleasant. We do not earn our money when we see nice men, like John, but we could never be paid enough to be with a man like Stephen Daniels.”

John nodded.  “Did he hurt you?”

“Sì, it is a risk we take. I think he liked to cause pain.”

“So much that he would drug Zach Thomas to hurt him?  Then, perhaps, get the dosage wrong and let him die?” Sherlock suggested. 

“He could do it. It would not bother him.”

“What about Kevin Candlar?”

“He would not get his hands dirty with that.  His failure is that he loves Stephen Daniels. We all have our cross to bear, Mr Holmes.”

“And yours is Fabian Bouchard, is it not? You told us, that day at Doubles, that you loved Fabby. You really do, don’t you?”  The bricks slotted into place inside Sherlock’s brain. He knew who killed Zach Thomas. Now all he needed to do was to convince Piero to admit it.

“We met in Paris. I loved him. I wanted us to give up this work and be together.  We came to London for a fresh start.  It did not last for long.”

“He met Candlar,” Sherlock prompted.

“And Candlar is a pimp for Daniels’ drugs.” Piero’s eyes filled with tears.  “Once Fabby found drugs, I lost him.  He needed money and he knew how to earn it.  And then I was stuck in London and so I went back to what I knew also.”

“I’m so sorry, Piero,” John said. “It must have been awful for you.”

“It is a story older than Rome: to love someone that you cannot save. I will always love him.”

“And once Fabian met Daniels, he found the one he loved, and you couldn’t save him either,” Sherlock added.  “It must have killed you to know he loved someone so cruel.”

“I begged him,” Piero said. Tears ran freely down his face.  “I pleaded with him not to fall for that man. I knew Daniels would never love him.”

“Fabian never mentioned Daniels once,” John added. “The lying toe-rag.”

“He was trying to protect him,” Piero replied. “It is foolish to think that a prostitute would need to protect Daniels, a man who works for the government.  I love Fabby, but I also know that he is not very clever.  Do not be upset by his lies, John. He is not sober enough to have a conscience.”

“You speak so honestly about him, and yet, you’re here because of him, aren’t you?  Fabian told you he killed Thomas.”  Sherlock leaned back in his chair.  Piero closed his eyes for almost five seconds. He took a deep breath, sobbed and tried to regain his composure.  “Let me tell you what I think happened and then you can tell me if I’m right.  Fabian arrived on your doorstep in the middle of the night and told you he’d killed Zach Thomas accidentally. He may have classed it as a sex-game gone wrong, or just some man he’d met at a party.  He told you that he’d left the body in a graveyard to try and convince the police that there was a copycat killer taking the MO of Stephen Port.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath and watched Piero’s reaction. He looked defeated.  Sherlock began to talk once more.

“You knew as soon as you heard the words come out of his mouth that Fabian wasn’t responsible. You knew he hadn’t even known Thomas. But you had a good idea who did.  When Jason and Brandon died, Fabian started to get more and more unstable. He told you he was going to hand himself in for Thomas’ murder. But you couldn’t let the man you loved go to prison for Daniels.  The sad thing is that you are clever, Piero. You knew that someone with Daniels’ connections could discredit you if you told the police you suspected he did it. Not to mention the fact that Bouchard would hate you for it. So, you did the only thing you could do. You claimed you killed Thomas to make sure Fabian would stay out of prison.” 

“You missed out the part where Daniels contacted me,” Piero replied.  “He told me enough about Thomas so that I could take the blame.  He sent Candlar to me too.”

“Daniels has been arrested. I assume you’ve been told? Candlar and Bouchard too.”

“I did not know,” Piero replied.   His shoulders straightened.  His eyes opened wider.  He breathed easier.  “Shall I tell you what Candlar threatened me with?”

“Please do,” Sherlock replied. He leant forward in his chair.  He was sure he knew already, but it would only help Piero if he gave up the information willingly.

“Candlar said that if I didn’t say I killed Thomas, he would make it look like Fabian did the murders.  He said that he would get Fabby high, tell him to share some drugs and then make sure whoever he fucked would overdose. He said Daniels knew how to get the dose right because he killed Zach.”  Piero stopped. His face remained calm, but the tears began to fall again. “Do you know what makes all of this the worst of anything?”  Sherlock shook his head. “Is that I think Zach Thomas must have been a nice boy. He might have a boyfriend, like Jason, or family that loved him. They lost him because that arsehole cared only for himself.  And I love the man who loves him. What does that say about me?”

John leant forward and took both of Piero’s hands in his. The police officer sat up and looked a little suspicious about the contact but did not intervene.  John glanced at him. Sherlock knew the Watson warning glance well enough and it worked as effectively as it normally did. 

“Listen,” John said to Piero. “None of us get to pick who we fall in love with. It’s all chemistry and hormones and fate and whatever else.  The only thing we can control is how we deal with the chaos that gets in the way of the love.  Don’t blame the love, or the fact you felt it, for that chaos.  Love is pure; people are not. People fuck up and they make a mess and they act like idiots.  Life happens.  Sometimes, sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you find the path through it together because it’s the right time and the stars all align and it’s magic.  But, sometimes, it’s all wrong; it’s not the right time and life just fucks you over.  That didn’t stop the love from being a moment of perfection.  Blaming yourself for loving the wrong person is like blaming the earth for being between you and a buried coin. Appreciate the magic of finding it, not the shit that got in the way.” 

Piero smiled. “I can tell why you were Fabby’s favourite client, John.  It is rare that people in my profession meet truly good men.”

“And John Watson is a truly good man,” Sherlock added. He smiled at John.  He might loath Fabian Bouchard, but he understood what John must have been to him.   “As are you, Mr Fibonacci.  It’s time to get you out of here.”

“No,” Piero said. “I will tell you what you need but, outside of this place, I fear for my life.”

John smiled. “Sherlock’s brother runs the country, Piero. I think he can figure out how to keep you safe.”

There was something in Piero’s expression that made Sherlock pause. “Even from the Marquês,” he added. 

“Why do you mention him?” Piero asked.  

“You think he could be involved in this, don’t you?”  Sherlock tilted his head. 

“Daniels said to me the Marquês would find me if I left London, if I did not confess.  I thought it was too much. All he had to do was threaten Fabby and I did anything he wished.  Now, I think about it.”

“If any man in Europe can keep you safe from the Marques, then it would be my brother,” Sherlock admitted. “There are no guarantees, but you stand a better chance with him than with anyone else.”

“That is the best offer I ever get, I think,” Piero said.  “I will say yes to your help and I give you what help I can.” 

Sherlock paused for a moment. “Can you tell us anything else about Mark Tyler?”

Piero shook his head.  “I hear his name and that he give money to Doubles.  My boss, Peter Matthews, is nervous of him.  He said he wanted to not need his money. Ah!  He also said Nathan, my colleague, liked him. I think they are lovers. I do not know if Tyler pays for Nathan’s time or whether he gives himself for free.”

“And might we book time with Nathan like we did with you?”  Sherlock asked.

“Nathan specialises, like me. He takes secret jobs from therapists and psychiatrists.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Piero continued, “Ladies with vaginismus get sent to prostitutes sometimes.  Some gay men worry that they do not like anal. If it is important enough, a therapist tells patient to see someone like me or Nathan. Nathan sees only single peoples, but I will ask him to take you two on for me if I can get my phone back. And don’t worry, he’s very quiet.  Therapists would not use him if he was not a man who holds secrets.”  

Sherlock looked at John, who offered him a rueful smile and a shrug.  “I’ll get in touch with my brother.”

**

Mycroft’s men took less than an hour to collect Piero Fibonacci from New Scotland Yard.  Before he left, Piero texted Nathan Drake and promised not to mention him or the connection to Mark Tyler to Mycroft.  

Lestrade, who was still furious, was less than impressed at losing yet another suspect to Mycroft. However, once he spoke to the officer who sat in Piero’s interview, he was at least happy that Fibonacci was not his murderer and that he should be under some level of protection.   When John also told him that he’d given them a lead on finding out more about Mark Tyler, Lestrade cheered up considerably. 

Nathan Drake responded quickly to Piero’s text and offered John and Sherlock, under their assumed names, a slot at three that afternoon.  It was a little sooner than they expected.  They went to a pub for lunch to decide what sexual problem to choose to discuss with Drake. 

“Well, you’ve already told me that you don’t always like anal,” John said quietly.  “Why don’t we just use that as a reason?”

“But you used to be straight,” Sherlock said. “Surely he would expect you to have more of an issue than me.”

“If we pick that, though, then we have to lie about me seeing prostitutes before and what we discussed with Piero,” John countered.  “We need to tell as few lies as possible if we’re going to maintain cover. You taught me that; stick as close to the truth as you can.”

Sherlock sighed.  “But I was alright with the massager last night. It might not be a problem anymore.  Maybe you’ve mended me.”

“There’s nothing to mend,” John replied.  “Look, lots of gay men find anal tricky. It’s not a big deal as far as I’m concerned, but it is a good cover story.” 

“What if Lestrade or someone finds out though?” Sherlock said.  “Or Mycroft? They think I’m incapable of having a sex life anyway.  If they find out I don’t always like things up my backside then they’ll think I’m even more dreadful. I bet they both feel sorry for you for having to put up with me.”

“Like I give a shit what they think,” John answered. He tried to get his volume control back down.  “As far as they know, it’s shamming. Only we need know the truth.”

“Do you think we can trust Nathan?”

“If Piero trusts him, then I think we should.  As far as I can tell, he has no reason to lie to us.”

“I think Piero is honest too.”

“Well then?”

Sherlock sighed and stood up.  “Okay, okay.” 

“Where are you going?” John asked. 

“If I’ve got to have things up my bum all afternoon,” Sherlock replied. “I need to use the bathroom.”  

John tried manfully to keep a straight face.  

*

Doubles wasn’t any classier on the return visit.  Sherlock and John were asked to wait in the bar area to be entertained by a gentleman called Billy who demonstrated his ability to insert his own penis into his bottom.   Sherlock didn’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed. By the look on John’s face, he felt the same.  When Nathan, a fit-looking man with ebony skin and a warm smile, collected them from the waiting area, Sherlock bundled John out while he was mid-lecture on penile fractures. 

“Nice to meet you both,” Nathan said when they were seated in his room. “As you know from Piero, I don’t work with couples, but I’m going to go ahead and make an exception to help him out.” 

The room was a riot of colour.  The ceiling was painted gold, the floor was navy and the walls were covered in multi-coloured abstract shapes.  The bedding was yellow and orange and the chairs they sat on were red.  

“How can I help you, today?” Nathan asked. He was dressed in a long tunic over baggy trousers made from patterned wax fabric.   He sat with his arms spread and his feet tucked under his body. Like Piero had, Nathan gave the impression he was utterly relaxed and at ease with himself, with Sherlock and John, and with his job and his surroundings. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and was about to talk when John took over.  “Aaron and I have been together for a while. We took Piero’s advice on getting our relationship back on track emotionally and sexually, to some extent.  Even though I don’t think it’s a problem, Aaron is worried that he doesn’t always like to have anal sex.  I think he’s concerned that he’s disappointing me. He isn’t, but it worries him.”

Nathan nodded. He looked at Sherlock.  “Why do you think you have these problems?”

Sherlock shrugged.  He felt considerably uncomfortable with this turn of events.  “If I knew that, I would have rectified the matter, wouldn’t I?”

John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it.

“Okay, let’s go through a few things which make bottoming easier[1],” Nathan said. “I’m going to be honest with you, I’m a power bottom. I hardly ever top. I’m also not the sort of guy who’s just ready for sex. Some men can go to the toilet and know that everything will be okay.” Sherlock looked up.  “I’m not.” Nathan continued. “I don’t like anal to be messy and I need to get ready first. It’s fine. Colin, are you okay with anal?”

John smiled. “I like anal penetration. I really do,” John admitted. “I go to the loo, have a good wash and that’s the lot." 

Nathan grinned. “You’re one of those annoying bastards.”  Sherlock laughed.  “Really, Aaron, your boyfriend is not typical. Don’t you go thinking you have to be so casual. And, if you decide that anal sex isn’t for you, don’t do it.  I’d bet Colin here wants you to enjoy sex and if you don’t enjoy bottoming, do not do it.”

Sherlock nodded.  “I should try,” he admitted.  “Colin was straight before he met me. He’s used to penetrating someone. I don’t want him to have to lose that.”

“Hey, hey,” John said. “I don’t think that way. I’m with you now. People make too much of the whole penetration thing. If all you and me ever did was frottage, hand-jobs and blowjobs, I would be perfectly happy because I’m with you. I’d be happy to be with you if we never had sex. I’ve still got my left hand, mate.”

Sherlock was already at saturation point. This was the most he’d ever spoken about sex in one sitting ever. Not only that, but the conversation included discussion of his own sex life, unexpected though it was, and not some else’s. It was all a little too much at this point. Nathan seemed to sense it. 

“I’m going to go through some things that I know help me,” Nathan said. “Did you guys bring a notepad at all?” 

John nodded, pulled notebook and a pen out of his pocket and got ready to write. 

“Fibre,” Nathan began. “That’s my first tip. What’s your diet like, Aaron?” 

John coughed. 

“It’s better than it was,” Sherlock said.  “I’ve been monitoring the appropriate levels of nutrition for Colin’s daughter. I try to make sure that she gets the correct vitamins, minerals, proteins, fats, carbohydrates and that she has the required amounts of fibre to ensure that she doesn’t get constipation, which I understand can be a problem with small children. As a result, we are eating healthier than we did. I have appropriate and regular bowel movements most of the time.”

Nathan’s eyes were wide.  Sherlock realised that his response was rather more Sherlockian than something Aaron would say.  

“I work as a scientist,” Sherlock added.  “At Bart’s. I tend to be quite scientific in my thinking, as a result.  Colin’s a doctor. We both think in a scientific way.”

Nathan nodded slowly.  “Okay.  So, have you evacuated your bowels today?”

“Just before we came,” Sherlock replied. “It was of adequate firmness I expect. Would you like to know anything else about it?”

“Not really,” Nathan replied. “But thank you for asking.  How confident are you that all that stuff’s gone?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You might want to think about using an enema kit or a douche,” Nathan continued. “I know, Colin, you’re gonna say it’s not good to use them often and that’s something you two need to decide on. For me, personally, I like to use a douche, wait half an hour and then do it again. That way, I know I am as caca-free as I can be.” Nathan smiled.   “That’s my motto.  But, really, a little bit of faeces might still happen.  You have to accept it.”

Sherlock nodded.  

"If you use a nozzle for your shower head, only use it at low-pressure.”

“I think we would probably figure that out ourselves,” John said.  “I’ve given an enema before.” He smiled in a way that Sherlock recognised as slightly dangerous. John was, he realised, feeling a little patronised by this session.  It made Sherlock feel better that this wasn’t entirely easy for John either.  “We know all about it, right?”

Sherlock nodded. He knew none of it. There was a voice in his head singing nursery rhymes. It was better that way.

“At a pinch, Imodium will stop the digestion process, but I don’t buy it,” Nathan said. “I mean, why go there?”

“Not good for the gut or the digestive process unless you have diarrhoea,” John said. “We won’t be doing that.”

“Do you guys use toys?” Nathan asked.  “I struggle to come without something in my booty these days, because I use anal toys so much. Just the feeling of fullness works for me.”

John smiled. “I like the feeling of just clenching around something. It’s so good.  Mind you, we used a prostate massager on you last night, didn’t we love?  You came pretty ferociously as I recall.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded. He could hear his heartbeat thump in his ears. He might be having a panic attack or a heart attack. He had pins and needles in his hands. He wondered if Nathan knew how to do CPR. John might be too panic stricken to resuscitate him.  He could die in this tawdry brothel. It could happen. Any minute.

“I think we could certainly look at expanding our range,” John looked at Sherlock with an encouraging smile.

“Did you know you can have prostate orgasms without the penis being involved?” Nathan asked. He leaned forward towards John.  “I love them. I can just lie with my vibrator right up there and just hit it over and over. No semen, no coming, just these waves of pleasure. I call them arsegasms.”

“Wow,” John replied. “I saw a video on the internet of someone having those. I don’t get it.” 

“You need to do lots of playing.” Nathan nodded.  “I like to pop in my vibrator and just chill for an hour. I need the time for my mind just to chill enough to feel them roll.  I think you’d enjoy them, Colin.”

“If I can get Aaron to think about it scientifically, I think we could have a lot of fun.”

Sherlock couldn’t feel his right leg. Perhaps it was referred pain from his heart. The right side of his lower lip twitched.  It could be a stroke.   When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of light. His pulse had risen, he knew it. He put his hand around his wrist to surreptitiously take his pulse.

“I think the best toys are really smooth ones,” Nathan added. “None of that rubbish with the veins or things carved like dolphins or whatever. Just a nice, smooth butt toy is fine with me.”

“Those veins feel horrible.”

Sherlock’s left eye was twitching now. Perhaps he was having an aneurism? He thought his throat might be closing up. Maybe he was allergic to brothels and this was anaphylaxis. He rubbed his lips together. Were they swollen? 

“What sort of lube do you guys use?”   Nathan asked.

“We’ve been using a water-based lube, a really good one, though,” John said.   

“Keep the water-based for sex toys and go silicone lube for sex, especially in the shower. I just think you can’t beat silicone lube for anal. I just prefer it.”

“I think we should think about getting some,” John agreed. “We really need to do some sex shopping.  Er, again.”

Sherlock thought his lips tingled. His tongue felt fat in his mouth. His pulse was running at about 90bpm, which was high for him; cigarettes and caffeine notwithstanding. That seemed odd, he thought anaphylaxis would lower heart rate… Maybe it was the aneurysm. 

“Are you guys both okay with latex?  If Aaron has a latex allergy, he might not realise it on his hands,” Nathan suggested. “But hell do you realise it when it’s in your arse.” 

“With our work, I think if either of us had a latex allergy, we’d notice. Aaron, especially, he’s not a very allergic-y, really.  Mind you, we’ve both been tested, and I’ll make sure we get tested regularly, so I think we’re in for the bare-bottoming, really.”

“Bare-backing?” Nathan suggested.

John laughed.  “Sorry, I’m not down with the lingo.”

“Any signs of blood when you bottom, Aaron?”  Nathan asked.

Sherlock was still taking his pulse. His eyes were closed. He was worried that his brain might begin to dribble out of his ears. 

“If there was blood, I would stop.  I’ve had an anal fissure, thanks very much. I’d like to make sure that we’re as careful as we can be.  Besides, I think that since Aaron is really worried about the anal, we’re a way away before there’s any real hard, pounding sex.”

Sherlock wondered if he threw himself on the floor this would all end.  He thought maybe an anal fissure was growing as he sat there. He wondered if it was possible to die of anal fissures.

“What about drugs?” Nathan asked. “I know you’re a doctor, but I have to ask. I mean, if Aaron takes anything stimulants, it might make him tense. Plus, of course, some drugs make you poo and others close down those bowels.”

“I think we both know better than to have sex high or to do anything else that would put each other at risk, don’t we Aaron?” John made the last few words very loud and turned to look at Sherlock, who gave him a tight-lipped smile. He still wasn’t entirely sure whether he was having an anaphylactic reaction. 

“What about exercise? Do you guys work out?” 

“We could do more, I suppose.  I do wonder about whether we should start Aaron with something like different size plugs, or Kegel balls?”

“You absolutely could,” Nathan agreed.  “I think that would be great for both of you just enjoy playing with each other.”

“I can’t take it anymore,” Sherlock said.  He stood up.  “We’re here because we want to know about Mark Tyler. I thought I’d be able to deduce things about you or that we could steer you into talking about him, but I can’t take it anymore. The truth is, I’m probably a little bit highly strung to have things up my arse all the time. I admit it. Now, can we just talk about Mark Tyler please because otherwise, I may have an aneurysm.”

Nathan nodded.  “What do you need to know?  I mean, Mark’s my boyfriend. I know he’s married, but he and I are an item and have been for a long time.  It was me that encouraged him to invest in this place.”

“Oh,” John replied.  “We thought it might be a bit trickier to get you to talk than that.”

“Look, Mark’s just a businessman and I know the fact he’s married and all that is odd, but his wife, Les, she’s cool about it. Now that’s a woman who really doesn’t like anal. I don’t think you can overestimate the affection in their relationship. But, sexually, Mark likes men and that means that I’m an important person in their lives.  Les and I go out for drinks at least once a week and we talk on the phone regularly.”

“And you’re aware that Mark visits Langridge’s?” Sherlock asked. 

“He doesn’t go to Langridge’s,” Nathan replied.  “That’s ridiculous.  I was the first prostitute he went to and he’s told me on more than one occasion that he would never visit another. His sex drive isn’t even that high. I quite often want it more than he does.” 

John and Sherlock looked at each other.  John gave Sherlock a warning look.  He stamped down his need to tell the truth.  After all, this wasn’t a question of upsetting Nathan, it was more about figuring out who or what Mark Tyler was.   His deception told them something. After all, if Tyler was really a Europol officer, and an undercover one at that, then it was likely that he was an accomplished liar since his job and wellbeing depended upon it. As a result, there was no way Drake or Shaw could truly trust him.  Pushing Nathan by revealing the truth was, therefore, ultimately futile.

“And what would you say Tyler’s job was, if you were pushed?” Sherlock asked.

“He and Les made a fortune from the hat business. Now he invests in other firms when they need monies. He always makes a profit,” Nathan replied.   

“Any interests overseas?” Sherlock asked. 

“Somewhere in Belgium and Portugal, I think,” Nathan replied.  “Les never goes with him.  Me either, come to think of it. It used to annoy me. I wouldn’t mind a little holiday to Portugal.  I’m not so bothered about visiting Belgium. Unless there’s chocolate.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about them?" 

“Not really,” Nathan replied. “To be honest with you, we don’t really talk about work. I always figured that Les could do that part better than me. I just focus on looking after the man, you know?”

Sherlock nodded.  “What sort of man is he?”

“Completely different than I expected,” Nathan admitted. “The first time I met him I thought he was a creep. Then, I got to know him. He’s a bit of a sweetheart really. Les thinks so too. And he’s a bit of a tiger in the bedroom when he’s in the mood. Like I said, his sex drive isn’t as high as mine, but what he lacks in regularity he makes up for in enthusiasm.”

“Fine.” Sherlock exhaled.  No new information. That was irritating. The fact that Sherlock had sat in this room and listened to him and John talk extensively about his back passage and he’d got nothing from it, was thoroughly irritating.

“If you could put us in a room with Tyler and we could ask him anything, what would have us ask?” John said.  “I feel like he’s a bit of an enigma. What would you like to know?”

“Do you know, I thought about this not so long ago,” Nathan replied.  “He’s really particular about his phone. I’d ask why. I’d love a poke around his phone.  And he’s got a Safe Deposit Box somewhere too. He doesn’t know I know that. I’ve seen the key. I found it once when he fell asleep on my couch.  I was putting his coat away and it fell out. It said Harris Safe Deposit on it, that’s the only reason I know what it was.  So, yeah, I’d ask to see his phone and to see what’s in that box.”

“Good,” Sherlock said.  “Good.  That’s good, John.  Anymore questions?”

“Not even one,” John admitted. “I think that was my moment of genius. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” Sherlock said. “I think we’re done here.”

“What is this about?” Nathan said. “May I ask that?”

“We’ve been helping with Piero’s defence,” Sherlock replied.  “We think he’s innocent and we were given several names to ask about. Tyler was one, purely because of his involvement in the management of Doubles.  We doubt that Tyler realistically has anything to do with it.  However, we must do due diligence.”

“Good,” Nathan replied. “I’m sure Mark’s innocent of anything you might level at him. Deep down, he’s an open book.”

***

[1] A lot of this section was inspired by this article: http://www.advocate.com/sexy-beast/2016/5/25/17-tips-happier-healthier-bottoming.  It is a thing of complete joy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

There was an air around Mark Tyler.  He was an unexceptional man.  The vintage Rolex was gone. He wore a grey, prison issue tracksuit. His thinning dark hair and his somewhat rotund stomach seemed lessened.  His skin was pitted, a result, Sherlock thought, of teenage acne. His skin looked grey. Despite his careful treatment, given his background in Europol, Tyler was a worried man. Somehow, though, he still had charisma.

Mycroft had flatly refused to turnover either Tyler’s phone or his safe deposit box key. However, he’d granted Sherlock and John a half-hour interview with the man himself a day after they’d interviewed Drake.  There was, Sherlock realised, no time to waste on niceties. 

“You were a mobster,” Sherlock said.  “How come you work for Europol now?”

“They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. The Marquês was suspicious. It’s been a slow process to make it back into his circle.”

“What do you know of the link between Stephen Daniels and the Marquês?” 

“You don’t waste time, do you?” Tyler said. He yawned.  “Since it’s you… We think Daniels took receipt of drugs from the Marquês indirectly. He didn’t smuggle himself and he wasn’t involved in anything other than distribution on these shores.  He did, however, put up a few boys the Marquês trafficked in from Africa.  We got them out a while ago. Since then, I’ve mostly been involved in monitoring the drugs coming in and where they were distributed.”

“What do you know about the murder of Zach Thomas?” Sherlock asked.

“Daniels had been a loose cannon for months. He liked to drug boys to have sex with them. Thomas was a mistake. He manipulated others to take the blame. He did it.”

“What’s happened to the drug route now Daniels is out of the picture?” Sherlock asked. 

“Unclear, though the Marquês is furious. He hasn’t got a second in command. I tried to fill the gap. Then you idiots arrested me.”

“And the money laundering?”

“A way in,” Tyler replied.  “I set up Les in business, so we could launder for the Marquês. It’s not her fault.  It was my job to infiltrate the Marquês’ organisation again, to build up trust. I started low. I’d infiltrated Doubles and took in a few boys trafficked for use in sex work.  Those lads are safe now.  When I found out Daniels was involved, I tried to get involved in Langridge’s to find out if they were doing the same.  Charles is clean but some of the men who work at Langridge’s certainly aren’t.”

“Bouchard and Cox.” Sherlock replied. 

“Indeed,” Tyler added.  “Though Cox was doing little more than low-level drug dealing.” 

“And the Marquês?” Sherlock asked.  “Do you have enough information to put him away?”

Tyler smirked.  “Europol have arrested him before. He always gets away with it. The issue we’ve got is to find the first port o’ call. We know Daniels didn’t take control of the drugs immediately; they come through a third party. If we can find that person, we might have a chance. The link then is complete from the Marquês in Portugal to Daniels in London.”

“Any ideas who that is?” John asked.  “You must have some thoughts.”

“I’d always thought that Daniels must have known them. But, other than his fake girlfriend and the people in parliament, I never found anyone. They all checked out. There must be someone though.  I was in the process of trying to find out more about Langridge’s. I don’t think Charles is involved, but there must be someone.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock admitted.  “I suspect Langridge’s will prove to be the key. The murders there make sense if they were a show of power as well as a response to paranoia or revenge.” 

“I just don’t know how you’d find him,” Tyler said.  “There are no clear links.  I even wonder if Daniels didn’t know who it was himself. If that’s the case, it would be a stroke of genius.”

“But it also means that there’s a way to pass messages that might be found. I wonder if Jason was involved in that. He may not have even known he was doing it, of course.” Sherlock paused.  “John, we need to speak to Lestrade.”

*

“Why do you want to see the butt plug?” Lestrade asked.   To John, he looked, as usual, harried and knackered. 

“When you get it for me, I’ll look at it and then show you,” Sherlock said.  “If I can’t see it and check, then the conversation is redundant.”  The butt plug had been found, by Sherlock, under a chair in reception after the first murder.  It’d already proven to be a key piece of evidence.  The DNA found on it mostly belonged to Jason, the first victim, as well as some from Gabe Smith, who'd been with Stephen Daniels at the time of Jason's death.  There were also lime-scale deposits and chlorine, probably from the hot tub; Jason had changed towels in the hot tub room shortly before his death.  Sherlock postulated that the plug had been rammed into Jason's mouth before he was tipped over the third-floor bannister.

Lestrade waved Sally Donovan into his office and tasked her with retrieving the butt plug from evidence.   He sat back and rubbed his face with his hands.  “I don’t mind telling you that this case is doing my head in.”

“You’ve got the murderer, you’ve set the man who wasn’t guilty free and now we’re assisting Europol.  What is there to be unhappy about?”  Sherlock looked genuinely confused.  John understood Lestrade. 

“Every time I think we’ve got this cracked, there seems to be something else,” Lestrade said. He held his pen like a cigarette.  “And you know as well as I do, that we’re only added muscle for Mycroft with the Europol shit.”

“Not if I’ve got anything to do it,” Sherlock said.  “You know that I like to work with people I can trust, Lestrade.  You’re far more intelligent than many of the morons that work for Mycroft.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade replied. “I think.”

Donovan walked back into the room holding the bagged butt plug with the tips of her fingers. She passed Sherlock a pair of latex gloves, opened the bag and let him reach in to take the sex toy.  He examined it carefully and then grasped the base and turned it.  The end of the butt plug unscrewed to reveal a secret compartment. Inside was a note. 

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. He took a pair of latex gloves from his desk drawer and removed the note. He unwrapped it. Sherlock dropped the pieces of the sex toy back into the evidence bag.  Sally resealed the bag.  Lestrade lay out the note on his desk.  

John read the note aloud.  “Zero three, Zero eight, Zero seventeen, ten forty-five PM, blackout.”

“What does it mean?” Lestrade said. He looked at Sherlock’s exasperated face and shook his head. “Obviously the first bit is the date and the time. What the hell is blackout?”

“I might be able to help with that.” John smiled. He was embarrassed, yet again. This case. “The blackout area at Langridge’s is this twisty-turny area on the fourth floor. There’s a bit in the middle where there are sofas and there’s, oh God, I hate that I know this, but there’s a sex swing in there.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows almost reached his hairline. Donovan giggled, and Sherlock was utterly silent. Too silent.

“I never really went in there,” John said. “Simon gave me a tour of the club when I joined. I remember it because it was like the rooms they used in army training to disorientate you. The only bit which is truly blackout is the central bit with the sex swing. Apparently, it’s an arse to get into the swing in the dark but people manage it.”

“An arse to get your arse into the sex swing?” Lestrade asked, a grin tilting his lips upward.

“Fuck off,” John replied.

Lestrade chuckled.  “So, dare I ask what we think is going to happen at ten forty-five in the blackout room next Thursday?”

“A drug drop,” Sherlock replied.  “We have to assume that if the Marquês even knows that Daniels has been arrested, he’s arranged to have someone else collect the drugs. We have to hope he hasn’t cancelled the drop altogether.”

“And what sort of amounts of drugs do we think we’re looking at?” Lestrade asked.  “I don’t want to be a cock, but the National Crime Agency and the Drugs Squad are going to want in on this.”

“Ignore the NCA,” Sherlock instructed.  “Let Mycroft deal with them.”

“Do we have to tell the Drugs Squad, chief?” Sally asked Lestrade.  She put down the bag containing the butt plug and moved forward.  “Can’t we claim that we don’t know what’s going to happen?  If it weren’t for John and Sherlock we wouldn’t have a clue, if we even found this at all.”

Lestrade sat behind his desk and put his head in his hands.   “We’ve got one shot at this,” he said.  “We can’t pretend we don’t know what’s being delivered again.  If there’s a sniff that this is going to be a drug delivery, then I’m in deep and complete shit.  So, what am I going to tell the boys upstairs?”

“Much as I like Donovan’s elegant solution that none of us knows what’s about to happen, I think we may need more resources than Lestrade would put into a wild goose chase.”   Sherlock pressed his palms together and rubbed his chin with his combined hands.  He touched his lips with his index fingers. It was almost as if he knew how sexy John found it. “Think for a second; we’re going to want night-vision cameras, observers, people placed at the exits, people in the room.  We need resources.  What would bring us those resources?  The potential for another murder?”

“Hell yes,” Lestrade replied.  “As far as everyone else is concerned, we think we’re going in to stop a murder. Agreed?” 

Sherlock nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” Sally replied. 

“Agreed.” John nodded to Lestrade.  “So how on earth are we going to catch our ‘murderer’ in the dark?” 

*

Just over half an hour later, John walked slowly back towards Lestrade’s office, coffee in hand.  Donovan met him in the corridor and pulled him in to a side room.  

“Greg wanted me to give him a minute with Sherlock,” Sally said.  “I hate to say it, but his idea is the best we’ve got.”

“You know what, Sally, I fucking hate this case.” John sat down at the conference table inside the room.  “I hate everything about it.”

“What do you mean?” Sally stood in front of him, hands on hips.  “You’ve finally got it together with the man who you’ve been in love with for years because of this case.  How can you hate it?”

John sighed. She was right.  It didn’t feel that way though.  “I know. But, on the other hand, everyone now knows I saw a prostitute. Everyone knows about me and Sherlock, or will know, and privacy would have been nice. And now, we’re also going to have the joy of our sex life being open for public sodding consumption. Plus, this is all about drugs.   Perhaps that wouldn’t worry me so much if I’d not thrown a wobbler, only to have my life and that of my child threatened by a junkie. Oh, and let’s not forget that my boyfriend’s a recovering addict and that all of this drug talk might be a bit of a shit plan.” John took a deep breath. He hadn’t been aware that he hadn’t taken a breath during his rant.

Sally sat down next to him. She took his hand and squeezed it.  “You’ve also recently lost your wife and dealt with your sexuality being a bit different than you expected.  You chose to deal with that not by fucking every man or woman in the vicinity, but by going to a classy brothel where there’s HIV testing and everyone uses condoms. You did that to make sure that your little girl would keep her daddy for a long time.  You’ve fallen for the man who is a second daddy to your daughter. There is no one better to be by her side or yours, even if I do think he’s a freak.” Sally smiled.  “He won’t risk it by using drugs and neither of you will risk your relationship by exposing too much in that room at Langridge’s.  You don’t have to have sex. You’ve just got to be a bit fruity with each other.”

“While everyone watches,” John added.

“While me and Greg watch, at the most,” Sally replied. “And it’s on night-vision, which isn’t that clear anyway. Course, Europol might need the video.”

“Comforting.”

“So, you two get to take charge of what you do. You need to make the right noises and expose a bit of skin. No one’s expecting you to bum Sherlock senseless in the blackout room.”

John almost jumped in and pointed out that Sherlock wasn’t up to being bummed full stop, but since that rather invalidated his argument regarding the invasion of privacy, he didn’t.  He did, however, sigh. 

Sherlock’s idea was that he and John would wait in the blackout room for the drop. It’d been decided that someone would need to be in the room in case it wasn’t a drug drop, or that it was and that those involved in the drop were able to keep avoid the night vision cameras.   Sherlock planned to purloin some covert night vision glasses from Mycroft that would allow John and him to see what happened.  The only way they could be in the room and not draw attention to themselves would be to be involved in sexual acts. Lestrade couldn’t guarantee he had officers who would choose to be involved.  So, that left John and Sherlock in the key roles of getting hot and heavy in the blackout room, while Lestrade and Donovan watched on night vision cameras. Other officers would be positioned around the exits so the dropper didn’t escape once he was identified.  

The plan was good. Workable. John hated it. Just the thought of being back at Langridge’s made him feel uncomfortable. In his mind, Sherlock was somewhat innocent in the ways of sex. For John to get steamy with Sherlock in a brothel seemed wrong, like he was going to take a nun to a strip club. John really shouldn’t think about Sherlock like a nun, he realised, especially since his enthusiasm for sex reduced John’s control to ashes.  

“Fuck, but what if we get carried away?”  John asked.  “You know what new relationships are like when you’re all over each other.”

Sally chewed her lip.  “Look, if Sherlock can get them, there are tiny radios and mics that you could wear.  That way, if you get carried away and I think you’ve gone a bit far, I can tell you to calm down.”

John considered.  Sally explained that the radios were easily hidden, even for people would be semi naked. Since the blackout room was pitch black, receivers and so forth would be to hide.  Plan in place, they headed back to Lestrade. 

To John’s surprise, their suggestion was greeted warmly. He wondered if Lestrade had given Sherlock a hard talk while he and Sally chatted. 

“We’re meeting Lestrade at Langridge’s tomorrow, John,” Sherlock said.  “Charles Langridge has agreed to let us in while they’re closed for cleaning.   We need to go somewhat incognito, but there’s little we can do until then.  I thought we might head home?”

John agreed. With subdued farewells, he and Sherlock headed back to Baker Street.  Indeed, they were back in the flat when John finally gathered the courage to ask about the plan.

“Sherlock?” John asked as he made lunch.  “Why are you okay with people seeing us make love or, at least, fake it?  You’ve mentioned you fantasizing about me in the bed pit.  Does this turn you on?”

Sherlock, who was logged onto his laptop, looked up.  He was unearthly in his black shirt, sitting in front of the window, with a glowing halo created by the bright sun around him.  “It’s just shamming, John,” he said at last. “You know that.”

“Do I?” John asked. He attacked an onion with his sharpest knife.  “I don’t like the idea of anyone but me seeing you naked or watching us.  You’re mine, Sherlock, aren’t you?”

“I don’t belong to anyone, John,” Sherlock replied.  “If it were imperative that I must belong to someone, I suppose it would be you.”

“I don’t mean it literally,” John said.  “It’s a figure of speech.”

“I love you, John.” Sherlock looked surprised by his own words.  “It doesn’t please me that people will see your body, especially not your penis.  However, lots of people before me have seen it, Doctor three-continents Watson. I can hardly plead ownership when you’ve shared it with so many others already.”

“And you’ve shared your body with me and one or two other people,” John replied. “I don’t like the idea of one other person seeing you, let alone anyone else.”

“My lack of sexual experience doesn’t bestow ownership of my penis to you,” Sherlock said.  “It is still my body to do what I want to with and, right now, I’d like to use it to help to stop a very bad man from doing many bad things.”

“I know, I know, I just can’t explain,” John said. “Do you like the idea of people seeing us having sex? You reacted when Fabian was doing stuff in front of us.  If I have to get used to the idea that you like public sex, I will, Sherlock. I love you. I want to make you happy.”

Sherlock put his laptop aside and walked into the kitchen. John was making sandwiches and salad. Sherlock stole a tomato and took a bite.  He chewed and then spoke. “I’m not sure about public sex. I reacted to Fabian because he prepared himself and it reminded me of a fantasy of you that I enjoyed. I told you about it. You were preparing yourself for me; the audience was an irrelevance.” 

John remembered the story and his cock twitched.  He fully intended to act out that particular fantasy entirely for Sherlock one of these days.  

Sherlock continued. “I don’t want people to see us have sex. As I said, this will be a sham. It will be a performance that you and I give. I don’t intend for what happens to truly reflect our sex life. That’s why, for example, I plan on deferring entirely to you. Lestrade pointed out that you were uncomfortable with the whole plan. As a result, I intend to give control over what happens to you. We will do only what you are comfortable with.  You’re in charge, John.”

John’s brain went slightly haywire.  Sherlock, who was a control freak and a bossy bastard, would let John call the shots.  Sherlock, the man who loved the big reveal and to expose secrets, would leave John in command.   They would only do what he was comfortable with.  The responsibility Sherlock had given to John was huge.  Sherlock was his, no matter that he argued with the idea of possession. 

“I really do love you with all my heart, do you know that?” John said.  Sherlock took the final bite of tomato.  Mouth full of red flesh, he nodded and blushed a little.   He turned and walked back to his chair but made it only halfway before he looked back at John. He smiled and blushed again.  John grinned back.  Warmth exploded in his chest. Just a little. 

**

John washed up after dinner. He didn’t hear Sherlock come back downstairs after he’d put Rosie to bed.  The first John was aware of his presence was when Sherlock appeared close behind him. Sherlock’s hip bones nudged against his lower back and his arms wrapped around John’s waist.  That silky smooth, dark chocolate voice breezed against his ear. 

“Surely the washing up can wait, John,” Sherlock said.  “I think your time would be far better spent with me in the bedroom.”

“This dish won’t come clean at all if I don’t wash it tonight,” John replied.  Sherlock’s cock twitched against him.  “You did tests on pasta bake pans after that case in Wimbledon. You know it goes rock solid.”

“I also know that soaking it overnight works just as well as ten minutes of scrubbing,” Sherlock replied.  “So, leave it in the sink and come to bed.” He started to tug at John’s belt. 

“I’m almost done. You may as well just let me finish up.”

Sherlock’s fingers slipped into John’s trousers and curled around his cock.  His brain told him to finish the damn washing up. He dropped the Pyrex oven dish into the water with a clang and a splash. The rest of his body pushed back against Sherlock. His legs opened in invitation and that allowed Sherlock’s hand to cup his balls as well as stroke his cock. His head dropped forward and let out a shaky gasp. Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt and when his dry, warm palm touched John’s chest, his breath hitched.  

“You absolute cock,” John said on an outward breath.  He heard the liquid sound of Sherlock’s exhaled smile behind him. 

Sherlock pulled John away from the sink and turned him in his arms, then gave him a light, chaste kiss.  “You finish the bloody washing up then.  I’ll wait for you in bed. Don’t be long.”

*

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

Sherlock lay on his bed, waiting.  The washing up was finished. He’d heard the water disappear down the sink and John go upstairs to his bedroom.  John must have gone in to kiss Rosie goodnight.   Sherlock then heard John in the bathroom.  The toilet flushed and, by the sound of the pipes, John then took a brief shower.   So why John hadn’t appeared?

A full eight minutes passed before John entered the room wearing a towel around his waist. His hair was ruffled and his skin pink from hot water and steam.  He looked, as far as Sherlock was concerned, utterly delicious. 

“Meeting you like this is getting to be a habit,” John said.

Sherlock only wore a slick sheen of lube on his cock.  He’d stroked himself just enough to remain hard in John’s absence. Sherlock wanked himself a little more, then removed his hand; he didn’t want to come before he and John touched. 

“Did you have any plans for this evening’s activities?” John rested his knee on the bed and pulled the towel from his waist. His cock was hard and darker than the surrounding skin.  Sherlock shook his head.  “In that case, I thought I’d get a little practice in.”  John rubbed his hair messy with the towel and then dropped it to the floor. 

“Practice?” Sherlock croaked out.

“Well, if I’m to take charge during out night in the blackout room, then I think I ought to give it a go in advance.”  John dropped to all fours on the bed and crawled towards Sherlock.  

“Good.” Sherlock’s voice was a high-pitched little murmur.  He cleared his throat and said it again, “Good.” 

John crawled over Sherlock’s body from the feet up. He peppered the skin he passed with random, dry little kisses.  He took a rather sinful suck at the head of Sherlock’s cock, then kissed the centre of his chest.

Sherlock took a deep breath. There was no doubt he liked to be in charge. He was new to sex and control gave him confidence. He was less assured when John took the lead. Sherlock took another deep breath; still worried he’d come too soon.

John coaxed Sherlock’s mouth open with gentle kisses and then slipped his tongue inside. Sherlock hummed against John’s mouth, teased by his tongue.  John sucked his tongue and Sherlock’s cock thickened more than he thought possible.  He arched against John’s body.   

 “You’re so fucking hot,” John said after he pulled away.  “I’ve never been with anyone who wants me, gets so excited for me, like you do.”  He stroked Sherlock’s hair. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?  It’s like I’m a sex god.”

Sherlock smiled.  He felt drawn into John’s gaze.  Later, he realised that his actions were a reflection of what John gave him.  At the time, he struggled to fit words to his thoughts at all.  Blindly, he reached for John, who sat back on the top of Sherlock’s thighs.  The movement pressed their cocks together.

“Lube?” John asked.  Sherlock scrabbled for the bottle and pressed it into his hand.  John drizzled the cool liquid on their cocks and wrapped his hand around them, stroking them together several times.  The sensation of their softest, most intimate skin against each other was wonderful.  Sherlock curled at the waist and pulled John into a breathless kiss. When their lips parted, John whispered, “Relax.” He pushed Sherlock back down on the bed and rubbed his balls, perineum and then his backside against Sherlock’s cock.

John rested with his legs astride Sherlock’s waist.   “You know, I wondered if I should come in here and forbid you to touch me while I opened myself up and fucked myself on that dildo you have in that drawer.” He motioned to the bedside cabinet.  “Thing was, that conversation with Nathan made me realise that I wanted you inside me. I didn’t want to be apart. I wanted us to be together. Joined.”

Sherlock sucked in each breath hard. He ran his hands up John’s thighs.

“So, I decided,” John continued, “that I’d do something a little different.” John took hold of Sherlock’s hands and pulled them around him, until John’s arse was in his hands.  “What might you deduce there?”   Sherlock caressed the skin beneath his fingertips and then moved inward, into the crease and, oh, hello.  “I decided I’d be ready for you, so I can ride you into the mattress.”

Sherlock grasped the end of the butt plug buried deep inside John and moved it.  John’s sharp intake of breath told him he discovered the right spot.

“Pull it free.” John’s eyes were closed, his jaw tight and a faint tremor ran across his thighs.  Sherlock grasped the end of the butt plug and gently pulled.  John moaned as he eased and wiggled it out.  Immediately, John reached behind him and pressed Sherlock’s cock against his entrance. 

“Oh.” Sherlock felt John impale himself on his cock.  He couldn’t lift his hips, since John’s hands were braced against the top of Sherlock’s thighs.   John’s bit his lower lip and he regarded Sherlock through heavy lids.  He smiled when he dropped down the last half an inch. 

“You feel so good,” John said.  “I love this feeling. I’m just full. It’s like I can feel your cock throb inside me.  I’ve never known anything this erotic, this wonderful.”  He raised his body up with equal slowness.  “I love fucking you.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock steadied John’s hips. The first few strokes were slow. John lifted completely and added more lube. Then he eased down again.  

“I love that first feeling when your cock breaches me.  It’s amazing.” John raised and dropped quickly, his body arched backwards.

“Uh,” Sherlock moaned. “You’re not the only one.”  The heat and tightness of John’s body made him gasp.  John didn’t take it slowly.  He rolled his hips, rose and fell, as he fucked himself on Sherlock’s cock.   A clear drop of precome dripped from John onto Sherlock’s stomach. 

“Touch me,” John demanded.  His face showed every inch of pleasure John took from Sherlock’s cock buried deep inside him. “Not interested in slow, Sherlock. Get me off.”

Sherlock grasped John’s dick and started to stroke him. John’s body undulated. It wasn’t a simple job to keep hold of him, but Sherlock’s efforts met with breathy murmurs of approval.  Sherlock soared.  The sensations that rolled over him weren’t just sexual. They filled Sherlock’s heart and his soul with a glow that seemed to shine from every pore. A lump grew in his throat and he let go of John.

“Hey.” John slowed.  “Don’t disappear into your head.  Tell me what you need.”  Sherlock shook his head.   He bit his lip because he didn’t trust his voice to speak.   John leant forward until only the tip of Sherlock’s cock was inside him. He tilted his head.  “Overload?”

“A little,” Sherlock whispered.  “I want you. I love you.”

“Want me to stop?”  John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head and blinked himself back to some form of composure. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

John grinned.  “No sorry.  Put your hand back here.” John steered Sherlock’s hand back to his erection. “Touch me. Fuck me. Make me come.” With one smooth motion, John rolled himself back until Sherlock was fully inside him again.  “Want me to take it slow?” 

Sherlock shook his head again.  “I want what you want.”

John grinned. “Then hold on tight.”  He leant back and bounced against Sherlock’s pelvis. John cried out when Sherlock stroked him with firm, fast strokes.  “Yes, yes.  Want you to come in me.”

“I won’t last long.”  Sherlock’s arousal curled inside him into constricting cords that started to pull tighter and tighter.  He focused on control.  “I want you to come all over me.”

“Fucking hell.”   John’s mouth dropped open, just for a second or two.  “You’re a bad man.”

“You love it,” Sherlock replied.   “You like the idea of your spunk on my chest, don’t you?” 

John’s movements lost their rhythm.  He tried to continue even though he was clearly on the edge.  His arse clenched, his body jerked and his hips stuttered to a stop. Come splattered Sherlock’s torso in wide arcs.  

“Ah, ah.” John rolled forward and Sherlock took his hands.  His body spasmed around Sherlock’s cock.  John’s head lolled.   “You need to take over,” John said.  “Take what you need.”

Sherlock tipped John over onto his back and the movement pulled his dick free.  Sherlock scooped the come from his chest and slicked it over his cock before he pressed it back inside John.  Sherlock hitched one of John’s legs over his shoulder.  John’s body twitched from his orgasm but his eyes opened when Sherlock thrust inside of him.  The combination of lube and spunk made a slick noise with each drive of his hips.  Sherlock didn’t try to hold off his orgasm.  He was overtaken by the tight heat spreading in his groin. 

“Fill me,” John whispered.  “Come on, love.  I want to feel you.”

Sherlock came in one final deep thrust.  He let John’s legs drop and his arms trembled as he tried to hold himself over John’s body.   Sherlock gasped for air.

“Lie next to me,” John said softly.  He brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his face and dragged him down onto the bed.  John squeaked in a rather unmanly fashion when Sherlock’s softening dick slipped from his arse.   “You’ve got good control for an almost virgin, Mr Holmes.”

“I practice edging when I masturbate, John,” Sherlock mumbled.  “I find it interesting to see how long I can last and how it changes the intensity of the eventual orgasm.”

“’Course you do.” John smiled and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “I would’ve lasted longer if you hadn’t begged me to come all over you.  That sounds a bit wrong. It was bloody sexy though.”

“I lubed my cock with your ejaculate,” Sherlock replied.  “Sorry. I don’t know why.” 

“That’s filthy. Perfect.”

Sherlock chuckled.  “You appear to have turned me into some sort of come-fetishist.”

John giggled.  “I’ve done no such thing.  You didn’t need any encouragement at all.  I’ve started to get all leaky.”

“Turn ‘round, I’d like to look.” 

“It’s spunk dribbling out of my arse,” John replied.  “It looks like you’d think it would look.”

“Fine, turn over.”

John turned onto his belly. Sherlock wriggled down the bed and pulled John’s bum cheeks apart.  John’s hole was still stretched and their mixed come and lube trickled free.  When John bore down, a firm ooze of the stuff came out.  Sherlock caught the substance in his hand.  He smelled it and rubbed it between his fingers.  He knew the back passage absorbed liquid and enjoyed, for a moment, the notion that his and John’s DNA had merged at least a little.

“Are you done?”  John’s voice sounded warm with amusement.  Sherlock picked up John’s abandoned towel and wiped his hand and John’s backside. 

“I found that really quite arousing,” Sherlock declared.  “Next time we have sex, I might video my ejaculate leaking from your anus. I think it would be a stimulating masturbatory aid.”

“You’re so fucking wrong.” 

“And yet, I believe that you’re not entirely unwilling.”

“Shush.”

“I think I would like to have a wash.  You should come too.”

John moaned and hid his head under his pillow. 

“If you come with me now, I’ll soap you up.”  Sherlock sat up and climbed out of the bed.

“My soap or yours.”

“My soap, John,” Sherlock said with a frown.  “Yours is not suitably moisturising.”

“You’re a fucking nancy,” John said. He sat up. He looked ruffled and grumpy. 

“Said the man who likes to have my cock up his arse,” Sherlock replied.

“Alright, Mr Macho.  Just make sure you soap up by bollocks nicely.”

“I will endeavour to lather up your testicles with adequate sufficiency, yes, John.”

Sherlock staggered on legs that really didn’t want to work to the bathroom.  He was accompanied by John who took two steps, then clutched him for support.  When they reached the shower, John leant against the wall and let Sherlock wash his hair and body. Sherlock carefully cleaned John’s cock, which gave a hopeful twitch but remained limp.  John turned at Sherlock’s request and moaned as his bum was soaped clean.  

“Shall I wash myself?” Sherlock asked. 

“Well, unless you’ve brought in a fucking stepladder, there’s no way I’ll reach to wash your hair.”  John’s lips twitched into a grin.  Sherlock dropped to his knees, tilted his head forward and waited. He didn’t much like people touching his hair. Sherlock didn’t know if he knew how big a step this was, but when John’s fingers threaded through the wet strands they were gentle.    He stroked shampoo through Sherlock’s curls almost reverentially.   Afterwards, he unhooked the shower head and rinsed out the suds.  Sherlock was about to stand when John put his hand on his shoulder to keep him down. John smoothed conditioner through his wet mane. 

“Do you know, some people swear that conditioner makes the best lube?” John asked him.  “A lot of guys in the army swore buy it. None of it smelled this nice, though.”

“Are you making me think about lots of toned army men indulging in lots of illicit sex on purpose?”  Sherlock moved his head to let John reach all areas of his scalp.  “If you say things like that to me, you have to make good on the fantasies you fill my head with.”

“Ooh, do you promise?”  John rinsed out the conditioner.   When he’d finished, Sherlock rose rather unsteadily to his feet.  

John walked around him. “I want to wash your back first,” he said.  “Even with the scars, I love your back. I think it’s because I watch it so much when you stride off and leave me at crime scenes.”  Sherlock chuckled.   When John got to his backside, he slipped his soapy fingers between Sherlock’s cheeks. He tensed.  John yelped.  He took a few deep breaths.  “We really need to work on relaxing you when it comes to your arse.” 

Sherlock turned. “Front now.” He smiled.  “I’ll try, I promise.”  

“I know,” John said. He soaped Sherlock’s chest, down his abdomen and into his groin with care. For a few moments, they stood under the spray and looked at each other.  Sherlock put his hands either side of John’s head and kissed him with every ounce of love he could muster. When Sherlock drew back, John’s eyes remained shut and he smiled.  Sherlock studied his face intensely.  John’s eyes opened. 

“Do you know something, Sherlock Holmes?  You’ve made me a happy man. For a while, I didn’t think it was possible for me to be happy again. I was wrong.  You’re really that good, you bastard.”  

Sherlock smiled.  “It seems that you’ve described us both.  Since I never expected to be happy at all, what you’ve done verges on the miraculous.” He turned off the shower and reached for towels.  “Might I suggest we make a drink and read for a while? I do have a fascinating book about murder rituals that would suffice for some bedtime reading.” 

“I’ll get the tea and the Hob Nobs, you can straighten the bed,” John said as he wrapped a towel around himself. 

“Biscuits in bed?” Sherlock noted.  “You really do like danger, don’t you?”

John snorted. “You’ll love me even if I get crumbs on the sheets. You can’t deny it.” 

Sherlock shook his head.  John Watson seemed determined to upend his life.  Biscuits in bed?  Was nothing sacred? 

**

“John, I need to discuss something with you before we meet Lestrade,” Sherlock said.  John nodded. His anxiety about what Sherlock called the ‘blackout sting’ returned full force. 

“Okay, what do you need?”  John fed Rosie baby porridge in the hope that doing so would keep him calm. 

“Do you remember when we met Lesley Shaw that I checked her mobile phone?” Sherlock sipped his tea.   He wore a white shirt and John could see the swell of hiss pectoral muscles and his nipples through the thin fabric.   “I downloaded two items. One was an email from a financial processing company called Paschal Baylon[1].   They seem to be the basis of the money laundering operation. I’ve researched them extensively and can’t find a link to anyone, let alone the Marquês.  However, I also looked in her contacts and noticed that she has a gentleman called Jamie Reid in there.”

“As in Jamie from Langridge’s?”  John asked.  He started to clean the porridge off Rosie’s face with a baby wipe.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sherlock replied.  “But I think it would be useful if we perhaps spoke to Mr Reid?  You know him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I used to see him for a while,” John said.  “Before. We haven’t spoken lately.”

“Before you slept with a man who looked like me because you wanted to hit this instead?”  Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  

“Your arrogance is pretty special at times,” John managed to reply before he laughed. Rosie laughed too.  She liked to join in.  John pulled a face at her. She laughed louder, waved her hands around and slapped John on the face. It served him right, he supposed.   “So, are you nearly ready?  We need to drop Rosie off at the childminder’s on the way to Langridge’s so we need to leave early. Mrs Hudson chewed my ear off last night about not getting anything done because this case is such a monster.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied. He put on his suit jacket and, once John had finished wiping Rosie’s face and hands and taken off her bib, Sherlock held her up while he sniffed her backside. He pulled a face.  “I’ll do her nappy if you’d like to get ready?”

John nodded and disappeared to the bathroom to brush his teeth and hair and then put on a squirt of aftershave.  He grabbed his mobile and then went back out into the living room.   John watched Sherlock do Rosie’s nappy. She giggled and kicked as he puffed out his cheeks and tried to wrestle her into a fresh nappy.  He realised that if anyone told him a year ago that Sherlock would be his lover and that he’d willingly change Rosie, John would have called them a liar.  Now everything he’d ever wanted was in front of him and they were pulling faces at each other.  Time was a strange thing. 

**

[1] Made up company, but Saint Paschal Baylon is the patron saint of wealth according to: http://www.catholic-saints.info/patron-saints/saint-of-wealth.htm . 

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

Langridge’s was the same as ever.  As John stood in the ground floor lobby, looking up at the floors of rooms above, he heard various moans, cries and laughs.  The bricks seemed to be infused with sex and decadence.  Simon ran downstairs from the first floor and rushed over to John, Sherlock and Lestrade.  His eyes glistened with barely dammed tears as he threw his arms around John.  

“Are you well?” he asked.  “I heard that you found the man who killed Jason. I can’t thank you all enough.”  He released John and threw his arms around Sherlock who stood rigid as he was embraced. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a faint blush spread across his cheeks.  He was, John knew, rather touched by Simon’s effusive thanks.   Even Lestrade allowed himself to be pulled into Simon’s arms.

“It’s what we do,” Lestrade said afterwards.  “We need to see the blackout room.  John knows where it is. Do you mind if we go up?”

“Of course not,” Simon replied.  “You go right ahead.” 

“Oh, and if anyone asks you, would you perhaps state that we were here to see Charles?” Sherlock added.  “I’d rather our interest in the blackout area wasn’t common knowledge.”

Simon offered Sherlock a mock salute. “Yes, Sir,” he said with a wavering voice and a nod.  “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

*

The entrance to the Blackout room was a red door hung with a sign that read: CLOSED FOR CLEANING. 

“I phoned Mr Langridge last night and he agreed to pop that up,” Lestrade said.  “That way we can have a good look around without being disturbed.” 

Behind the red door lay a corridor with dim emergency lighting strips laid along the floor.  The darkness poured over them like tar.   The corridor ended in a landing space with three doors. 

“I know the middle door is the main room,” John said.  “Do you want to have a look in there, first?” 

“Let’s leave it ‘til last,” Lestrade suggested.  “I want to get a picture of how large an area we need to control along with all the entrances and exits.”

The left-hand door led into another corridor. Inside, along the left wall, were three doors. At the far end of the corridor was a fire exit that led out onto landing and a set of concrete steps.  Lestrade went down the steps and then reappeared a few moments later, out of breath.

“They lead to the back exit,” Lestrade said when he could talk.  “I’ll get some men stationed out there on the night.”

They went back into the blackout area and investigated the private rooms.  The one closest to the fire escape was dimly-lit and contained a number of shackles, whips, floggers and restraints. In contrast, the central room was brightly lit and the floor, walls and even ceiling were covered in plastic. 

“When I had my tour around this place, this was the room for people who like to cover themselves with cream and custard and things,” John said.

Lestrade nodded. “WAM fetishists.”  Sherlock and John both raised their eyebrows and looked at Lestrade questioningly.   “Wet and messy,” Lestrade replied. “Sometimes called sploshing.  Bernard Bertola case?  Anyone?  The IT Teacher who used school student computers to look for WAM porn?  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do you two never read about anything outside of London?”

“I’m surprised you do,” Sherlock said. 

“We got briefed on it,” Lestrade replied. “Sometimes cases like that give other people the courage to report people.  We only got a few. One of ‘em was a bloke who asked if we’d arrest his flatmate for using his Stork margarine to wank with.”

“I made that complaint on the understanding you would be discrete,” Sherlock said. He winked at John. 

“Enough.” Lestrade coughed to cover his laugh.  “Next.”

They trudged out into the hallway. The last door led into a room set with a large dining table and chairs. 

“This is for people who want to eat food off naked bodies,” Sherlock said.  John looked at him.   “Obvious, John.” 

Lestrade caught John’s eye and he pulled a face.  “Shall we go to the right-hand corridor now?”

They walked back out into the main corridor, then took the door on the right. Again, there were three doors that led from the right-hand wall.   All three rooms were small; the first and the third included two-way mirrors that faced a central space which housed a large bed.  

“When I had a look around, there was a couple in the middle shagging,” John said.  “Blokes come into these rooms and wank at whatever’s going on.”

“Anonymous voyeurism,” Sherlock noted.  When they walked back out into the central corridor, they noted two more doors at the very end of the corridor.  One was marked fire exit and, again, led onto a landing and a stairway down to the lower floors. Lestrade said he’d noted where the steps ended on his previous jaunt downstairs and was confident his officers would block egress on the night. 

The last door was marked “No entry” and was located at the far end of the corridor on the left.  The door was locked, which Sherlock remedied.  Inside, the small room contained a chair, slim desk and a bank of monitors that relayed security camera feeds from all the rooms in the blackout area.

“Well this is handy,” Lestrade noted.  “I’m a bit surprised it’s here though.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed.  “We’ll ask Charles Langridge about this.  Useful for us, though.  Not that you can see much from the main room.”  Sherlock pointed at the central monitor. Apart from a tiny sliver of light glinting from what John assumed was the sex swing, it was impossible to see anything but darkness.  “We’ll certainly need the night vision cameras.”

“Yep,” Lestrade agreed.  “It’s better for you guys though.  It’s guaranteed that no-one but Sally and I can observe.  Gives you a bit of privacy.”

John nodded. They reversed their steps and went through the central blackout room area door.  Before them was a narrow corridor that led to a lift.  The lift had up, down and emergency buttons.  The down button didn’t work, so up they went.  The lift rose what only seemed like a few feet and then stopped. When the doors opened, the room was truly pitch black.  John, Sherlock and Lestrade fumbled with torches or phones to give them guiding light.

In front of them seemed to be a wall.  As they neared it, they realised there was a hidden entrance, and beyond that the room revealed itself. Along the sides were two narrow corridors; when they investigated, it was clear there were holes in walls of the corridors. On one wall were holes large enough for penises. On the other, were holes large enough for backsides. 

“Ready-made cottage,” Lestrade murmured.  “Nice.”

In the central area, under torchlight, the sex swing was clear.  It was a hammock suspended from thick wire cords strung from the ceiling towards the back of the room. Around the sides were curved couches upholstered in visibly wipe-clean fabric. 

“Clearly the people who use the penis holes can stand behind the couches,” Sherlock noted. “We should find out how people get into the arse area.”

“I like the use of technical terms, there,” John said. 

“Suggestions are welcome, dear,” Sherlock replied.  John chuckled.

At the far end of the room was a fire exit.  The door opened onto an external stair case that ran down the back of the building into the back yard.  There were also two doors that led to long thin rooms. On one side was a corridor.

“This is the penis area then,” John remarked.  

The other door led to a narrower corridor and a row of cubicles. Inside the cubicles were long benches, so men could lie on them and poke their backsides into the cottage corridor.

“These fitting rooms wouldn’t pass muster in fucking Primark,” Lestrade said.  He looked at the bench, grimaced and headed back to the lift, followed by Sherlock and John.  “So, I think we need at least one officer in the left and right corridors, men in the back yard, men outside the lift and men in the arse area, the penis area and then you guys will be in the main room,” Lestrade said.   “I think that just about covers it.”

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. He looked at John who hesitated but also nodded his acquiescence. 

Charles Langridge looked harried.   The thick bags beneath his eyes betrayed to Sherlock that the murders in his club had clearly affected his bottom line.  The rather buoyant mood he’d exhibited in their previous encounters was no more.

“Hello gentlemen,” Charles said. He shook their hands and sat down behind his dark wooden desk.   “I understand that you’ve been around the blackout rooms.”

“We have,” Sherlock agreed as he dropped into a chair.  “What can you tell us about the security room?  I can’t help but feel that there’s a conflict of interests considering the prestige of your clientele.”

Charles nodded.  “I agree.  We installed the security room several months ago, after there was an incident up there.  It started in the WAM room; a custard pie fight became rather bad tempered and two of the men started to run the place. It took us three days of cleaning and over a thousand pounds to repair the damage. After that, well, we installed the cameras. I’ll be honest, we only use the cameras at weekends when the club is busier.”

“Is there any point in recording in those rooms?   They’re pitch black,” asked John.

“There’s a night-vision setting.  It doesn’t come on until they start to record up there,” Charles replied. “Of course, everyone looks absolutely frightful in the footage, but it’s the only option. And it is the only part of the club that has cameras.”    

“And what do you do with the recordings?” Lestrade asked. 

“They’re password protected and kept on the hard drive in the security room. Only I have access to them and I only review them if there’s an incident. The recordings are overwritten every four weeks.” 

“And when was the last incident?” Sherlock asked.  “Are they regular occurrences?” 

“Not at all,” Charles said. “We’ve had nothing. Apart from the custard pie fight, and the murders of course, the only issue we’ve ever had was that one of our members had his phone stolen from one of the lockers on the ground floor.   Oh Lord, I’ve just remembered, we have cameras in there too. We fitted them afterwards.”

“Lockers?” Sherlock heard the frustration in his own voice. 

“I doubt Dr Watson used them,” Charles explained.  “For our guests who use the lower floor, the film area and the blackout rooms, they’re essential.  The guests can stow their clothes, their wallets, their phones et cetera.  For someone like Dr Watson who visited one man in his private room, it wouldn’t be important.”

“When did you have the cameras fitted?”  John asked.

“Must be coming on for a year now,” Charles replied. “Some of the senior members are asking us to make locker usage compulsory now. I can see why,” he admitted. “It’s sad to think that we need them.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to point out how effective it’d be to stop the sort of drug drop they were investigating. Of course, he didn’t want Charles to know that right now.

“So, Detective Inspector Lestrade said that you were worried there would be another assault?”  Charles said. 

“It’s a possibility.” Sherlock crossed his legs.  “I won’t say it will happen, but it might.  It’s better that we’re here, just in case. After all, I think we saved lives last time.”

Charles nodded.  “You’re welcome here whenever and wherever, Mr Holmes.  The fact that you’re on this case is the only reason I still have customers. I know that.” 

“Good,” Sherlock said.  “Now, we’ll need a section of your security footage from the blackout room so we can check the quality of your cameras.” 

Charles looked to Lestrade. “Surely that’s not necessary, Detective Inspector?” 

“Yes, it is.  We’ll have men inside that blackout room putting themselves in danger in order to protect the lives of others. I need to know that we can observe them clearly enough to do that effectively.  In other words, Mr Langridge, I will get that footage one way or another. It would be best for everyone if you just handed it over.”

Charles looked at Lestrade, then at Sherlock and, finally, at John. To Sherlock, it was clear he wanted to find their weak link. He hadn’t found one.   “Fine,” Charles said eventually. “I’ll go and retrieve that for you, if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the lobby?” 

**

Sherlock was puzzled. John had insisted that they return to Baker Street without having picked up Rosie first.  He’d made lunch and then sat, looking tense, until the doorbell rang and he bolted downstairs. When he returned, he was accompanied by Nathan Drake. 

John met Sherlock’s eye.  “Calm down,” he said immediately.  “Nathan’s here to teach me a few things. No, not those sorts of things.  Just come through to the bedroom, okay?” 

Intrigued, Sherlock followed.

“Mr Holmes, how’s about you go have a shower?” Nathan said when they reached the door. 

“John, we don’t have time for this,” Sherlock said.  John was the only man he’d ever allowed in his bedroom. He didn’t want anyone else, including Nathan, in here.

John crossed his arms. “Yes, we do, and what’s more, you will make time because it’s important to the case.”

“John called me and asked me to come on over,” Nathan said. “All I know is that you’re going to be in an undercover situation. He said you need help to get this right.”

“We’ve shammed before, John.” Sherlock shook his head.  “We can do this.”

“I’m not as sure,” John replied.  “And you’ve put me in charge and I’ve decided we need help.  You’re not the only one who does research, Sherlock.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock pushed past them and sat down on the bed.  He’d researched Nathan Drake and knew he wasn’t a key player.

“I used to work in a sex show,” Nathan said.  “I’ve also worked in Avant-garde erotic theatre. I know how to make it look like it’s real, baby.  And, you know, I’m sure you’re great at ‘shamming’ in normal situations.  Sex is different though. It’s not words and acting. It’s obvious when someone’s moaning and groaning badly. John did the right thing in calling me.”

“And you didn’t tell me because?”  Sherlock turned towards John. He was on shaky ground. After all, he’d put them into the position where they’d have to sham and hadn’t consulted John before he’d suggested it.

“The same reason you didn’t tell me that you were going to nominate us for this little undercover operation.” John raised an eyebrow. 

Fuck.  It was a fair cop. Sherlock hated it.  “Fine,” he said.  “What do you want from me?”  He pouted. He really hated this. 

“Would you go and have a shower?”  Nathan bit his lip.

Sherlock turned and left the room. He didn’t know if he was supposed to have a quick shower, or a very thorough one. He went for thorough and mentally swore at John as he cleaned and poked his arse.   As he approached the bedroom, wrapped in his dressing gown, he heard voices.  

“Oh, you feel so good,” Nathan moaned.  “I want you, John. I can’t stop myself.”

There was a slick, wet sound and a long groan. 

“No.” John’s quiet, muffled voice.  “No, Nathan, stop!”

Sherlock shoulder charged the door. It hadn’t been shut properly, so it flew open easily. Sherlock landed in a heap half on and half off the bed. The momentum ensured his dressing gown wafted up and bared his pale, white arse.  It was not the most dignified entrance he’d ever made.  He looked up. John and Nathan stood, fully clothed, next to his chest of drawers.  Nathan was rubbing lube into his forearm.  John had a pair of Sherlock’s pants over his mouth. They both smirked. 

“That was nice of you,” Sherlock said. He stood and covered his bum. John offered him the pants.  Sherlock took them, checked they were clean and popped them on. 

“We were making a point,” John replied.  “Nathan’s the expert. You and I don’t know how to fake this.”

“It can’t be that hard,” Sherlock replied. He crossed his arms and sat on the bed.

“Okay.” Nathan headed to the door.  “It’s yours and John’s turn. I’ll be outside, so you feel less embarrassed.”  He left the room immediately. 

Sherlock looked at John.  “What shall we do?”

“How about we pretend that I’m giving you a blow job?” John suggested. 

“That’s not fair.  You can’t just leave me to do all the talking.”

John held up his hands. “Fair enough. Mutual wank?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said.  John sat down next to him and Sherlock moved in for a kiss.  “We can do kissing, right?” 

“Yeah,” John replied. “I’m happy for people to see us kissing.” 

The kiss was brief and self-conscious. 

“I’d pull down your zip, next,” Sherlock said. 

“I can’t help but think that the running commentary isn’t very convincing.” John unzipped his trousers.  

“Fine. Oh, John, I want to rub your cock.”  Sherlock frowned. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that sounded utterly unconvincing.  John began to giggle.   “Um, you look hard?”

“You never say that,” John said between chuckles. “Why would you say that?”

“Well, what would you say?” Sherlock asked.

“Er, I suppose I want you?”

“Well that’s hardly making me hard.” Sherlock crossed his legs and arms.  “Someone who sounds like they can’t be bothered to want you is perhaps the least erotic thing there is.” 

“Alright,” John replied.  He lowered his voice.  “Let me touch you.  I want you.”  

Sherlock’s cock gave a twitch.   “Hell, yes.” He uncrossed his limbs and pulled John in for another kiss.   He pushed a hand into John’s jeans.  Shit. They were supposed to be faking.  He pulled away.  “Is this okay?”

John had his hand on Sherlock’s arse. He bit his lip.  “I don’t know.  Maybe?”

“We’re a bit bad at this, aren’t we?” Sherlock sighed.  The line between real and not real was difficult.  He started to feel the need for some assistance. “Come on in.”

Nathan walked in.  “I recorded that, but I’m guessing you know where you went wrong?” 

“We need to have a routine,” Sherlock suggested.

“I think that would be a great idea.” Nathan nodded.  “You can plot it and plan it like choreography. And, because it’s sex, it doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect. Sex isn’t ever perfect.”

Sherlock humphed before he stopped himself. John laughed.  Sherlock grinned.  “Okay, so where do we start?” 

“How about you two just start with some good old-fashioned snogging?” Nathan suggested.  “Unless I’m paid to, I don’t put my dick anywhere near someone who can’t even kiss me.” 

Sherlock nodded. He blushed. 

Nathan sat down on the floor at their feet.  “Just relax,” he said.  “I’ve seen every single embarrassing thing that can happen in the bedroom. I’ve done most of ‘em.  It’s my job and it’s life, baby. So, this here is a circle of trust, you know that expression?”  Sherlock felt his face set like stone.  Nathan noticed and smiled. “I know it’s a cliché, but like Dr Watson, here, I maintain the privacy of my clients.  My oath isn’t formal, but it means as much to me as the Hippocratic oath means to John.” 

“I always provide my clients with utter discretion,” Sherlock agreed. “I don’t take anonymous clients, so I have to offer absolute confidence.”

“Then we understand each other as professionals,” Nathan said.   “With that in mind, let’s get to work.” 

Sherlock turned towards John, who brought their lips together almost immediately.  He didn’t give Sherlock a chance to be nervous. His tongue pressed against Sherlock’s lips, until he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss.  Sherlock held John’s head as if it were priceless and wove his fingertips into the hair at the nape of his neck.   In response, John put a hand to Sherlock’s cheek and traced the outline of his lips as they kissed.  Sherlock smiled against his mouth.  When they parted, John grinned too. 

“I love kissing you,” John said.  “You’re too good for a beginner.”

“That was nice,” Nathan said.  “You can use those hands as a shield or to steady each other if you’re nervous. If one of you freezes, the other can move your head with his hands.”

“I think we’re good on kissing.” Sherlock took a deep breath.  “What’s next?” 

“How about a little above the waist touching?” Nathan asked.  “Work your way down the body; it’s easy to remember and you’re not going to reveal anything sensitive.”

Sherlock looked at John and raised his eyebrows.  

“It’s fine,” John replied.  “We’ve both got bullet wounds to our upper body. Mine’s a bit nastier than yours, but you’ve got those other scars.”

“Okay, let’s moob.” Sherlock removed his dressing gown.  Nathan took a quick inhale as he saw the network of scars on Sherlock’s back.  “Steady.” Sherlock wagged a finger.  “John will get jealous.” 

“Being a detective is dangerous work, huh?” Nathan’s voice had dropped at least one level of perkiness.  

Sherlock shrugged.  When he looked back at John, he noticed he’d only undone his top two buttons.  “Can I undress John, maybe?” Sherlock smoothed the placket of John’s shirt.  “We could help undress each other, but I’ve rushed ahead.”

“That okay with you, John?”  Nathan asked. 

“Sure.”  John looked down and nodded.  Sherlock moved back in for a kiss and started on the buttons. He aimed to remove the shirt without revealing too much of John’s body.  When all the buttons where undone, Sherlock swung a leg over John’s and sat in his lap, so their chests were together.  Even though Nathan saw some flesh, Sherlock was confident he’d shielded much of John’s scar from prying eyes.  John stroked the bones of Sherlock’s vertebrae with his fingers and nuzzled against his neck.  John relaxed against him.  “I like this,” John said running his fingertips down Sherlock’s side, which made him squirm.

“I think this position is good for you two?” Nathan got to his feet and moved so they could both see him.   

Sherlock nodded.  “I think this works for us.”

“Now, my men, there’s something I want to show you,” Nathan said.  He unzipped his trousers and dropped them. 

Sherlock gasped.

John giggled. 

Nathan’s pants were still in place but, over the top, he wore a strap-on harness complete with a bright blue dildo in front of his cock. He reached back and grabbed the chair Sherlock kept in the corner of the room.   Nathan pulled up his trousers but left them open.  “Can we dim the light in here?”

Sherlock pulled John’s shirt over his chest, climbed off his lap and drew the curtains. He then sat back on the bed and watched.  Nathan pulled the dildo through the fly of his trousers and stroked the fake dick. 

“You can’t tell it’s not my penis, right?” Nathan said. 

Sherlock pulled back his head. Nathan was correct.  To all intents and purposes, it looked like the man in front of them was wanking. Every so often, Sherlock saw a hint of blue, but in a dark room and with a flesh-coloured dildo, the conceit would be complete.

“That’s amazing,” John said.

“Your only issue is hiding the dildo.  My advice would be to hoik it up.” Nathan stood and hitched up the harness as far as it would go. “Then you can tuck it up into your waistband.”

“So, if we both wear one of those,” John said, “and we can simulate sex without showing anything personal.”

“And because we’ve shown some skin, people think we’re uninhibited,” Sherlock continued.  “Faking it will be even easier with me in your lap.”

“My suggestion is that you set up a camera in here,” Nathan said. “Go through your moves and then watch the tape. You just wanna check you know how much you’re showing.  A couple of dry-runs with a camera, and you’re all set.”

“What about the noises?”  Sherlock asked.  “We weren’t good at the noises.”

“But when the two of you touched each other, you were convincing,” Nathan said. “Sex doesn’t always come with a lot of noise.  Did either of you go up the Heath[1] when you were young?” 

Sherlock and John looked at each other. They shook their heads.  John blushed and didn’t look very convincing. Sherlock expected that he probably didn’t either. 

“Okay,” Nathan said with a smirk. “When I was younger, going up the Heath was just what you did.  I learned quick what a long look meant, a touch or a double tap on the arm.  But one of the rules of cruising was that if you’re noisy, you’re telling other people that you want ‘em to watch or take part, yeah?  So, my suggestion is to stay pretty quiet.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed.  “That makes sense.”  

“You’d have been popular up the Heath.” Nathan attempted to look innocent.  “Sure you never tried it?”

“I, er, did a lot of drugs.” Sherlock felt his face colour. “It’s a bit hard to know what I did or didn’t do.”

“Army guys were always hot too.” Nathan smiled at John.

“I only went once.” John started to button his shirt.  “I went with a mate. We ended up just getting off with each other. I learned nothing.”

“Sure.” Nathan wrestled the dildo out of its harness.  “Can I help you guys with anything else?”

“Why on earth did you make me shower?” Sherlock asked him. 

“It gave you time to calm down and it gave me a minute or two to sort things out with John.  And what I hope is that when I leave in just a few moments, you and John will do some practice?”  Nathan zipped up his trousers, stood and rammed the dildo in his pocket.  “My work here is done.”

[1] The background on cruising/cottaging is from this fantastic article: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/profiles/personal-column-i-go-with-gay-strangers-we-have-our-own-code-409834.html

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

Jamie Reid was of medium height, had short gingery-blonde hair and pale skin. He was also very Scottish.  His accent was almost impenetrable.  To John, Jamie had an honest face. 

“Ah cannae believe what’s been going on at Langridge’s right noo,” Jamie said.  He was sitting with John and Sherlock in a café near the brothel.  “Scary times.”

“What can you tell us about Lesley Shaw?”  Sherlock asked.  He was spinning a sugar lump held between his thumb and forefinger.

“Les?”  Jamie looked confused.  “Ma sister works for her.   Do you know she has fuck all to do wi’ her fuckin’ hats?  Debs, ma wee sister, she’s a genius wi’ felt, like.  Deserves more credit. Useless wi’ fuckin’ computers though. Cannae work anything more complicated than a ten-year-old Nokia. I send Les her time sheets, make sure she gets paid, like. Least I can do for the bairn.”

“How old’s your sister?” John asked. 

“Twenty-four,” Jamie replied. “She’s ma wee kid sister though, y’ken?”

John nodded. 

“Have you ever seen drugs circulate at Langridge’s?” Sherlock asked. “I know Charles doesn’t approve.”

“An’ neither should he,” Jamie replied. “D’you know how many o’ ma pals from school I’ve lawst to smack o’er the years?  Twelve out of a class o’ twenty-six.  I cannae deal wi’ drugs in any form. I might be a hooker, ya know, but I’m no’ a bampot.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied with a look that suggested he thought Jamie might be a bampot.  “Did you ever meet with Mark Tyler?”

“No’ really,” Jamie admitted.  “Not apart from what ya saw, like.  I don’t think I’m smooth or suave enough for ‘im.” Jamie grinned.  “My punters like a bit o’ rough or a prawper man, y’ken?”

Sherlock grinned. John had the impression that Sherlock rather liked Reid, despite his rough edges and his attitude to drugs.  He leant forward. “If you were a policeman or a detective, who would you look at if there was anyone distributing drugs?” 

“He’s already b’n lifted,” Reid replied.  “Sorry John, I know he were ya pal, like, the French fella.  Other ‘an that?  Gawtta be a punter. I cannae imagine anyone else bein’ doaty enough to pull that shite.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said.

“If you hear anything, would you let us know?” John asked.  “I’d be good to have your eyes and ears on the ground.”

“Sure thing, pal,” Jamie said. He drank his coffee in one long swig and stood.  “See ya’s soon, yeah?”  And, with a cheeky wink as a parting shot, Jamie left the café. 

*

John rubbed his eyes.  He’d been looking through the memory sticks they’d retrieved from Mark Tyler and Lesley Shaw’s home.  Most of them were dull. One contained a series of recipe e-books, another included hat patterns.   John printed off all the financial records he found to compare with those from Sherlock’s original money laundering investigation.  One stick contained at a series of reports Tyler had, apparently, submitted to Europol.  He printed them too, though they were actually rather dull. 

After a few hours, John needed a break from the screen and stood to look out of the window down on Baker Street below.  He wasn’t sure what caught his eye, but if the military and Sherlock taught him anything, it was never to ignore a half-glimpse of danger.  The half-glimpse was a projectile and John immediately dropped to the floor where he was showered by a cascade of falling glass. 

“John?”  Sherlock had been lying on the sofa deep in thought. He tipped himself off, onto his hands and knees, then crawled over to John.  “Are you injured?”

“No,” John replied.  “Saw something. Dunno what.”  His voice was cut off by another shower of glass. This time, the projectile was clear since the brick was tangled in the curtains.  Sherlock grabbed it, read the note tied to it and turned it towards John. “’Drop the case’,” he read aloud.  “Do you think this is from the Marquês?” John asked Sherlock.

“Unlikely,” Sherlock replied.  “An international gangster would tell us to back off in a more sophisticated manner.”  He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket, swiped and jabbed at the screen.  John heard ringing; Sherlock had put the phone on speaker.  Mycroft replied before Sherlock said a word.

“If you look out of the window,” Mycroft said. “You’ll see that your assailant has been captured.” 

John and Sherlock got to their feet and looked out of the window.   One of Mycroft’s be-suited agents had a man pinned to the street.  It was clear who it was. They knew Nathan Drake rather well, after all.  Sherlock hung up on Mycroft and waved the agent and his captive inside. 

“I liked you bastards,” Nathan shouted as he was led into 221B.  “I helped you.  And now I find out that you’ve got Mark and Les in prison?”

“They’re assisting us with our investigations,” Sherlock replied.  “They’re being held for their own protection.”

“Protection from what?” Tears ran in thick lines down Nathan’s face.   John felt guilty that he and Sherlock had carefully not pointed out that Tyler and Shaw were not at liberty, even if they hadn’t been arrested in the fullest sense.  “Neither of them would hurt anyone. I know it.”

“We can’t tell you, Nathan,” John said. He sat Nathan and his captor down on the sofa and squeezed his arm.  “It’s the nature of what we do.”

“But they’re lovely people,” Nathan replied.  “I can’t believe they even know anyone who’d hurt them.”

“Mr Drake,” Sherlock said. He sat on the coffee table in front of Nathan. “Good people get into trouble with bad people all the time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my career, it’s that bad things happen to good people.  It’s our job to look after them.  That’s what we are doing. If we can stop the people who want to hurt them, Mr and Mrs Tyler can continue their lives as normal.”

John worried his lip with his teeth. He and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be that simple. But, for now, they had to manage Nathan’s anger.

“Is this about Peter?”  Nathan lifted his chin in defiance.  “Mark laughed it off, but I did hear it all, you know.”

“Hear what?” Sherlock asked.  “What did Peter Matthews say to Mark?”

John looked at Sherlock.  He remembered Matthews being mentioned as the owner of Doubles. He and Mark were supposed to be friends, or at least colleagues, since Tyler owned shares in the club.

Nathan looked down at the handcuffs he still wore.   “He knows I heard, you know.  I’ll be fired if I tell you.”

“And Doubles is hardly the only male brothel in this city,” John said.  “Not to mention the fact that you could set up on your own. You’re not without options, Nathan. Just tell us. 

“Will it help Mark and Les?” Nathan bit his lip.  Sherlock nodded.  “Fine.”  He sighed. “When I was at work last week I went to see Peter.  I was outside the VIP waiting room door, staff side, when I heard Mark’s voice. I snuck in and hid behind the bar. I shouldn’t’ve but I was scared cos Peter sounded really angry.  He told Mark that he knew about aggro and about Europe, or maybe Euro-summin’? He said if Mark didn’t protect him, he’d kill Les, then he would kill me and then, when Mark was out of his head with grief, he’d kill him too.”

“Do you have any reason to think Matthews was capable of this?” Sherlock asked. His face was a picture of excitement. John caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

Nathan shook his head.  “Really, bitch? You wanna throw this shit at me now?”  

Sherlock grinned.  “I knew there was a diva inside there somewhere. I prefer you like this. Yes, I will throw this shit at you because I need to know if your life is in danger.”

“I can watch my own arse,” Nathan replied. He blinked slowly, provocatively. “But if there’s a bitchy street-kid diva inside me, there’s a dirty fuckin’ pimp in Peter Matthews. Does that answer your question? 

“Perfectly,” Sherlock answered. 

“Look, Nathan, is there anything else you haven’t told us?”  John said. “I don’t want to be a bastard about this, but you really need to just tell us if there’s anything else.”

“The only thing I can say is that I know Peter takes drugs.  I’ve been around enough to know when someone’s high and Peter’s high a lot.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. He stood.  “Now,” he said to Mycroft’s agents.  “I’d appreciate it if you would take this man to see Mycroft. Then you can let him go. I’ll text Mycroft and tell him.” Sherlock shepherded the agent and his prisoner out of the door.   “Thank you.” The agent turned and started to argue with Sherlock. He responded by putting his hand into the centre of the agent’s chest and pushed hard. “Please leave,” he ordered and slammed the door behind them.  

Sherlock walked over to John, pulled him into a rough kiss.  He took a step back and grinned.  “I love you, Dr Watson.”

“I love you. I’ll love you even more if you phone Mycroft and tell him to get my window sorted.” John paused.  “I wonder if all prostitutes can throw as well as Nathan Drake?”

“Of course not, John.” Sherlock fiddled with his phone.  “Drake plays cricket. You can tell by how misshapen his fingers are.”  He paused for a moment.  “Ah, Mycroft,” Sherlock said into his phone as he walked through into the kitchen.

John watched him go and then looked at his own hands. Sometimes he was sure Sherlock just made that shit up.

**

“Can’t we just phone Lestrade?” John asked Sherlock.  

It was early the following day and John’s body was jammed in a window frame to stop a very heavy window from closing. He and Sherlock had reached it by climbing up Doubles’ fire escape, where they jimmied it open with a crowbar. 

“You know he’ll only demand things like evidence and search warrants.” Sherlock waved his hands as he climbed through the window.   He dropped to his feet inside a small, tidy kitchen. Sherlock grabbed a large flip-top bin and shoved it into the casement, so John could climb down. 

“Those silly things that mean that you don’t have to break into places?” John clambered down.  He stretched out his back and rolled his head on his shoulders.  “We’re not getting any younger, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock agreed. He opened the kitchen door and ushered John through.  “Let’s find Matthews. 

The upper floor of Doubles was like a budget version of Langridge’s.  The rooms off the central corridor were all painted magnolia and had double beds covered in cheap, stained, beige sheets.   The bowls of condoms and lube freely available at Langridge’s were replaced at Doubles with garish condom machines in the rooms and hallways.

Tacked to the walls were paper signs with the words “Manager’s office” and hand-drawn arrows.    Sherlock and John simply followed the arrows and, as they did, they started to detect a tell-tale smell.  Sherlock hastened his movements.  The office was locked but, with John and Sherlock’s combined efforts, they forced the door.  Inside, at his desk, sat the body of Peter Matthews.  His head was tilted at an awkward angle, his skin was pasty grey and his arms hung limply from his shoulders. 

“No!” Sherlock yelled.  If Matthews had known who Tyler was, he could be a crucial figure in the case.  With him gone, breaking into Doubles had been a waste of time.  He walked back out of the office and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He quickly texted Lestrade and turned to face John who was stood with a hanky over his nose.   “So, he’s been dead for at least 24 hours.  Why did no one notice?” 

“I could be wrong, but I’d guess that everyone was too busy fucking.” John raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock, who sighed.  “They all left, probably locked up afterwards and they’ve not been back since.  Yesterday was Sunday, perhaps they were shut.”

Sherlock stared at the body. He walked back into the office, pulled some latex gloves from his pocket and pulled at Matthews’ collar.   “Look,” he said. The ligature marks were thin but clearly visible.

John walked over. “Clearly strangled.”

“Professionally done, too.” Sherlock scanned the office.  “I think whoever killed Matthews brought their own garrotte with them and left with it. There’s nothing here that looks like it was used.” 

John took a hanky from his pocket and used it to lift Matthews’ head.   “Blood vessels in his eyes have burst.”  John used the hanky to feel at the neck of the corpse.  “Hyoid’s broken.” He lifted one of Matthews’ hands.  “And abrasions on the fingertips.  He tried to pull the garrotte away from his neck. From the looks of the marks, I’d guess the garrotte was a cord or a thin rope rather than wire. The abrasions are rope burn rather than wire cuts.”

“Far easier to conceal cord than stiff wire,” Sherlock agreed.   He’d focussed on a large calendar taped to the office wall.  “John,” he said pointing to a date, three days hence.

John straightened and walked to the calendar.  “Ten-forty-five, blackout,” he read aloud.  “Matthews knew about the drug drop.” 

Sherlock paused.  The sound of sirens from approaching police was audible now.  “Interesting.”   He walked over to Matthews’ desk.  He noticed something, picked up a pen and used it to slide it out from beneath a pile of files.  He picked up the photograph with his gloved fingers and showed it to John.  “I think it’s time we visited my brother again.”

**

Mycroft Holmes was nervous.  He’d just been told that his brother and Dr Watson were on their way up to his office.   He didn’t want to see either of them.  During his last conversation with Sherlock, he’d informed his brother that he would only turn over Mark Tyler’s key to a safe deposit box if there was a compelling reason to do so.  Mycroft hadn’t stated what reason that would be and he hadn’t turned the key over to the security services. He had, in short, stalled for time.  The perfect outcome would be to turn the key back over to Tyler without it being used at all.  Mycroft knew that was unlikely.  He now had a feeling he was about to weigh up the security of a Europol agent and investigation against the demands of his brother.  Such dilemmas always made him tetchy. He pressed the intercom button to alert his secretary.

“Show my brother in when he arrives, will you, Marion?  Oh, and would you organise some tea and cake to be brought in?”  Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t listen to Marion’s murmur of what would certainly be acquiescence. Instead, he focused on his breathing and the prospect of cake. 

“Wassup, bro?” Sherlock said as he flung open the office door.  He flopped into a seat as John caught the swinging door and closed it gently.   Mycroft waited until the good doctor was also seated. 

“How can I help the intrepid duo today?” He clasped his hands and put them on the desk in front of him.  “Or, I should say, refuse to help?”

“It’s time you gave us the keys to Tyler’s safe deposit box.  In fact, it’s past time,” Sherlock said. 

“And why on earth should I do that?” Mycroft asked.  Marion walked into the office and the conversation paused while she brought in refreshments.

“As you know, John and I are to put ourselves in some danger by taking part in an undercover operation to discover the Marquês’ drug mule,” Sherlock began.  “We’ve now discovered Tyler’s business partner dead.  Not only that, but we found this in his office.”  Sherlock flicked a photograph at Mycroft.  He caught it one-handed. 

The image showed John lifting Rosie out of a taxi on Baker Street.  

Mycroft took a deep breath.  He may have been disinterested in Rosie when she was first born, but now she lived with Sherlock and John at 221B, Mycroft considered her a Holmes by proxy.   She was his niece. She was possibly the closest thing he, Sherlock or Eurus would ever have to a daughter of their own. Their parents saw her as their grandchild. Mycroft could not abide to see her hurt.  He opened the drawer where he’d kept Tyler’s keys without a word.  Mycroft held the keys out to Sherlock. 

“Harris’ Safe Deposit, Box 342.” Sherlock took the keys.  Mycroft clung onto them for a moment.  “If you need anything, anything, you will call me.”

Sherlock looked hesitant for a moment.  The Holmes boys struggled with emotion, especially when it was brotherly.  Mycroft, however, was determined.  He held Sherlock’s gaze until his brother responded.

“We’ll call,” Sherlock said.  He took the keys. 

Mycroft looked at John, who nodded.  “For God’s sake, eat some cake,” Mycroft said at last. He picked up a piece of Battenberg from the plate and took a big bite. 

Sherlock handed him a piece of paper.  “For Thursday,” he said. 

Mycroft looked at the paper and discovered it was a list of equipment for the drugs bust.  He folded and slipped it into his pocket.  “I’ll deliver it to Baker Street myself on Thursday afternoon.”

Sherlock took a piece of Victoria sponge and turned on his heel.  “Gotta let it be, babe,” he called as he left the office. 

John took a slice of lemon cake.  “We’ve been listening to Beyoncé.  See you Thursday,” he said before he too turned and followed Sherlock.

Mycroft took a deep breath.  He took another slice of cake.  Carrot cake.  

Beyoncé?

**

Harris’ Safe Deposit facility was based in Hatton Garden, which took almost twenty minutes by cab from Mycroft’s office. The front office was presided over by a bald man in glasses who peered over the rims at Sherlock when he presented the key.

“And your name?” The bald man asked.

“Tyler,” Sherlock said. “Mark Tyler.” 

“Of course,” the man said.  “Let me call my colleague to take you through.” He pressed a button on the counter and, seconds later, a smartly dressed woman clip-clopped across the beige marbled floor and shook Sherlock and John’s hands.

“Follow me and we’ll collect the contents of your locker. We’ll then place the locked box into one of our review suites, so you can go through the contents in privacy.”  

The woman used a key-card to gain entrance to the back rooms.  In front of them was a series of doors, many of which were open. These were the review suites.  Beyond the corridor was another door which led through to the boxes.   They located number 342 from one of the corridors of steel lockers.  The locker required both Tyler’s key and a key held by the woman to open. When the door of the locker was opened, the contents inside were sealed into a long, steel box.  The woman took the box and her visitors to one of the suites and, finally, left Sherlock and John alone.

Sherlock pushed the box towards John. He had a good idea what they would find inside.  They’d found correspondence between Mary and Mark. They knew Matthews, Mark’s business partner and enemy, had images of John and Rosie. To Sherlock, the conclusion was clear. However, he wanted John to discover it himself.  When John’s relationship with Mary and her memory was questioned, Sherlock did his best not to intrude. 

The first thing John pulled out of the box was a rectangular packet.  John ripped open a corner and took a sharp inhale of breath. He thrust the package at Sherlock.  Inside was a thick bundle of perhaps several hundreds, or more, fifty-pound notes.  Sherlock put the cash down on the table. 

“Could be proceeds of crime,” he said.  “It goes back in the box for now.  Agreed?”

John nodded. 

The next thing out of the box was a mobile phone.  The battery would be long dead but since the box that contained the phone was still shrink wrapped, it was clearly unused.  John threw it on the desk.

 “Burner,” he murmured.

At the bottom of the box was a brown, manila envelope. John opened the envelope and removed a number of photographs.   He went through them and dropped them on the table.  

“If you have any idea what’s going on here, Sherlock, it’s time you told me,” John said. 

Sherlock spread the photographs out and sighed.  Sometimes it was annoying to be right all the time.  The images showed Mark Tyler with Mary. Lesley was in some of the photographs. It was clear that, during her pregnancy, she visited Tyler and his wife.

“Think about it, John,” Sherlock urged. 

“Sherlock!”   John flexed his hands and then curled them into tight fists.  “I don’t want to think about it.  I just want to know why my wife knew this man and kept it quiet from me.  I don’t think that’s too unreasonable a question.”

“I agree,” Sherlock replied. “Regardless of the fact she gave her life for mine, I can’t tell you why your wife kept this from you.”

“Is my child in trouble?” John asked.  “That’s all I need to know right now.”

“I don’t believe so.” Sherlock gathered the photographs together.  “I can’t say for sure, but I think the danger passed with the death of Peter Matthews.”

“You do have a theory about all this, don’t you?”  John took the photos from Sherlock and shoved everything back in the box. 

“I do,” Sherlock agreed.  “But, as I said, I can’t guarantee it.  I believe that the story should now be told by Mr Tyler.  And I will do everything I can to make him tell you.”

“You’d bloody better,” John demanded. He sighed and closed the box. 

*

The cab journey home was quiet.  John hadn’t spoken much all evening, even with Rosie. As a result, her mood had turned fractious and it was later than normal when she finally slept.  John went up to her the final time before she settled. That gave Sherlock time to run them a bath. He dropped lit tea-lights inside his scientific beakers and put them around the room. When John’s foot hit the bottom step of the stairs, Sherlock led him into the bathroom. 

It wasn’t until they were in the water and John leant back against Sherlock’s chest that he spoke.

“Sorry I’ve been a bit grumpy,” John said softly.  He lifted his arms and let Sherlock soap his chest. 

Sherlock made a soft sound of agreement and washed John’s armpits, which made him laugh and that made Sherlock join in.  John took the soap and washed his own crotch. 

“Sit at the tap end,” Sherlock said. “I’ll rub your feet.”

“You’re a bad man,” John replied but moved all the same. He rested his feet on Sherlock’s thighs.  He moaned when Sherlock soaped and massaged his feet.

“I’m sorry too.” Sherlock dug his thumbs into John’s heels, which resulted in some downright filthy sounds that emanated from the tap end.  When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was notably huskier. “I don’t want to hurt you if my deduction is incorrect.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you,” John replied. His tone was warm and his eyes glittered. 

“I try not to hurt you.” Sherlock softened his touch and let his fingers ghost over the arch of John’s foot making him laugh and squirm.  

 “You absolute fucker.” John kicked his feet and splashed them both in the process.  “I do love you though.”

“And I you,” Sherlock agreed.  “Would you like me to wash your back?” 

John pulled his feet from Sherlock’s lap and clambered around to kneel in the right place. “You’re too good with those hands,” John said when Sherlock pressed into the trapezius muscles at the back of his neck. 

Sherlock washed John slowly.  He massaged his way down John’s back until he reached the crack of his arse.  John leant forward in an unmistakable invitation. Sherlock swept soapy fingers down into the cleft of John’s backside.  When his fingers skirted his hole, John pushed back until Sherlock’s forefinger entered him. 

“Yes,” John hissed.  “I feel sure that I’m very dirty right there.”   He leant forward a little more and lifted his backside free of the water.  

Sherlock pressed in a little, then withdrew. He swept soapy fingers all over John’s backside and rinsed.   Sherlock inserted a wet, soap-free finger into John.   After a few thrusts, punctuated by John’s gasps, he lifted John’s bum and lowered his head.  Sherlock pushed his tongue into the opening. The reaction was instantaneous.

“Oh Jesus, Jesus, yes,” John gabbled.  His hips jack-knifed back and pushed Sherlock’s tongue in deeper. John’s right thigh started to tremble very slightly.  Sherlock wiggled his tongue.  “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, that’s really fucking good.”  Sherlock lapped at John’s hole, one, twice and then pressed in on every third.  Then he wiggled his tongue and put pressure against John’s perineum.  Sherlock repeated the whole process again and again.  “Bloody hell.”

There was something in the tone that made Sherlock laugh.  He tried to keep his tongue in place, but the laughter grew and spread.  John seemed to catch on and then they were both scrunched together in the cooling water as they laughed and laughed.   When the giggles petered out, John pulled Sherlock forward into messy a kiss. 

“Take me to bed?”  Sherlock asked when he finally pulled back for a deep breath. 

John stroked Sherlock’s face. “I will always take you to bed, Sherlock Holmes.”  He got to his feet with a moan and climbed out of the bath.  He waited for Sherlock to stand and then offered him a towel.  They stood next to each other at the sink and brushed their teeth.  John flicked minty foam and then water at Sherlock. In return, Sherlock buzzed John’s nipple with his electric toothbrush, threw the hand towel over his head and then walked quickly to the bedroom. 

Sitting on John’s pillow was a small box wrapped in kitchen tin foil and tied with a cable-tie.   John turned to look at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow, then picked up the box.

“I thought you might like one of your own,” Sherlock mumbled.  “We could have shared but that seems a bit, well, unhygienic.  This one can be programmed to your iPod, if you wanted to, of course.”  Sherlock realised he was gabbling and was silent as John ripped the foil free and opened the box. 

“This looks a bit, well, expensive,” John said as he looked at the box. “Especially for something that’ going up my arse.”

“It has very good reviews and you really like anal stimulation,” Sherlock replied. “It’s also quite small, so I thought it would be okay on those days when you feel a little sore after anal sex.  I want you to feel loved and to be happy with me. I understand that an anal vibrator can’t achieve all of that, but I wanted to…”

“I feel loved and happy,” John interrupted.  “With or without the bum shaker.”

Sherlock giggled again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen

Sherlock pulled John on top of him. They were on the bed, fresh out of the bath. 

“I think we’re probably going to get dirty again,” John pointed out between kisses.  “Because I really do want to do dirty things with you.”

“I’ll be very disappointed if this turns out to be gardening or something,” Sherlock replied.   He opened his mouth to speak again, but John reached between them and grabbed Sherlock’s cock. He tipped John over onto his back and sat astride his hips.  

“Looks like you want to do dirty things too, Mr Holmes,” John noted.   He rolled his hips upwards and sighed when his cock made contact with Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock grabbed the lube from the bedside table.  He drizzled the slick liquid from the bottle onto John’s groin, lubed John’s cock and his own, then stretched his body out.  He slipped a knee between John’s legs and took an experimental thrust. John replied with a moan. 

“Good?” Sherlock asked.  He slipped his arms between John’s back and the bed and gripped his shoulders.   John’s eyes were closed and his hips were tilted up against Sherlock’s body.   He lifted his hips beyond John’s reach until he opened his eyes.   “Hi,” Sherlock said with a grin.   

John’s skin flushed pink.  “Hello you.”  He grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pull them back towards him.  “I like the feel of you against me.”  He rolled his hips.  “Please?”

“You never need to beg,” Sherlock replied and thrust against John.   “Not unless you want to.”  He smiled and John grinned back. 

“Not today.”  John put his arms around Sherlock and lifted his head until their lips touched. 

Sherlock continued to move against him and their skin grew hot and sweaty.  The fuzz around John’s nipples and his belly rubbed against Sherlock’s skin and, somehow, it felt more illicit, closer and deeper than penetration had.  John kissed him as if this would be the last time and that he couldn’t get enough of Sherlock.

“Can you come like this?” Sherlock asked.  He could feel tension gather in his belly, in his groin, as the pleasure circled tighter and tighter.   Gentle thrusts became harder, more ragged, faster and faster. 

“Hang on,” John said. He wormed his hand between their bodies and around their cocks. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock intoned.  He rested his forehead against John’s and breathed in his breath.  The heat, the sweat, the delicious friction; it all intoxicated Sherlock. He didn’t know up or down, black or white, nothing but the impending release getting closer and closer.

John wrapped a leg around Sherlock’s body. He began to mutter words Sherlock’s brain could not fit to a form.   For a moment, Sherlock remained on the edge between the journey and the ecstasy.  John silently screamed below him, eyes shut tight. Then the tension drained and his eyes opened. Eyes locked, Sherlock came with a moan that seemed to rumble through his body.  John’s lips found his and they shuddered through their after-shocks, drunk on each other’s pleasure.

When their breathing had returned to normal, Sherlock flopped beside John on the bed. 

“Told you we’d just get filthy,” John whispered. 

Sherlock looked down at his come-streaked chest, glistering[1] with lube and sweat and he smiled.   He could cope with this sort of dirt.  He looked over at John, who wore a smile that would have glowed in darkness. 

“You know that you’re in increasing danger of spending the rest of your life with me,” Sherlock said.  “Especially if you make me come like that.  Cocaine is rubbish next to that sort of high.”

John clambered off the bed.  “I should think so,” he replied.  “I do have a reputation to consider.” And with that, John picked up the damp towels from their bath and threw one in Sherlock’s general direction. It landed squarely on his head. 

**

The following day and throughout Wednesday, Sherlock and John were both quiet.  The tension, both of Tyler’s revelations and the sting operation at Langridge’s, hung between them.   On Wednesday evening, Sherlock stayed awake when John went to bed. He was vaguely aware when Sherlock joined him at some point during the night.  Whereas Sherlock’s presence normally calmed John, he couldn’t relax.  He remained at a low level of consciousness until three a.m. when movement fully woke him. 

Sherlock was fighting with the duvet with such intensity that John didn’t dare laugh.  It wasn’t the first time John had seen or heard Sherlock’s nightmares since he’d returned from the period when he destroyed Moriarty’s network little by little.   John knew they were both prone to nightmares during difficult cases. 

“Hey,” John said.  He didn’t touch Sherlock, he just started to talk with an even, kind voice. “Hey, love.  You’re having a nightmare.  You need to wake up now, honey.”  Sherlock turned in John’s direction. His eyes fluttered beneath the lids.  John continued to talk.  “Come on, come back to me.  You’re fine, you’re in bed at Baker Street.  You’re in bed with me and I love you, so much.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath. His eyes opened in panic.

“Hey, love.  You’ve had a bad dream and you’ve just woken up. You’re in Baker Street and everything is okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Sherlock snapped.  He sat up.  Even in the dark, John could see Sherlock’s heartbeat thud in his neck.  John reached out a hand.  “Stop fussing.”  Sherlock got out of the bed, stomped across the bedroom and out of the door. 

John sat in bed for ten minutes. He waited to see if Sherlock returned.  When he didn’t, John got up and followed.  Sherlock was sitting in his chair, knees pulled up and his arms wrapped around them. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock said when he saw John.  He waved a hand. “Go back to bed.”

John smiled. He went to the cupboard, took out two glasses and filled them with water from the tap. He walked into the living room and passed Sherlock a glass before he sat and sipped his own.  Sherlock glared at John through his eyelashes and even eyebrows from the depth of his frown. 

“What are you worried about?” John asked.  

“What shouldn’t I be worried about?”  Sherlock replied. “I’m sure it’s peace and light inside your brain. This time tomorrow we’ll have either returned, or not, from an attempt to catch a key drug courier from Europe’s biggest criminal kingpin and, in doing so, bring his reign to an end.  But I’m sure he won’t have a problem with that, will he?   Let’s face it, John, this time tomorrow, your child could have no father. Even worse, she might be stuck with me looking after her. So, you tell me, John, why should I be worried?” 

“In a way, I’ve sort of missed this,” John replied.  “I love you in all your moods, but there was a part of me that was worried that you were going to try and be perfect forever.  I remember doing it when I was with my first few girlfriends. It never works. It’s your only tell, in a way. I could almost believe you’ve been dating for the past twenty or so years if you weren’t trying so hard to be so fucking wonderful.  It’s nice to have you back, even if you are an arse.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.  He shook his head as if what John had said wasn’t worth his time to respond. 

“First of all, just for the record, I will still love you if you’re an arsehole. I know what a good heart you have now, so you can’t hide it no matter what a rude git you are.  Secondly, do you honestly think I’d agree to take part in this bust if I didn’t have faith in you, in Lestrade and in Mycroft?  I have even more faith because I’m a father. I know that every single one of you will do all you can to bring me home so I can live happily with my daughter for a bloody long time.”

“Because I was brilliant at keeping your wife alive, wasn’t I?” Sherlock responded.  He stared across the room at the smiley face shot into the wall.  “You have too much faith in me.”

“Fuck off,” John said.  Sherlock’s focus darted back to him and he held John’s gaze. “I’m an ex-soldier and a sodding adrenalin junkie. I will always be that. I can’t turn it off just because I have Rosie and, what’s more, I won’t.  That isn’t because I don’t love her, it’s because I want her to know the best version of her father she can. And the best version of me is the one that runs around London doing stupid, amazing, life-saving work with you. And we do save lives. Who knows how many?  But, do you know what? I know that if Rosie is left with you and only you, she’ll be a very lucky little girl who will grow up into an extraordinary woman. No one who was brought up with you could be anything else.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John jumped to his feet and wagged his finger in a silent demand for Sherlock’s attention. 

“So, Mr Holmes, as much as I appreciate your concern, fuck the hell off.” John took a deep breath.  “I was a soldier, Sherlock, and I am a medic. I know how to look at what I’m asked to do and calculate risk.  Just because I’m not a genius doesn’t mean I haven’t analysed the risks and the benefits of this operation. I have.  We’re going to be in a room, snogging, surrounded by policemen. So, get a fucking grip with your ‘alone saves me’ bullshit and look at the people around you who you can rely on.”

“But-” Sherlock almost bounced in his seat in the effort to butt into the conversation.  

“No, shut it!” John replied. “I’m going to promise you something that I know you’re thinking about whether you admit it or not.  Sherlock Holmes, although I love you and I have no idea what I would do without you, I promise not to jump in front of a bullet for you, you cock. I won’t do it because I love you and I know it would kill you if I died to save your life.  I won’t jump in front of a bullet for you because I have a daughter who wants to see her dad again. But I will do everything in my power to stop someone raising a firearm at either of us. So, as I said, fucking fuck off.”

Sherlock raised both eyebrows.  John panted.  He realised he’d hardly breathed during his rant. 

“Questions?” John asked when he could talk again.

Sherlock stood and took the tiny step he needed to be directly in front of John. He took John’s face in his hands and gave him a kiss. Its gentleness spoke of love. The softness of Sherlock’s mouth said he’d listened. The gentle push of Sherlock’s tongue against John’s lips told him that he was comforted by John’s words. The way Sherlock tilted his head and deepened the kiss communicated that his body and soul belonged to John. The very feel of the kiss promised John that Sherlock would forever care for him and for his child. And the way Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer told John countless other things that words simply couldn’t say. 

When the kiss ended, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. He took a few deep breaths before he spoke. “I’m not apologising for being grumpy.”  His lips curled into a smile.

“I’d expect nothing less,” John replied before he gave Sherlock a kiss that communicated the odd thing or two his rant hadn’t managed to say. 

*

Sherlock was making his violin squeal with anguish when John returned from the supermarket with Rosie.  They’d woken relatively early and John had nipped to the shops so that they could be back to see Mark Tyler before they prepared for the drugs sting that night.  

“Addee,” Rosie said. They were standing in the doorway and watched Sherlock saw at his violin.  “Ouchy noise.” She pointed at Sherlock.  “Naughty.”

John nodded.  “C’mon,” he said to Rosie and led her into the living room.  “You sit on the sofa and I’ll fetch you some juice.” He went to the kitchen with the shopping bags and brought Rosie a drink, then walked over to Sherlock.  He put the palm of his hand on Sherlock’s lower back.  “Tea?”

Sherlock lowered the violin and took a deep breath.  He lowered his bow with so much energy that it audibly swooshed through the air like an epee blade.   The look he gave John suggested steam was about to shoot from his ears.  “You may wish to go back out,” Sherlock said quietly. 

John shook his head. “Enough, Sherlock.  I told you last night that I fell in love with you as you are.  The fact we’re having sex doesn’t change that. Rosie’s used to your temper. This is your home.  And we,” John said and gestured to himself and then Sherlock, “will fail unless you stop trying to be perfect.”

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling.  He took a deep breath and then yelled, “Gah, Mycroft!”   

Rosie giggled.  

“What’s he done now?” John asked over his shoulder. “And do you want tea?”

“Tea, yes.” Sherlock walked over to the mirror over the fireplace, where he and John knew there was a bug. “Mycroft is even more annoying than I ever thought possible.”

John looked over to Rosie.  She was attempting to lick her drink from her tumbler like a dog. 

“He’s moved Mark Tyler,” Sherlock said. He followed John to the kitchen. “Some nonsense about security threats.”

“Where’s he moved him to?”  John asked.  He tried to stay calm.  He’d told himself over the past few days that he could wait to speak to Tyler. The notion he might have to wait longer never entered his mind. 

“Well, he could visit my sister, let’s put it that way.”  Sherlock’s hands were clenched into fists on the kitchen counter. 

John took a deep breath.   He remembered the length of the journey to Sherrinford.  The journey simply wasn’t possible if they were to be at Langridge’s before the brothel officially opened.   “Fu-u-udge.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said.  “If I’d have known, I would have insisted that we had the safe deposit key earlier.”

“It’s not your fault.”  John poured hot water into cups.  It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault and he wouldn’t blame him, not now, not since he’d blamed him for Mary’s death.  All the same, he wanted to yell. He looked at Sherlock, who’d adopted the same clenched-jaw patient expression he’d worn since the start of this case. John thumped the kitchen counter.  “Arse.  You’re as angry as I am and you’re allowed to show it.”

“She was your wife.”  Sherlock looked intrigued by John’s reaction. 

“And your friend, and the mother of your lover’s daughter.  Plus, Mycroft’s ruined our plans and made your boyfriend grumpy and destroyed your big reveal.  Be fudging angry if you want to.”  John walked over to the mirror and raised his voice. “Mycroft is an unmistakable arse.”  He looked over at Rosie who was talking into her empty cup. 

Sherlock crossed his arms. “I’m done with his meddling.”

“It’ll be good to have this conversation with him later." John smirked. 

Sherlock smiled.  “Indeed.”  He stepped behind John and pulled him back against his chest.  They looked in the mirror at each other. Sherlock leaned forward and sucked the lobe of John’s right ear into his mouth.   His blue eyes were just visible through those black curls. 

John’s head rolled back and he inhaled sharply.  He’d told Sherlock that the skin around his ears and his earlobes seemed to have a hotline to his cock quite a long time ago. Sherlock had remembered.  John felt the stirrings of an erection against his arse, not to mention his own. 

“Addee?”  Rosie asked. 

John whimpered in an embarrassingly desperate manner.  “Yes, Rosie,” he replied.

“Bikkit?” 

Sherlock turned them both around to look at Rosie.  She grinned as their attention focused on her. John leant back against his lover and looked over at his beautiful daughter, who was trying to pull her sock on her head like a hat.

“Me too?” Sherlock asked.  He took a step back but kept one arm wrapped around John’s waist.   

John turned to Sherlock.  “No sex, we want biscuits?” John asked softly. He smiled and Sherlock gave him a sweet, rather chaste, kiss and smacked his arse.  “Ow!”

“Fetch me bikkits, boy. If I can’t take you to bed, I demand crunchy goodness.” Sherlock adjusted his trousers, yanked his dressing gown together to cover his crotch and sat down at the kitchen table to check his experiments.

John followed Sherlock to the kitchen and pulled out a packet of chocolate digestives.  It was going to be an interesting day.  

*

Mycroft Holmes knew he wasn’t popular when he walked into 221B Baker Street.  Even Mrs Hudson looked at him as if he had done something unpleasant in her slipper.  However, he’d promised to bring the equipment needed for the drugs bust with him.  Since the loan of the equipment wasn’t entirely official, it was best that he delivered it himself. 

“Ah, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he opened the door.  “John and I were just discussing why a perfectly sane and not particularly dangerous Europol agent would be being kept in a high-security prison for the most troubled of souls.  Would you care to comment?” 

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft replied.  “I hate to inform you of this, Sherlock, but the British government isn’t required to run its decisions past you.”

“Dull,” Sherlock intoned.   “Try again.”

“I have a responsibility to keep him safe,” Mycroft replied.  “The Marquês is not happy that we have Mark Tyler and, should he discover that Tyler is a Europol agent, the construction of a case eight years in the making would be utterly destroyed.  Though I appreciate that Dr Watson requires answers, it’s important that we protect Mr Tyler.”

“It is important that you protect him,” John agreed.  “A heads up would have helped though.”

“National security,” Mycroft blustered. 

“Chocolate teabags,” Sherlock replied.  Mycroft looked at him, utterly puzzled.  “Sorry brother dear,” Sherlock added. “I thought we were just saying stupid things at random.”

Mycroft took a deep breath.  “I can take this equipment back to MI6, you know.” 

“Fine,” John replied as he took the bag from Mycroft’s grasp.  “We’ll stop. But know that we need to see Tyler directly after the bust. You will arrange it and you will not make a fuss. Okay?” 

Mycroft paused, then nodded.  “As you wish, Dr Watson.”  It would be churlish to say that he’d already put the wheels in motion for Tyler to be brought to London the following day. After all, Sherrinford wasn’t the sort of place Mycroft wanted Rosie to visit.  Ever.  Though it tempted Mycroft to be sullen, this wasn’t the time.  “Now, might we move on?”

**

Lestrade looked nervous.  

“Afternoon,” he said as he walked towards John and Sherlock.  He shook both of their hands. “Shall we go up to the monitoring room?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock responded.  “We’re all wired up. We just need to make sure that your technical people can ensure that reception is acceptable.” 

“Sure,” Lestrade replied.  He led them up the ornate staircase and into the blackout area.  

The CCTV monitoring room seemed even smaller than it was last time John saw it.  Donovan puttered around in the corridor, eyes focused on her phone.   She gave John a brief wave. 

Lestrade’s radio operative was a chap called Bailey.  John had met him before. Bailey looked a bit like a troll from one of Rosie’s books[2].  He’d mastered the art of being balding but still having wispy shoulder-length hair.  He stroked his beard and nodded when Sherlock entered the room. 

“You’ve got some top spec equipment for me, I hear?”  Bailey asked. 

John handed him the briefcase with the receiver for the mics and the transmitter for the earpieces.  Bailey opened the case, removed the equipment and turned on the receiver.  

“We’ve got the ear-pieces and mics on already.” Sherlock’s voice echoed in the receiver.  Bailey stood and crowded in on Sherlock. 

“Remarkable.”  Bailey looked closely at Sherlock’s ears and jaw.  “It’ll be another ten years before the Met get anything like this.  Beautiful craftsmanship.  Would you two like to head to the shagging suite and we’ll see what we can hear?”  He handed John a small transmitter/receiver unit which needed to be hidden in the corner of the room. 

The shagging suite, aka the main blackout room, was as stripped back as normal.  The house lights were on and it was clear that this room was designed not to be seen.  The couch was worn fake-leather and the tarpaulin of the sex swing was stained.  The scuffed floorboards were painted black but, in places, the greying wood was visible beneath.  If Langridge’s scrimped on anything, it was this room. 

John popped the transmitter in a corner by a fire extinguisher and he and Sherlock sat on the couch.  

“Can you hear us?” Sherlock asked.  

“No, no, no,” Bailey said.  “That’s no way to test equipment. I want a good solid ‘one-two, one-two’ or nothing at all.”

Sherlock glared at the camera mounted opposite. 

“No use giving me that look,” Bailey replied.  “Come on, Dr Watson, give me a firm ‘and-a one, and-a two’.”

John blushed. He was not a man that liked attention. He was very happy to be in the background.  Sitting on a settee next to a sex swing while he pretended to be a roadie wasn’t on his list of things to do.

“One, two, three, four,” John said. 

“I’ll accept that, but you’re hardly a natural.”  Bailey’s disdain was clear from his voice.  “We’re going to lower the lights and check the cameras.”

The room slowly faded into darkness.  

“Can you two move about or something?” came Bailey’s voice. 

John waved.  He felt Sherlock’s arm beside him and, unless he was very much mistaken, the detective was suggesting that Bailey was a fan of masturbation.

“We all do it!” Bailey replied.  

Lestrade’s voice was just about audible. “Speak for yourself.”

Sherlock’s voice rumbled in the darkness. “On at least three occasions in the last year, Lestrade, I’ve been aware that you…”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice was loud this time. Very loud. 

“I suspect that people in Glasgow heard that, Greg,” John shook his head and rubbed his ear.  “I‘d keep it down later, if I were you.”

“Sorry.  Good call.”

“All ready then.” Sherlock took John’s hand and led him from the room.

[1] A word I made up because, in my mind, it encompasses glistening little globs, like blisters.  Shakespeare made up no end of words, so I think it’d be rude not to.

[2] Yes, I have inserted Bill Bailey into this fic. I am unrepentant. This is Mr Bailey: https://youtu.be/wWr2w5C_b7Q . Do look up more of his comedy and do watch 'Black Books' for added Dylan Moran joy.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

“All set?”  Lestrade asked.  

They were standing in reception. Sherlock and John had utilised the lockers and now wore dressing gowns. 

 “As we’ll ever be,” John replied. 

Sherlock nodded.  His heart raced and a sound like white noise roared in his ears. 

“I don’t want to sound stupid,” Lestrade’s voice was hesitant and his speech peppered with ‘ums’ and ‘ers’.  “I know this is a bit inappropriate but, well, how much of you am I likely to see?” 

Sherlock had never considered himself to be even remotely body conscious.  However, his brain softened at the edges. It wasn’t his body but John’s that he worried about. He’d been entirely unprepared for the possessiveness he felt. 

“We’ve got secret weapons,” John said.  He lifted the bottom hem of his dressing gown and gave Lestrade a flash of his dildo. 

Lestrade laughed.  “I don’t know whether to be more impressed with the fake cock or the lovely flesh coloured posing pouch you’re wearing.”  He laughed again.

Sherlock wanted to pop his eyes out with a biro. John, posing pouch or no, was his.  He swiftly decided that was the only reason he was breathing so rapidly.

“Isn’t it brilliant?”  John jumped up and down and giggled at his rubber cock swinging around with gay abandon.

“I’m just glad you showed me,” Lestrade said. “If I’d have seen a hint of that in the night-vis cameras I’d have died.”

“Quite,” Sherlock said.  “The doors are about to open.  John and I will stay in the locker room until the doors have opened.” 

“Fine.  We’ll see you up there.” Lestrade shook John’s hand and then Sherlock’s.  “Break a leg and all that.”

Sherlock strode into the locker room. He opened his locker and touched the hem of his Belstaff that he’d rolled into the metal box.  Sherlock hoped the familiar would centre him. Unbidden, he thought of Rosie and of the way her face lit up when she saw John or him.   He tamped down the thought and looked over at John who’d emerged from the loo door in the corner of the room.  Sherlock took a deep breath and calmed his breathing. Someone walked into the locker room behind him and Sherlock slammed the locker door shut.  They were on.

John and Sherlock walked up to the blackout area together.  When they entered the main room, they seemed to be almost alone.  Sherlock and John put on what looked like normal glasses but were, in fact, highly sophisticated night-vision goggles.

There were three men in the room, all of whom were so clearly policemen, the fact Sherlock had met them an hour or so earlier was irrelevant. 

“Lestrade?”  Sherlock said under his voice.  “You need to tell your men to at least pretend they’re in here for sex.  They look like they’re waiting for a bus.”

“It is pitch black in there, you know,” Donovan replied.  “Not to mention the fact that no one but you and John are…”

The door opened.  Sonny, one of the male prostitutes at Langridge’s, walked in with a client.  John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck.  The game was afoot.  

*

Greg Lestrade liked Sherlock and John. If pressed, he might even have admitted that he loved them. They were his mates and he trusted them.  He was, however, officially bored of watching them snog.  It was quarter past ten at night and the blackout room had been quiet. For long stretches, they just sat there. Then someone would come in and Sherlock and John would kiss then the mystery someone would come and leave.  Lestrade had seen six blowjobs through the cottaging holes and two shags. The sex swing had been used twice.

Most men came quickly.  Older men took a while longer.  All the same, Lestrade was sure that, at home with a loved one, most gents would take more time.   At Langridge’s, the whole act was swift and business-like.

A group of twelve men entered the blackout area at once.  He barely had time to warn Sherlock and John before they were in.  All of them went to the main room and Sherlock and John started to kiss. Again.

*

Sherlock was surrounded by the smells, sounds and sensations of sex. 

There were twenty people in the blackout room.  Several men used the cottaging holes and the slap of skin and slick mouths punctuated other sounds, like ragging breaths, moans and kisses.   The room smelled of sweat, of come and of bodies.   Every so often, a stranger’s slippery skin rubbed against Sherlock’s.  It took all his concentration to focus purely on John and his touches. 

Until that moment, the experience of being in the blackout room had been rather dull.  Sherlock wished he could take that boredom back.  John was only his second real lover.  Sherlock had researched, prepared and was confident with the deductions he made about what John would like. As a result, Sherlock hadn’t experienced anything remotely like performance anxiety. Surrounded by rutting, animalistic men, Sherlock’s confidence, even faked, crumbled.   

“Okay?”  John’s voice was barely a murmur between kisses.  “Are you going to get on my lap?” 

Sherlock froze.  He wanted to move. He needed to be strong for John.  Everything around him had now taken over.  Sherlock felt as if there was a spotlight on him and he was being judged by every other man in the room. 

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” John whispered.  “You’re freaking me out a little bit.”

Lestrade’s voice crackled quietly in Sherlock’s earpiece.  “Sherlock?  John?  What’s going on?” 

John undid his dressing gown and threw his leg over Sherlock’s lap.  He pulled Sherlock’s gown open and nuzzled his neck.  “Everything’s fine.” John voice was scarcely audible.  “Just a little confusion.  We’re all good.”  

Sherlock gulped a big breath and searched the strange, green ghostly vision to meet John’s eyes.  

“Breathe with me,” John whispered.   He took a deep breath and ran his hands down Sherlock’s chest.   He inhaled slowly and then repeated it and repeated it.   When John was content Sherlock was calmer, he kissed him.  There was no faked passion or showiness to the kiss, no urgency, nothing but love.   The kiss zeroed the room down to just Sherlock and John.  

“Love you,” Sherlock confessed.   He slid his hands inside John’s robe and over his skin. John’s muscles strained beneath his skin as he moved.   The warm smell of the man combined with soap from his earlier shower and the fresh aftershave John wore.   “I’m in your hands.”

John reached between their bodies and grasped the two fake cocks.  “Feel good?” he said at normal volume. It reminded Sherlock that he had to act too, and he moaned his assent. 

“Lube.” Sherlock scrabbled a sachet of lube from his pocket and opened it.  

The slick sound of John’s hand on the fake cocks managed to be both ridiculous and arousing. Sherlock hissed a few words of encouragement and took John’s hips in his hands.   His face was in line with John’s chest, so Sherlock touched his lips to the sparse wiry hairs collected there and then licked his left nipple.  John bucked against him as he sucked and licked the sensitive nub.    

“Don’t get carried away.” Donovan’s voice was low in their ears.

“You’ve got another three blokes coming in,” Lestrade added.  

John threw his head back as if in ecstasy.  The newcomers came in, went straight past them and walked towards the sex swing.  Sherlock could just see around John.  He recognised Jamie Reid, Dan Murphy but not the third man.  

Reid was completely naked. He had a long dragon tattoo that stretched from his chest down one side of his body, around his hip, curled inward at his groin, then twisted around the leg.  The dragon’s tail finished at his ankle.   He hopped into the sex swing with practised ease and pulled the man Sherlock didn’t recognise towards him.  

Both Murphy and the stranger were dressed in robes.  The stranger opened his and exposed his long, thick cock.  Murphy pressed a condom and tube of lube into his hand.  As soon as he was slicked up, he pushed into Reid’s body.  Sherlock went cold; the stranger had done nothing to prepare Reid and there was some discomfort in Reid’s expression. However, the pained look faded.  Sherlock expected that the men who worked at Langridge’s prepared themselves over the course of an evening.  It still left Sherlock chilled.

Murphy didn’t undo his robe. He pushed it aside, rolled on a condom, slicked himself, and  lined up the tip of his cock against the stranger’s arse. 

“Lots of lube, yeah?” the stranger requested.  Murphy pulled back and squeezed more lube on his cock.  With slippery hands, Murphy roughly fingered the stranger who moaned without embarrassment. 

“When do you want to pretend to come?” John whispered against Sherlock’s ear.   

“How about you come and then kneel between my legs and suck me off?” Sherlock wanted an unimpeded view of the men in the sex swing.

“Why do I need to come first?  I’d prefer people to think I have a bit more stamina.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied.  “I’m going to pretend to finger your arse to give you an excuse.”

John nodded and fumbled lube from his pocket.  “I want your fingers inside me,” he said at an audible volume in a poor Scottish accent. 

“Don’t we all,” said one of the strangers in the darkness. 

John giggled.   “Please,” he added.

Sherlock reached behind John with lube-slick fingers.  Since he and John had deviated from their prepared routine, Sherlock had no idea how to pretend to finger John’s arse.  So, Sherlock just slipped a finger up John’s bum and hoped for the best. 

“Oh God,” John whimpered.   “That’s good.  So good.”

Sherlock’s cock hardened.  He sought control by concentrating on the men around the sex swing.  Murphy finger-fucked the stranger while he buggered Reid with shallow strokes.  Sherlock circled his finger inside John.  His actions were covered by John’s dressing gown, but he knew that John was enjoying what Sherlock was doing.   

Murphy pulled his fingers from the stranger’s backside and thrust in his cock. 

“Fu-uck,” the man shouted.  He clung to Reid and to the sex swing. His eyes were open wide and he took frantic deep breaths as he tried to relax.  Murphy started to pull out, but the man ordered him to wait.

Borderline horrified at the view before him, Sherlock almost missed the word John whispered in his ear. 

“More.” 

Sherlock’s cock throbbed.  He slowly inserted a second finger inside John. 

“Almost there,” John said a little louder.   He released Sherlock’s fake cock and focussed on his own.  His hand blurred with rapid strokes.  His faked orgasm was illustrated with quiet little grunts.  Sherlock smiled. It was far too quiet to be real.  John sagged against him.  “I’ll wait a sec, then drop.  Can you wipe some of the lube off your dick?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled his fingers from John.  He used his robe to scrub the lube from his dildo.  He watched the men opposite while he caressed John as his fake release ebbed.   Murphy fucked the stranger with deep, hard thrusts.  The unknown man remained still while Reid used the swing to rock against him.  His eyes were still closed, but the discomfort seemed to have passed.  He emitted throaty grunts as he fucked and was fucked. 

“I need to come,” Sherlock told John in a roughed-up cockney accent.  “Please, darlin’.”

John stood, stretched out his neck, and then got to his knees.   Sherlock’s breath hitched when John kissed the inside of his thighs and ran his strong fingers up Sherlock’s calves.  

“Harder!” someone demanded from elsewhere in the room.  

“Hell yes,” the stranger behind John agreed.  Murphy didn’t need to be asked twice.  Sherlock winced at the force Murphy used.  Reid grabbed Murphy’s hands, which were digging into the stranger’s hips, and used them to pull himself onto the stranger’s cock deeper.  

John chose that moment to close his mouth over Sherlock’s real penis.  Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed. Both of them wore Caucasian-flesh-coloured pants beneath their harnesses and fake cocks.   John’s mouth moistened the material over the head of Sherlock’s cock and he lightly blew over it.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s head dropped back against the sofa.  He spread his legs but John’s mouth had gone.  When Sherlock opened his eyes, John brought the tip of his fake dick to his lips and licked the tip.   “Please,” Sherlock whispered because watching John Watson sucking a fake dick was delicious. 

Murphy moaned.  “Gonna break you,” he growled out.  “Take it.” 

John lifted his head and dragged Sherlock down into a kiss.  “I recognise his voice,” John said.  “From the pit, when we caught Fabian out.  He was there.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered across John’s lips before he sat back.  Murphy and Daniels were there, that day, and the darkness had saved them.  John kissed Sherlock’s inner thigh before he resumed his ministrations on the fake dick.

Sherlock clutched John’s hair and watched Murphy as he rammed against the stranger.  Murphy’s dressing gown was still firmly done up and beads of sweat formed on his skin.    He grabbed the stranger’s hips and thrust in one last time. 

The move was well rehearsed.  Sonny, who’d sat on the sofa behind Murphy, stood and removed his dressing gown as Murphy dropped his own.   Sonny slipped his gown onto Murphy’s shoulders, picked up Murphy’s robe and headed for the blackout room door.

“Now,” Sherlock said.  

John lifted his head and felled Sonny with a classic rugby ankle-tap.  Sherlock leapt from the sofa and brought down Murphy metres shy of the exit.   He heard Lestrade shout in his ear but focused on trying to get control of the wriggling Murphy, whose legs were splayed beneath his chest.  Sherlock needed to change grip.  When he did, Murphy kicked Sherlock in the sternum.  Sherlock cried out in pain. Unable to stop himself, he let go and felt, rather than saw, someone clamber over him.  He looked up to see the tattooed leg of Jamie Reid disappear out of the exit behind Murphy.  

Sherlock clambered to his feet and panted into his mic.  “Fire escape.” 

The night air was bright in comparison to the darkness of the blackout room.  Sherlock blinked until his eyes adjusted and followed the pale, but rather nice, backside of Jamie Reid down the metal steps.  One flight below, Reid and Murphy had just reached a flat landing Reid leapt at Murphy and, when Sherlock reached them, Reid lay splayed over Murphy.

“Roll him over,” Sherlock barked.  Reid rolled, grabbed Murphy’s arms and waited.  Sherlock pulled Murphy towards him and slammed him over the side rail.  He heard Lestrade clatter downstairs towards them. 

“Hold it,” Lestrade barked and barged Sherlock aside to slap handcuffs on Murphy.   Before the tell-tale click of the cuffs, there was a sharp cry. “Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled.  Sherlock turned. Murphy was free and headed towards him, face contorted in a snarl. Sherlock had no time to block the fist that hit him, but bent his body in a way that took the force from the punch.   However, the motion twisted Sherlock’s body so that he faced the stairs that lead down towards him. 

A cord swished as it went around Sherlock’s neck and he jammed his fingers beneath.  Above him, he spotted a familiar pair of feet.  Sherlock dropped to his knees and he saw John jump over him.   Murphy flew backwards when John hit him. Rather than be choked by the cord, Sherlock threw his body back too.  The thin garrotte brushed harmlessly upwards, over his face and head.  Sherlock turned to see Murphy balanced on the edge of the fire escape railing.  His body tipped backwards but not before John grabbed one of Murphy’s arms and Reid the other. 

Sherlock scrabbled to a stand and caught Murphy’s feet, then with the help of Lestrade, they hauled him back from the edge.  John held Murphy down while he was finally cuffed and then got back to his feet.  The daredevil, the soldier and the ruffian that was John Watson disappeared back behind the façade of the friendly local GP.   Sherlock found it ridiculously sexy.  He wanted John and he wanted him now. 

“You fucking wanker,” Murphy shouted.  “You’re a dead man.”  Several uniformed officers ran down to take control of Lestrade’s prisoner and started to pull him away. 

“Death threats as well,” Lestrade noted.  “Dig yourself in deeper, why don’t you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John merely raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards Jamie.  Reid lay splayed on the metal landing. Impressively, he’d managed to maintain an erection throughout the chase.   Sherlock offered him a hand to help him to his feet.  He accepted Sherlock’s hand, let him help him to his feet and then nodded down at his dick.  

“I’m a professional, y’know?” Reid said.  “You n’er know when you might need a hard-on in a fight.”

“Impressive,” Sherlock said.  “In a fight, I mean.” 

“Only in a fight?”  Reid winked and looked down.  Sherlock followed the line of his eye and started to laugh.  The dildo Sherlock wore had slipped free of the folds of hs dressing gown. In the exertion, it had drooped alarmingly.  “I see you’re a one-man guy.” Reid grinned.  Sherlock chuckled and covered his modesty, not to mention his fake dick.  Sherlock was happy that the droopy dildo hid his desire for John.  The arousal he’d experienced in the blackout room hadn’t entirely diminished. 

Lestrade wrapped his coat around Reid with amusement, then led them back upstairs.   Sherlock turned to John whose eyes glowed in the night with a dark intensity and a hint of mischief.  Sherlock licked his lips.  John reached out a hand. Sherlock drew side by side with him.

“Flirt.” 

Sherlock stumbled up the steps alongside John, who was implacably calm and amused at his lack of grace. John held the fire exit door open.

“Want you.” 

Sherlock’s skin seemed to blaze with cold fire in response. His heart rate changed. Instead of focusing on the people around them, Sherlock was trapped inside a body desperate for release.

The lights were on in the blackout room.  Sally Donovan pulled Sonny to his feet. From the grazes on Sally’s knuckles and the bruise on Sonny’s cheek, he’d fought back too.  John stopped.  He removed his mic and earpiece and nodded for Sherlock to do the same.  Free of the mics, Sherlock watched John lick his lips and focus on the pale ‘v’ of skin visible at Sherlock’s throat.  

“Now?” Sherlock whispered. John nodded almost imperceptibly.

While the police shuffled around, Sherlock took John’s hand and led him upstairs to a storeroom he’d found on his first visit to Langridge’s.  It was a large room filled with spare desks, chairs and mattresses stacked up against the walls with white sheets thrown over them.  Sherlock didn’t bother turning on the light, he just pulled John into the darkness.

The kiss when it came was brutal. Their teeth knocked together and their tongues wrapped around each other.   John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair as he pulled his head down. Sherlock yanked the tied cord around his waist, stripped off his robe, then worked on John’s.  Both gowns gone, he skimmed his hands around John’s waist, unclipped the harness and let it fall. The dildo thumped heavily on the floor, followed shortly by Sherlock’s. 

“Lube, lube, lube,” John urged between kisses. They both bent over and started to scrabble through the robes to find the bottle.  They giggled as they worked until Sherlock found it and they both cheered in hushed whispers.  John dropped his pants and Sherlock dropped to his knees.  He licked the head of John’s cock and took it into his mouth.  Sherlock moaned as the tang of precome hit his tongue.  He broke away to squirt lube onto his fingers.

Sherlock reached between John’s legs and circled his hole with his finger before he slipped it inside.   John whimpered a little.  His arse was still loose and sticky from earlier.  Sherlock pushed a second finger inside easily and crooked them to find John’s prostate.  He was rewarded by a high-pitched wail before John’s knees buckled.   Sherlock reached around John and pushed him back. He’d seen what he thought was a chest of drawers from the hallway light when they walked in.  Skimming his fingers over it, Sherlock ascertained the chest stood at waist height and he guided John back and helped him to lie on top. 

Now in position, Sherlock eased his fingers back inside John.  He twisted them and nudged John’s prostate again. 

“More, there needs to be more,” John whispered.  “Quickly, please.” 

Sherlock inserted a third finger with little resistance.  John clutched at Sherlock’s arm to physically pull his digits further inside.  Sherlock’s cock twitched in sympathy as he let John guide his fingers in and out increasingly rapidly.  Sherlock reached for John’s cock and gave it a few steady tugs.

“In me, in me, in me,” John muttered.  He shoved Sherlock’s fingers free, curled his legs around Sherlock’s body and pulled him forward. He barely had time to position his cock before he was inside.  “You feel so much better than I ever imagined,” John whispered. “You’re mine, mine, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s instinct was to be slow and try not to get lost in sensation and pleasure.  But there was something about tonight.  They’d been damned close to fucking each other in the blackout room earlier, even if it was in front of Lestrade and Donovan.  Control simply wasn’t possible, and Sherlock fucked John with quick, deep thrusts. 

John sat up and wrapped his legs around Sherlock and reached up for a messy, sloppy kiss.

“Faster,” John whispered with a desperation that made Sherlock respond. “Faster.” He reclined and Sherlock saw John’s pale form spread before him in the dim light.  He clutched John’s hips and drove in and out. 

“I can’t hold on,” Sherlock said.  “You need to touch yourself.”  The tell-tale inner warmth that indicated his orgasm was clear started to glow. John’s skin burned beneath his palms. John pumped his own cock and his body tightened around Sherlock. Their combined desperate little huffs of breaths fluttered into the air with each stroke.

The slap of skin against skin echoed around the dark walls. The chest John lay on creaked and squeaked in sympathy. Sherlock heard hard breaths become grunts with each thrust and realised they were his.  His blunt nails dug into John’s skin and he clamped his teeth around his lower lip.  Sherlock knew his body had taken over; his transport was in control. His head rocked on his shoulders as his hips pistoned in and out.  Everything tightened and spiralled into a terrific climax that weakened his entire system. 

Sherlock’s body drooped and his eyes closed.  He leant forward and rested his hands on the chest of drawers.  John let out three cries, each louder than the last.  His legs tightened around Sherlock’s waist and when he heard John’s body flop down against the wooden chest, so too did Sherlock.

A few seconds passed. 

“Fuck me, that was good.” John stroked Sherlock’s hair.  “Have I told you how much I like to have your cock in me?” 

Sherlock chuckled.  “I had gathered that that was the case.”   He staggered back to his feet.

“Put your fingers in me,” John said.  “Go on.” 

Sherlock slipped his hand between John’s legs, buttocks and in.  The tight channel was wet with spunk and lube and the sphincter muscle spasmed around his fingers.

“Can you feel that?  It’s doing it itself,” John said dreamily.  “I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

Sherlock’s come oozed out of John and into his palm.  He kept his fingers in place until the intimate squeezes stopped, then wiped his hand on one of the dust sheets and used it to swipe at John’s chest and belly.  He helped John up and wrapped them both in their robes.

John stood in front of Sherlock, a sleepy smile on his face.  Sherlock watched him and smiled back.   They were standing in the darkened room, grinning at each other, when the door swung open.

“Alright, loverboys?”  Donovan asked. A smile spread slowly over her features.  “Mycroft Holmes just arrived.  He’s asking for you two.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

It was clear, as far as John was concerned, that Mycroft took a deep breath of relief when he saw that he and Sherlock were unharmed.  It was either that, or he was relieved John and Sherlock had just shagged.  John assumed the former was more likely.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft began in a booming voice.  “It is my duty to inform you that from this moment forward, this investigation will be taken over by the Organised Crime Tactical Support Team[1] under my command.”

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. Before he retorted, Myrcoft led him, Sherlock and John into an empty side room. 

“Before you say anything,” Mycroft said in a more conciliatory tone, his eyes focused on Lestrade, “let me explain.   The Home Secretary will demand to be kept up to date. With no intended insult, Detective Inspector, she’s my class and I know how to deal with her.  She’ll infuriate you.  Not only that, but there is the minor issue that you didn’t pass this operation over to Vice or to Organised Crime.  If I take this off your hands now, I can ensure you don’t end up in substantial trouble from your superiors.”

Lestrade looked up to the heavens, shook his head but remained silent. 

“I’ll have my officers take the evidence including the information from Sherlock and John,” Mycroft turned his gaze to his brother.  “I would like it very much if you’d please confirm that you haven’t just had sex on camera.”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a dildo in a harness, then handed it to Mycroft.  John repeated the motion.   Mycroft looked at the sex toys and then at Sherlock and John.   They smiled. 

“Oh Lord.”

John and Sherlock left.  Lestrade followed.  John caught his eye and suppressed a laugh until Lestrade started to giggle. Mycroft found them in the corridor, clutching either the walls or their stomachs, having dissolved into fits of laughter.  He rolled his eyes, tutted and left them, which, of course, made them laugh even more.

*

John lay back against Sherlock, both of them stretched out in the bath.  They’d already washed and now lay in the cooling water. Sherlock’s voice rumbled through his chest and vibrated against John’s back. 

“You know, I was quite willing to leave you out of the drugs bust if you’d asked,” Sherlock said.  “I’m glad you didn’t, but it’s strange. I’ve never felt this way; the way I feel about you and about Rosie.  Of course, I was always willing to lay down my life for you and your family.  I expected this to feel the same. It isn’t. Not at all.  My thoughts of you consume me.

“I found myself, at Langridge’s, to be utterly overwhelmed,” Sherlock admitted. “Not just because of my sexual inexperience, though that was dominant in my mind, but because suddenly, I valued us, our privacy and what we have.”

John grinned.  “Sounds like love to me.”  He turned in Sherlock’s arms, shivering a little. The water had become too cool to lie in.  “You know that I feel the same. The reason I took over was because I wanted to protect you, to take care of you.  That’s who we are, you and me. We look after each other, we love each other, and we bring up Rosie.”

“You bring up Rosie,” Sherlock replied.  “I’m just your partner.”

John kissed him.  “More than that.  I think that we ought to think about making that formal, you know.  If something happened to me, I’d want you to look after her.”

Sherlock looked concerned.  “I think we should move, now.” 

John watched him.  He got to his feet, climbed out of the bath and offered Sherlock a towel. He wasn’t surprised that Sherlock kept his back to him.  He patted Sherlock’s bum and opened the bathroom door. “Fancy a cuppa before bed?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. John didn’t mention the emotion he heard in Sherlock’s tone.

**

Mark Tyler was sitting on a beige sofa in a beige reception room in one of the many, faceless, Home Office buildings spread around London.   John and Sherlock sat on a beige sofa opposite.  Unlike their previous meeting, Tyler seemed pleased to see them. He welcomed them both with a handshake and a broad smile. 

“They’ve kept telling me about the case,” Tyler explained.  “I can’t believe it. I never thought that we’d get to this point.  I can’t thank you enough for seeing it through.”

Sherlock nodded. John did not smile.  He was too nervous.  In the relatively short time in which he’d known Mary, he didn’t know what he could trust. The man before him could be anything, from a relative to a husband. John didn’t much fancy being arrested for bigamy.

“I guess you want to know about me and Rosamund?”   

John blinked a few times at the name. To him, Tyler’s sister was Mary and his daughter was Rosie.  It hadn’t occurred to him that Tyler would know her under a different name. “Yes, yes please,” he replied.

“My parents weren’t well people,” Tyler began.  “Dad died while mum was pregnant and, by the time I was old enough to know, mum had met my stepdad.  He was a junkie and she became one too, pretty quickly. I didn’t know about Rosamund until I was taken into care.  It was pretty rare then that a brother and sister, especially when they don’t know each other, ended up with the same foster carers.”

“Mary was your sister?”  John asked.  His heart was beating out of his chest.  He’d been so sure that Tyler was a lover or a husband or an assassin or something awful. 

“Different dads,” Tyler said. “Mum’s life was chaos to say the least.”

“And your foster carers?”  John wrung his hands together.

“Died when I was twelve. Rosamund was fifteen. She got her own flat, finished school and she joined the army.  I was fucked,” Tyler admitted.  “No one wants to adopt a twelve-year-old kid who’s being an arsehole because he’s grieving. I was arrested for the first time when I was twelve. I didn’t even manage a year before everything fell apart. I went to twenty-seven foster homes or residential units before I was sixteen.  And I was already part of the criminal underworld.”

“I own a violin,” Sherlock said. “I’d have brought it if you’d told me I needed it.” 

Tyler laughed and then adopted a rougher accent that was, at one time, his. “There was a time that I’d have punched you for that.”

Sherlock grinned. “What made you turn to Europol?”

“Smack,” Tyler said.  “And my sister. I hadn’t seen her in years.  Rosa found me when I killed the real Mark Tyler.  She was sent to kill me. She watched me kill him and helped me take his identity. She got me into rehab and then got Europol to take me in.”

“So, you two stayed in touch?”  John asked.

“Always,” Mark replied. “She was good to know.  She worked for me every now and then.  And I know you probably want to know more about Rosa. The truth is, I only know so much.  She didn’t have that sort of life.  There were always secrets, yeah?   No one really knew Rosa. I can’t say I did.”

“Did she tell you about me?”  John asked.  It still hurt him that Mary had so many secrets. 

“Oh yeah,” Mark smiled.  “She loved you, mate.  I know she did.  You and Rosie.  That was the life she always wanted; the wife, the mum.  You gave that to her.”

John nodded.  He took a couple of deep breaths and felt the sharp prick of tears behind his eyes.  Sherlock reached over and squeezed his hand.

“I have a disc for you.”  Mark handed over a DVD.  “Mary asked me to give it to you.”

John looked at Sherlock, the words unspoken; not another fucking DVD.

“I know, I know,” Mark said.  “She sent dozens of the fuckers.  What the hell was that about?”  John shrugged, but took the disc.  “Oh, and there’s this.”  Mark handed over the thick wodge of cash that Sherlock and John had seen in Tyler’s safe deposit box.   John took the money and stared at it.  “It was Rosamund’s cash. I looked after it for her.  It’s yours now. Yours and your daughter’s.  Rosa never wanted there to be a will for this lot; she never wanted anyone asking questions about how she earned it.”

John continued to stare at the cash. It was more money than he had ever owned in his life. 

“You ought to see the wedge of cash my missus’ got. She used to work with Rosa. That’s how I met her,” Mark said.  “She knew we’d be a good match, even if it is mostly a professional relationship.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t do it anymore,” Mark said quickly.   “I promise.”

Sherlock grinned.  “I found your wife as hard to deduce as Mary. I mean, Rosamund.”

“Tricky fuckers,” Mark said as he nodded.   “Anyways, I wondered if it’d be okay if me and Les could come meet Rosie some time?” 

John heard the words but he was stunned. He stared at the money and let the conversation wash over him. 

“Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll get John to ring you?”  Sherlock said.  The next thing John knew, he was sitting in the back of cab with Sherlock.   The wodge of cash and the disc had gone.  John looked around. There was a thick bulge in Sherlock’s coat.  John took a deep breath.  What the fuck was going on?

**

John sat in the living room with his laptop.   Sherlock had taken Rosie out to the park so that he had some privacy.  John was still shocked, but also relieved that he hadn’t been a bigamist. It was always nice to discover that you hadn’t accidentally committed a crime.  He never got used to Mary’s falsehoods; even after death, she still had the ability to surprise him.   More than anything, he wished he’d known Tyler when Mary was still alive. It would have been nice to know her family, if only to fill in some of the gaps. 

John pressed the ‘play’ button to start the disc.  The computer whirred, the screen flickered and Mary appeared on the screen. 

“I feel like I’ve been making fucking DVD’s forever,” Mary said. She was sitting in the same room as in the other videos.  “I don’t trust letters.  I faked a few of those in my time.”  Mary looked down.  John knew she was ashamed of her past.  He found himself giving the Mary on his computer a sympathetic smile.  “So, I’m stuck with these.” She shook her head.  “Forgive me, but I’m going to make some pretty big assumptions now.  The deal is that I reckon you and Sherlock might actually get your act together. I always knew you loved him and I also knew you fancied him. Who wouldn’t? The man’s gorgeous.  By the way, if you haven’t got together with him yet, get your fucking arse in gear, mate.” 

John grinned.  Some women would be horrified that their so-called straight husband was going to get together with his male best-mate after their death.  Not Mary.

“The thing is, John, if you’ve got this disc then somehow you’ve met my brother. My guess would be that it’s a case, but it could be that Sherlock’s got himself mixed up with prostitutes or drugs.”  John felt himself blush.  “See I think you two should be together, but I also think Sherlock will struggle with it. Remember that he saved you?  Please, John, save Sherlock right back.  He’ll be a great husband for you and wonderful father for Rosie. But you need to convince him of that, John. He doesn’t know.  He’s outside the realms of his experience.  He doesn’t know he’s worth you two being together and he won’t until you convince him.  Personally, I think you should marry him and get him to adopt Rosie, but you know Sherlock best.”  Mary raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested she knew Sherlock incredibly well.  

“I’ve left you and Rosie enough money that you’re on a par with Sherlock financially,” Mary continued.  “That means you haven’t got to feel like you’re the poor relation.  So, look after him, John. I know he’s the best chance you and Rosie have of real happiness, so don’t mess it up.”  Mary smiled.  “He’s loved you selflessly for so long.  He doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s a brain on a stick and no one gives a toss about him apart from when he’s useful.  He learned that from the outside world. You and I had shitty parents and we learned only bad things from them. And both of us went to the military and they taught us. The army brought us up.  Sherlock didn’t have that chance. He had addiction, a snotty older brother and a lot of dead bodies.”

John thought back to Sherlock telling him that Mary had bestowed a value on his life that he didn’t know how to spend.

“Save the lanky bastard, John.  For Rosie. For yourself. For Sherlock. For me. I don’t care. I just know that you need to be together to give my daughter a good life. So, get to it, wanker.”  Mary smiled and blew him a kiss. 

John sat back.  The shock of before gave way to warmth that glowed in his chest.  He sat and luxuriated in it for a moment. Then, he went to see Mrs Hudson.  

*

“Mycroft, you’ve got to be able to do something.”  John’s hand around his phone was almost crushing it.  He was losing his temper. He knew it.  He was approaching a car crash and didn’t know how to stop.  “What’s the point in you…”

Sherlock walked in with Rosie.  “It’s a question I frequently have when I talk to my brother,” he said.  “Why are you saying it?” 

“Mary stuff,” John lied. 

“What?” Mycroft said on the other end of the phone. 

“Sorry, Mycroft,” John said.  His temper was gone.  Sherlock freed Rosie from her buggy and she ran at him, screaming with joy.  “I need to go.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft said. John hung up and swung his daughter into his arms.

“So, how was your walk?” John asked Sherlock.  As John looked at him, he knew that Sherlock was sceptical about his reason for speaking to Mycroft.  John looked at Rosie. “Did you go to see the ducks?” 

Rosie squealed and yelled, “Fucks!” John pretended not to notice.   Sherlock walked over and handed John a white, paper box.  Inside was cheesecake. The smell of lime and coconut drifted up from the box.

“Oh, you wicked man,” John said to Sherlock.  “This looks ducking amazing.”

“I fancied cheesecake like duck,” Sherlock agreed, his mouth twisted into a smile.  “I ducking love cheesecake.”

“Duck yeah,” John agreed.   He walked over to Sherlock, grabbed his scarf and dragged him in for a kiss.   “I might just ducking love you.  Did you know?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Think you might have mentioned it,” he said.  “Oh! Rosie found something for you.” He looked at the little girl, still in John’s arms.  “Which pocket did I put it in?”   Rosie pointed to Sherlock’s right coat pocket.  Sherlock withdrew the object in a closed hand and passed it to her to give to her father.  

Rosie pushed the item into John’s face. It almost went up his nose. When he retrieved it, he discovered it was a tiny piece of brown pottery.  “Um, that’s nice,” he said. He looked at Rosie and smiled.

Sherlock shook his head and looked at Rosie, who mimicked the action.  “This, John, is a piece of probably Roman pottery.”

“Noma,” Rosie said knowledgably. 

“It could be 2,000 years old,” Sherlock said.  “And your daughter found it.  How amazing is that?”  His excitement was clear.

“Then I am very honoured and pleased with my gift,” John replied.  “Thank you both.” John kissed Rosie and then Sherlock.   They smiled back at him.  “Thank you so much for taking her out and being amazing with her,” John said to Sherlock.  “You’re truly wonderful with her and with me.”

Sherlock blushed and dropped his head.  “Rosie found it,” he mumbled.   He stepped back, but John followed him. 

“And you saw the value of it,” John said.  “And you helped Rosie and me see it.  Thank you.  That’s all.”   John stepped back.  

Sherlock looked at him through his eyelashes and nodded.  John kissed his forehead.

“Right, now who has a stinky nappy?”  John asked Rosie.   “I think you do.” He tapped his daughter’s nose with his finger.  “If you’re very lucky, I’ll ask Sherlock if he’ll help you with potty training. I’m sure he’s got a spreadsheet already.”  John continued to chatter as he grabbed her changing mat. He heard Sherlock leave the flat.  “What are we going to do about Daddy Sherlock, hmm?” he asked Rosie.  “I hope Uncle Mycroft has a few ideas.”

*

John was in bed when Sherlock returned.  The room was dark, but John's eyes were acclimatised to the dim light. He stroked the small of Sherlock's back when he sat on the bed and took off his shoes and socks.  

"Okay?" John whispered.

Sherlock stood and removed his trousers. "Anything in Mary's video I need to worry about?" 

"Nah." John said, happy for the darkness.  "It was her telling me to get on and seduce you, really. The money is for my and Rosie's future."

Sherlock snorted. "We really ought to get the money in a bank, you know." 

"You mean you don't want to sleep on thousands of pounds every night?"  John opened the covers for the naked Sherlock to slip under them.   Sherlock lay on his back, John on his side. "I asked Mycroft. Apparently, no bank will accept all that cash. He's looking into options for me." 

"Aah," Sherlock replied.  

"Can I ask you an odd question?" John asked.

"The odder the better," Sherlock replied. 

"What do you think about marriage?" John heart beat hard in his chest.  "You and me. Y'know?" 

"I think if that's a proposal, it’s dreadfully underwhelming," Sherlock replied.  He turned to face John. "Is it too early?" 

"Only if we think so," John replied.  "See, here's the thing, we know each other better than most couples do. And it occurs to me that it's security for Rosie." 

"If anything happens to you, even if we're married, she won't automatically end up with me. I'm still not sure she should." 

"It'd be nice for her to know that we’re committed to each other. I'd like that too." 

Sherlock went quiet.  "Sleep?" He suggested. 

John knew the tactic. He counted on John forgetting about the conversation by morning. "Sure," he replied.  He rested his arm over Sherlock’s stomach. He traced the edge of Sherlock’s ribcage with his fingers and followed their curve.   As he reached the side, Sherlock turned to face John.

“I love you.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered in the dark.  “I’m still not entirely used to the fact that I can say that.  I never thought that would happen.”

“I never thought I’d be able to tell you that I love you,” John replied. “That way, anyway.” John let his fingers barely brush Sherlock’s skin.  “I like it.” 

Sherlock jumped when John brushed a ticklish spot.  He smiled.  “If you ever tell anyone, I will deny it.” 

“Understood.” John nodded. 

Sherlock brushed the sparse hairs on John’s chest.  “I don’t think I’ll ever want to be apart from you.” 

“Good.” John planted a hand on Sherlock’s bum to pull him closer.   “I wish I knew how to pay you a compliment without freaking you out.  I wish I knew what went on in that awesome brain of yours.”

“You don’t,” Sherlock said quickly.  His hand dropped to John’s waist, then further down. “I don’t want to be in my head most of the time. I wouldn’t want to put you through it.” 

“Oh, that’s good.”  John sighed.  Sherlock’s hand was around his cock, bringing it to full hardness with long, lazy strokes.   John wriggled his hand between them to reach Sherlock, but found himself rolled onto his back.  Sherlock kissed him with warm, dry lips. He opened his mouth and sucked John’s tongue.  John heard Sherlock rifle through the bedside table for a moment before the teasing movements over his erection began again.

Sherlock pulled up and away for a moment.  He squirted a cold drizzle of lube over John’s belly.  It felt rather wonderful on his cool skin. Sherlock lowered back down, and his slick cock rubbed against John’s.

“Are you doing all the hard work tonight, then?”  John asked rhetorically as Sherlock thrust against him achingly slowly. There was only just enough friction and it was already maddening.

Sherlock replied with another kiss. The touch of lips was tender and soft; a dozen little kisses peppered John’s lips.   He held Sherlock’s head and pulled him in for a deeper kiss until Sherlock collected his wrists and held them over John’s head and against the mattress.  He tipped his hips to rub their cocks together and John tried to thrust up to meet the action. Sherlock lifted until John stilled.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, desperate for more: more kisses, more friction, more Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock replied. He smiled and gave John a chaste kiss. “Let me show you love.” He kissed John briefly as he rocked towards him.  Each rolling thrust was accompanied by a gentle kiss.

For John, the pleasure looped and ebbed, grew and grew and then plateaued, all because of the maddening, haphazard nature of each thrust. Sherlock’s cock rubbed against his, then bumped his perineum or his arse, then rubbed against his hip or balls. While it all felt good, the pressure wasn’t always against his erection.   Sherlock seemed unhurried.  After a while though, his arms began to shake a little as he held himself over John.  Beads of sweat gathered across his forehead and he moaned with each stroke. 

Something changed in Sherlock’s attitude, whether it was discomfort or sheer arousal, but he pulled John’s chest to his and rested his elbows on the bed beneath John.  He thrust then with his hips only, meaning that each one was more directed and their groins were closer together.  John’s arousal grew.  He heard his own cries increase in volume with each thrust. 

“Oh, Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered.  John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s throat and, quite suddenly, the excitement in his belly jumped and he found himself of the verge of orgasm.

“Nearly,” John said, his lips against Sherlock’s skin.  “Almost. Almost.”

Sherlock rutted against him, faster and harder until John’s cries became a muffled howl of pleasure and he came and came. Sherlock moved against him a few more times and John fought his eyes open.  Sherlock’s back arched, every sinew tightened, and he came hot against their bellies.  As Sherlock crumpled, John rolled them so they could lie comfortably to get their breaths back.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stroked John’s face.  “Do you feel loved?” he asked. 

John grinned. “I feel like I’ve been held down and spunked on.” He winked. “But very loved.”

Sherlock smiled. “You have an odd definition of love.”

“Works for me,” John replied.  “Now, for God’s sake get me to a shower before we’re superglued together forever.”

[1] As far as I’m concerned, I’ve made this up. If it exists, I certainly don’t know anything about it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One

“He’s out of his depth and he’s out of the realms of his experience.  He doesn’t know he’s worth you two being together and he won’t until you convince him.”

Those words, from Mary’s disc, stood out for John and for Mycroft.  They sat in Mycroft’s office and gave each other nervy looks.

“I fear that, while Sherlock’s upbringing was good for his mind, it left gaps in other areas,” Mycroft admitted. “I admit that I have not encouraged his emotional development as, perhaps, I should. I, too, am rather short on that score.”

John pulled a face. He didn’t need to be told that the Holmes’ had a lack of emotional intelligence.   “That’s lovely, but what are we going to do?”

“Do we have to do anything?”  Mycroft asked.  “You’re happy, Sherlock’s happy and Rosie is happy. Why are we interfering with it?”

“Because Sherlock is now my boyfriend,” John replied.  “And while we’re okay now we’re in the honeymoon, let’s-have-as-much-sex-as-humanly-possible phase, soon Sherlock will realise that he’s in a proper relationship with emotions and responsibilities and all those things that are normal to anyone but a Holmes.”  John took a deep breath.  “Even now, little by little, it’s coming.  I thanked Sherlock yesterday for being good with Rosie because they found a little bit of pottery in the park.  Do you know what Sherlock did?  He ran away.  He couldn’t accept the compliment and he legged it.  If he can’t take a thank you, what will happen when Rosie calls him Daddy by accident?  I can see that coming, believe me.”

Mycroft’s face showed annoyance but also understanding.  “We can’t make him comfortable with it overnight, John.”

“No, but we could make a start,” John said.  “Take some of the sting out of it?”   He felt for all the world like hiding underneath Mycroft’s desk.   “Will you think some more about it?  Please?”

“I will,” Mycroft agreed. “I could go to see Sherlock and speak to him myself.”

“I think that’s fine,” John said quickly.  “We’ll save that as the big guns should we need it.  What are we going to do about the money?” John had let him off the hook, but the notion of Mycroft giving Sherlock advice on love seemed to be possibly the worst idea in the history of all ideas. 

“I’ve arranged for a cash in transit service to come and collect it and transfer it to Coutts. They will then arrange a bank transfer to your account.  The courier will give you the password ‘Lavender’.  I’ll text you his name, registration number and ID number in the morning when the job is allocated.”

“Fine.  Get back to me on the other thing then, yeah?”  John stood and walked towards the door.  

“I will endeavour to put together some sort of plan,” Mycroft replied. 

John didn’t know whether to be happy or incredibly scared. 

*

The cash collection went without a hitch, the whole episode was painless, professional and perfectly arranged.  The same could not be said for what followed. 

John had diagnosed himself within an hour. He was in the flat alone with Rosie while Sherlock visited a member of his homeless network. Or something.   The pain started in his bellybutton but got worse very quickly and moved south and right. He became nauseated and his temperature rose. He phoned Sherlock.

“I need you to come back to the flat,” John said. Even speech hurt. “Now. Mrs Hudson’s gone out, there’s no one to look after Rosie. I need an ambulance.”

“What?”  Sherlock sounded a long way away. Too far away.                                                                                                       

John took a breath and then ran.  “Hang on,” he squeaked before he leant over the toilet bowl and vomited profusely.  It hurt.  A lot.   He cried out in pain and tears ran down his face.  He sat on the bathroom floor. Rosie had followed him in and looked at him, terrified.  “Just come home. Please, Sherlock.”

“Already on my way,” Sherlock replied.   He didn’t hang up.  John heard him running.

“Where are you?”  John gasped out. He held a hand out to Rosie and she silently curled into his side.

“Not far,” Sherlock replied. “Just approaching Baker Street tube station.”

“I’m going to hang up and call an ambulance.”

“Don’t go.”  Sherlock was losing his breath.

“I need an ambulance, Sherlock,” John said.   “It’s appendicitis. I have a fever. This is bad.”  

“Wait.” 

John heard the street outside and the keystroke-sound of Sherlock texting.   “You can’t text an ambulance, you prick,” John yelled. 

“It’s on its way,” Sherlock said.  “Mycroft confirmed. I’m here.”

John stayed on the line. He didn’t know why.  Rosie started to sob.  “It’s okay, Rose,” he whispered. “Daddy’s okay, I just need some medicine.”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway.   “What can I do?”  He took John’s phone from him and ended their call. 

“Look after Rosie,” John said.  His voice really didn’t sound like his own.  “She needs you to stay calm.”   

Sherlock crouched and pulled Rosie into his arms. At first, she protested but when she saw who held her, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck and nuzzled in close.

“It’s alright, Rosie, Daddy’s just feeling unwell,” Sherlock said.  “He needs to go to hospital, which is a big place where there are lots of doctors…” The bell downstairs went and Sherlock left the room, Rosie still in his arms. 

John willed the ambulance crew to hurry.  He was holding that thought when he vomited again.   He was still being sick when the crew bustled into the room.

“This is Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock said. “He’s a GP and an ex-army doctor.  He thinks he’s suffering from appendicitis and he has a horrible tendency to get his diagnoses correct. This is his second bout of vomiting and he has a fever.”

The paramedics attempted to talk to John. Although he’d stopped vomiting, the pain in his abdomen was so severe after retching he just gasped and tried to breath.  John was barely aware of anything until he was loaded into the ambulance.  

“Are you coming in with us?” the female paramedic asked Sherlock.  “What d’you think’s best for the little one?” 

John, on a tide of pain relief, concentrated hard on not being sick again. 

“I think Rosie would like to stay with daddy for as long as possible,” Sherlock said. 

“Well, this daddy at least,” the paramedic winked.

John didn’t have the strength to panic. He looked at Sherlock, who blushed a little, nodded and pulled Rosie closer to his chest as he climbed aboard. 

“Addee,” Rosie said as Sherlock sat down. She reached for John and he made sure hold her hand in his.   “Addee Erwock, will Addee be okay?”  She looked up at Sherlock, her eyes wide and full of fright. 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.  He looked pale. Too pale.  “Remember what I said?  When we get to the hospital, the doctors will take Daddy away to mend his tummy.  Then he’ll stay there for a while until he’s all better.  But we can still see him all the time.” 

John met Sherlock’s eye and nodded.  “Phone?” 

Sherlock passed it over.  John texted Sherlock. “Mycraft,” he spelled out. “Tell him to sort so yoo look afer Rosie. You nex of king.”   John put his phone down and let the painkillers do what they should. 

*

Sherlock waited for Mycroft.  John was in surgery at St Mary’s Hospital and would then be transferred, courtesy of Mycroft, to the private Lindo Wing next door for recovery.  When he mentioned his status as John’s next of kin and as Rosie’s guardian, Mycroft simply told him to wait. 

Rosie was tired and clearly rather stressed. Sherlock took her to the cafeteria and fed her Victoria Sponge and a drink that was suspiciously too orange.  He ate dry Bakewell Tart and drank ghastly tea.  

“Hmm,” Mycroft’s voice came from behind Sherlock. “Rosie looks rather messy.  She may have to stay with Anthea.” 

“She’s staying with no-one,” Sherlock replied.  Mycroft wore aftershave and his best cufflinks. He carried his showiest umbrella. They were going somewhere official. 

“In that case,” Mycroft said as he lifted his phone and started to text. “We shall need clean clothes for her. Nappy too.  Anthea will meet us at Grosvenor House so we can change her.”  Sherlock nodded.  They were headed south west. Westminster?   “The car is waiting.” 

“John,” Sherlock said.  He easily kept up with Mycroft as they swept through the hospital towards the exit.

“The hospital will call when he’s out of surgery,” Mycroft replied. “They’re quite relaxed with you being his next of kin. Apparently, John kept repeating it over and over until he was anaesthetised.  They got the message. Still, it doesn’t hurt to make things official. And, we will have to ensure you retain care of Rosie.  I can’t see anyone challenging it, but let’s make sure, hmm?”

Rosie’s car seat was already in place and Mycroft took her from Sherlock’s arms to strap her into the car.  Sherlock climbed into the black Jag next to her.  Once Mycroft was seated, the driver steered the car out of the hospital complex and onto London’s streets. 

“He will be okay, won’t he?”  Sherlock said.  He wasn’t even sure he’d said it until he heard Mycroft’s voice catch. 

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.  “He’s under the care of the best medical team we could arrange. I would trust my own life with them.”  Sherlock snorted. High praise indeed. “It’s a routine operation, as far as these things go.”

Sherlock nodded and looked out onto the London streets. The roads were busy, but Mycroft’s driver was using side streets where he could until they needed to join Park Lane. “Where are we going?”  

“I told you,” Mycroft replied with an impatient sigh.

“After the hotel,” Sherlock clarified.

“I’m not at liberty to say. National security.” 

“Bullshit.”

“It appears that your endeavours with the Langridge’s case and the subsequent arrest of the Marquês de Evora has won you an ally. One that is very useful to your present situation.”   

“Sounds tedious,” Sherlock remarked.  It was a lie. His brother had clearly been very busy indeed and Sherlock was beyond grateful.

“Hardly, brother dear,” Mycroft replied.  His phone rang and he answered.  Sherlock pulled a face at Rosie, who regarded him with solemn contemplation.  Shortly after Mycroft ended his call, they arrived at Grosvenor House and they swept through the sumptuous beige and red lobby, into the lift and up to a private suite.

Inside, Anthea waited for them.  Laid out on a gold and black satin couch was a changing mat, nappies, and a red velvet dress for Rosie, a cream-coloured cardigan, tights and red satin shoes.  It all looked ridiculously expensive.  

Rosie was fractious and whiny as Sherlock peeled her out of her clothes. Her nappy was a horror and she managed to wee on the satin settee.  Sherlock giggled and when Rosie picked up on his glee she too, finally, smiled.  After that, the whole process went far more smoothly. Within ten minutes, Mycroft, Sherlock and Rosie swept out of the suite and left Anthea sponging child urine from the gold sofa. 

Back in the car, Sherlock could see that they were, indeed, headed in the direction of Westminster. He was, however, surprised when they pulled into Downing Street.   Sherlock buttoned his jacket as they were shown into number ten. As Rosie dozed in his arms, they were ushered into an anonymous-looking drawing room. 

“You do know who…” Mycroft began.  Before he could say more, a woman in a ridiculous tartan suit walked in.  She gave Sherlock a limp handshake and ignored Rosie altogether.

“Mister Holmes, it has come to our attention that you and your colleague have played a crucial role in the arrest of the Marquês de Flora.”

“Evora,” Sherlock correct.  The woman smiled fatuously. Sherlock assumed she was important. Rosie sniffed and pulled a face.

“I wanted to tell you how grateful we are for your assistance at this time when we’re seeking to extricate Britain from the European Union,” she said.  “I asked your brother, Mylord, if he could suggest a way in which we could show you our appreciation.  He suggested I ask you directly. So here we are.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied.  “My brother’s name is Mycroft.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “It is.”

Silence descended.

“So, what can we do for you to show our appreciation?” the woman asked.

Mycroft glared at the woman through his eyebrows; Sherlock noticed and realised that his brother didn’t like her.   He looked back at the woman.  The suit really did look awful on her.  Sherlock wished he’d attended this meeting naked, he felt sure her response would have amused him.

“My colleague and partner, Dr John Watson is presently undergoing emergency surgery at St Mary’s Hospital,” Sherlock said. “This is his daughter, Rosie. Doctor Watson was in the RAMC and served in Afghanistan. He works for the NHS and is an everyday hero and a wonderful father.  It is his intent that I am his next of kin and that I am legal guardian of Rosie along with him.  We need this to be arranged as a matter of extreme urgency.”

“Erm.” The woman floundered.  She looked at Mycroft and raised her eyebrows.  “I think, maybe, that, well, er, Mycroyd?” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock corrected.

“With your gracious consent, I’ll take care of it,” Mycroft replied.  He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his pocket.  “I just need your signatures here and here.”  The woman squinted at the papers but signed them anyway.

“So, that’s Mr Watson taken care of,” the woman said. “What about you, Doctor Holmes?”  She looked at Sherlock.  Mycroft raised a hand to silence him. 

“Sherlock and Dr Watson would like to raise Rosamund together,” Mycroft replied.  “Perhaps marriage. There’s a matter of fast-tracking the paperwork?”

“Of course, Mygroin” the woman said.  “Make it happen.”  Mycroft passed her several more papers to sign.  “Lovely.  Now, Mr Holmlock, please have faith that Mychord here will arrange it all for you,” the woman said with look of relief.  “Now, I simply must go. I am trying to run the country, you know.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. She had the good grace to blush before she walked out of the room.  Sherlock noted that her Louboutins were fake.

“She insisted on seeing you in person.”  Mycroft rolled his eyes.  “I did tell her that I could take care of it. However, her signature does ensure that no one at Whitehall can question any of this.  It was a rather neat solution.”

“Who is she?” Sherlock asked. 

“No one you need concern yourself with, brother mine. She’s only the Prime Minister.”

** 

Mycroft had arranged a parent and child room adjoining John’s suite at the hospital.  Sherlock took Rosie there for a nap while he waited for John to get back from surgery.  An hour after they arrived, one of Mycroft’s minions brought several cases that contained clothes for John, Sherlock and Rosie, some toys, chargers, electronics and books.   He also handed Sherlock a carrier bag with some food for Rosie, a sandwich for him and drinks. 

The stresses of the day had been hard on Rosie and she grizzled until she finally fell into a deep sleep.  Sherlock unpacked a little, then sat down and watched her as she snuggled into the soft sheets on her temporary bed.  Sherlock wasn’t sure when she’d become an essential to his life.   She and John were often the first thing he thought of when he awoke and the last before he slept.  He was excited by the thought of teaching her, playing with her, being with her.  Her life was his pleasure; to be a part of it seemed as essential to his well-being as taking each breath.  When was the moment that Rosie became a component of what made him Sherlock Holmes? 

When he looked at her, Sherlock could see the fair hair reminiscent of both her parents.  Her chin, nose and cheekbones looked similar to Mary’s but her lips, fulcrum and her eyes looked more like John.  She was a beautiful combination.  In terms of personality, Rosie had John’s temper and Mary’s relaxed and easy sense of humour. 

And yet, in Rosie’s temperament, Sherlock saw elements of himself.  When she focused on something, she truly focused.  She was observant and curious. Whilst Mary and John had those traits, Rosie seemed to have absorbed some of Sherlock’s nature. He knew, scientifically speaking, it was likely his traits were copied by Rosie.  After all, the difference, physically, between male and female bodies accounted for less than one percent of overall physiognomy.  As a student of human nature, Sherlock understood that the impact of hormones could not be overestimated. However, the nurture of children and their observations of the people around them were statistically significant in terms of their overall personality.  What surprised Sherlock was that Rosie was still so young.  Was it possible that she’d already subsumed some of his characteristics?

Before Sherlock could think in more detail, he heard the tell-tale sounds of a hospital bed being wheeled into the adjoining room.   He stood in the doorway, unwilling to interfere with the medical staff who moved John’s bed into place and positioned his drip and heart monitor.  John was semi-conscious.  He tilted his head towards Sherlock, gave him a confused look and smiled.

“Hello sexy,” John said, his voice slurred.  “I feel a bit tired, but if you gimme a while to have a nap, then we can have more jiggy-jiggy.”

The porter and nurse who’d accompanied John both turned to look at Sherlock.  He blinked a few times and felt himself blush.  “Jiggy?”  He said it, but no sound came out. He tried again. “Jiggy?” 

“Jiggy-jiggy,” John said with a smile.  “I could probably get a hard-on now.” He pushed against the sheets to expose himself.  Sherlock took a hasty step forward and held the bed clothes in place.  

“You’re in hospital, John. You’ve just had an operation.”

“People have sex in hopicals all the time.” John waved his hand emphatically.  “Even the patients.”  He laughed at his own joke.  The nurse bit her lip. The porter legged it.  “S’like the mile-high club ‘cept it’s not.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He wondered if he’d been quite this peculiar last time he recovered from an anaesthetic.  “I think you should focus on getting better now,” he told John.  “Everything else can wait.”   The nurse made her escape. 

John scowled at Sherlock as if he was having trouble focusing.  “Where Rosie?”

“Next door, having a nap,” Sherlock replied. 

“She poorly too?”  John’s face scrunched itself up and he began to cry.  “What’s happening?  Why are we all in hospical?  Even you.” He pointed at Sherlock and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Even you’re here.” 

“You’re in a private part of the hospical, I mean, hospital.  It’s a private suite. Rosie and I have a room just through there.”

“You don’ wan’ to sleep wi’ me no more?”  John started to cry again.  “I’s because I’m grey, innit?”

“What on earth would that have to do with anything, John?”  Sherlock replied.  He sat on the edge of John’s bed and stroked his silvery hair.  “I’m in the other room because you’ve just had surgery.  It’s for your health, not because I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“Still wan’ to see my knob?”  John asked.  His speech was slurring into being virtually unintelligible.

“Always,” Sherlock replied.  “Not right this moment, but I still like your knob very much.”

That would, of course, be the moment that Mycroft walked into the room. 

“Already?”  Mycroft said.  “You need to let him rest, Sherlock.  I can put you in touch with someone if you need, well, relief.”

John made a half-hearted attempt at crying again. 

“I don’t need relief!” Sherlock shouted.  Rosie began to cry from the other room. “He’s stoned,” Sherlock pointed at John.  “Rosie’s tired.” He went into the other room,  scooped her into his arms, and carried her back to the main room. “And you’re just annoying.” He nodded at Mycroft. 

“That may be, brother dear, but I’m annoying and have your adoption papers to sign as well as your marriage license.” 

“We get marriz?”  John asked between gentle snores.  “Ding dong bell shine.”

Sherlock took the paperwork from his brother. “Tomorrow,” he said. “All of it will be sorted tomorrow.”

“In that case, I’ll take you to dinner,” Mycroft said. “Let Doctor Watson have some rest and you and I can sample the visitor’s restaurant.  No arguments, brother mine. John would want you to keep your strength up.”

“What do you think?”  Sherlock asked Rosie. 

“Uncky Myc,” she said with a definitive nod. 

That was that decision made, then, which just left Sherlock to wonder if he could teach Rosie to call his brother Chunky Myc instead. 

*

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sherlock was surprised that both John and Rosie slept incredibly well in hospital.  He, on the other hand, did not.  He shared his time between the two of them, nervous that John might have a nightmare and pull his stitches, or that Rosie might wake and be scared when she found herself in a strange place.  Neither happened. 

As the week that John was in hospital progressed, Sherlock relaxed more.   The papers Mycroft had brought in were signed and returned.  It didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock that the papers made John very happy indeed.  As for Sherlock, he was quietly relieved.  In fact, by the time John returned home, all the staff called Sherlock Rosie’s daddy. John did not seem to mind. 

Little by little, over the following weeks John’s pain ebbed.  Sherlock undertook a few easy cases for Scotland Yard, but hespent more time around the flat than ever.  John found it hard to pick up or care for Rosie without hurting his wound.  As a result, Sherlock spent a lot of time at home. 

As John’s pain reduced, his interest in resuming their sexual relationship increased.  Sherlock had resisted.  He was concerned by John’s woozy, drugged response to Sherlock following his operation.  He wondered if he demanded sex too often?  He worried that John might accede to sex even though he didn’t feel well enough.  In fact, Sherlock pondered this issue one afternoon when John walked into the sitting room in a suit.  It was about six in the evening and Rosie was downstairs with Mrs Hudson.   

“Go get dressed,” John said. “We’re going out.”

“I could order take-away?”  Sherlock suggested.  “Or go pick up food?” 

“Fed up of both,” John said.  “I’ve booked us a table somewhere nice. You need to go and put on a suit.” 

“A normal, everyday suit or a really good suit?”  Sherlock got to his feet and stood in front of John, who wore a charcoal grey suit.  He looked trim, fit, happy and ridiculously sexy.   

“You don’t have everyday suits,” John said.  He pulled Sherlock’s head down for a quick kiss.  “Just put on a suit that you like.” 

Sherlock walked to the bedroom and flicked through his wardrobe.  He dismissed black; he didn’t want to be mistaken for a waiter, not tonight. He put on his blue Richard James Hyde suit, a silvery grey, fine pinstripe shirt and black tie.

“Wow,” John said when Sherlock walked back in. “You look damn good.”  He tugged Sherlock’s head down by his tie and Sherlock squeaked in alarm.  John gave him a deep, searching kiss.   Since both had been celibate of late, it didn’t take long for the kiss to become heated.  

“Unless,” Sherlock said between kisses, “you don’t intend to leave here, we really need to stop.”  He moaned as John reached down and grabbed his backside with both hands. 

There was a pause.  John let go of Sherlock and ended their kiss.  “Right,” he murmured against Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock took a deep breath.  When he reached for his coat, his hand revealed a slight tremor.  “Let’s go,” he said.

They took a taxi to a pop-up restaurant called Borage, housed on a roof terrace and enclosed in glass, in Southwark.  John and Sherlock were led to a private table that overlooked the river.   The lights of the city splintered across the tidal water and reflected the darkening skies with its pinhole stars.  Here, Sherlock was connected to his city. It was different to chasing through the streets, but he still felt London’s heartbeat; the rhythms and sounds that were uniquely its own.  

John ordered a bottle of Hambledon Première Cuvée.  For dinner, they had black pudding and broad beans to begin, followed by wild garlic and sage chicken with boulangere potatoes and purple sprouting broccoli. Before their dessert of treacle sponge and custard could be delivered, John smoothed his tie, cleared his throat and took Sherlock’s hand.

“You know, I don’t know what I’d’ve done without you when I got ill,” John started.  “It seems like a hundred years ago, but I was so worried before my appendicitis that I had to convince that you should be with me and Rosie.  When that happened, you just dealt with it, automatically.  I didn’t need to worry in the first place. I think you’d’ve always been there for us in practice, even if talking about it made you squirm.” 

Sherlock squeezed his lips together and nodded. 

“I need to show you how important you are to me,” John continued.  “I love you when you’re so sodding horny, you take my breath away. I love you when you wake up and take care of Rosie so I can sleep for another hour. I love you when you make the kitchen stink with your experiments, even though I think I shouldn’t. I love you when you’re grumpy, when you’re on a case and forget I exist, and when you stay at home to look after Rosie even though it’s driving you mad.  I love you when you freak out over a thank you, and when you won’t touch me because you’re scared of hurting me, even though you might come home to find me humping your fucking coat if you don’t shag me soon.  And I love you, even as you sit here, and a thousand different thoughts are going through that marvellous, dangerous mind.”  John reached into his pocket. Sherlock’s heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to run because this was so alien to him, but the desire to stay was stronger.  “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you please just marry me for heaven’s sake?”

The ring was silver and wood and Sherlock didn’t know if it was a wedding ring or an engagement ring but it was his, all his. He looked at John and nodded.

“Have I killed your power of speech?” John asked.  Sherlock nodded.  John raised his hand and suddenly there was more wine and John smiled and smiled.  He took Sherlock’s hand, slid the ring onto his finger, turned the hand over and kissed his palm.   “Are you okay?” 

Sherlock nodded.  “Overwhelmed?” John asked. 

Sherlock knew he had to come up with an answer. If he kept nodding, John would get worried and that was all shades and sizes of wrong.  He had the most unwelcome feeling that if he opened his mouth though, the only sound that would come out would be an ungainly squawk.  He took a deep breath and hummed to check his pitch.

“I never wanted to get married.”  Sherlock squeezed his lips together.  

John looked concerned. “Look if you don’t…”

“Stop.” Sherlock held up his hand.  “I realised, when Mycroft put the wedding licence in my hand, while you were under the influence of drugs and talking about jiggy-jiggy, that it didn’t scare me.  I never expected this. I thought you’d tell me it was time one day and we’d go to the registry office and get it done. I didn’t think, well, I didn’t think you’d want to do all of this again.  Properly.” John huffed.  Sherlock took his hand. “I should’ve realised that you would.  But I didn’t think this to be my life, John.  It is odd and strange and wonderful.  I want to be with you and Rosie always.  That’s what this ring stands for.” He raised his hand with John’s ring glinting in the light.  “And this one.” Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a green, velvet box. He slid it across the table.

John opened the box with a silly smile.  Sherlock had bought the ring from a jeweller who owed him a favour, while John was in hospital.  

“It’s made from the barrel of a shotgun,” Sherlock said. “It’s stronger than most others.  It seemed apt.”  He watched as John tried the ring on for size.   It looked solid and, somehow, just right. 

“It’s almost like you know me very well indeed,” John said with a wry smile. 

“I hate to bring an end to this romantic love-in, but can we have pudding?”  Sherlock asked.  “I really want pudding.” 

John chuckled and motioned to their waiter who swiftly delivered dessert.   It was well-worth every second of lost romance.

*

When Sherlock entered 221B Baker Street that evening, music was playing.  He turned to John who’d walked upstairs behind him and quietly shut the door. 

“Mrs Hudson,” John said with a smile.  “If everything went wrong, I was going to call her.  If she didn’t hear anything, then she knew it all went well.”

“Devious,” Sherlock remarked.  “I thought we’d been broken into by someone who wanted to dance.”

“Could be arranged,” John said.  He walked into Sherlock’s arms and put his hands around Sherlock’s waist.   They rocked slowly to the soft music.   

“And this music is..?”  Sherlock asked. 

“Stevie Wonder,” John replied.  “One of my favourites.  Course, this track is called ‘Superwoman’, which isn’t even remotely apt.  Very bitter and twisted, but a pretty tune.” 

“Bitter and twisted sounds more like us,” Sherlock said.  “There’s nothing straightforward about us. Nothing conventionally romantic or sweet.  I jumped off a roof in front of you, your wife shot me, and you blamed me for her death before having copious amounts of sex with a man who looked a bit like me.  I think bitter and twisted sounds fine.  At least we’ve twisted together and not apart.  God, that sounded trite. You should shoot me now.”

John huffed out a laugh.  “Maybe we’ll pass on the romance?  Go straight for strangeness and copious amounts of sex?”   John fluttered his eyelashes.  

“Do you know how worried you made me about demanding too much sex?  You were stoned off your head and begging for a moment to recover before you had to perform again.  The nurse looked at me as if I were a sex offender.”  

John’s laughter had turned to tears of hilarity. 

“It isn’t funny,” Sherlock said.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in relationships, John.  I have to rely on you to tell me if I’m expecting too much sexual activity.  I don’t know. And now you want me to start the sex thing again, and how do I know if it’s the right time?   I have observed that when people first begin a sexual relationship they have more sex than normal, but I don’t know what normal is.” 

John wore an odd smile and he reached up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek.  “You got it right.  I wanted sex every single time.  Just lately, I’ve wanted you so badly I can’t tell you.  I woke up yesterday morning shagging your pillow. You were in the shower.  Did you not wonder why I was changing the bedclothes at that time of the morning?  And what about last Wednesday?” 

Last Wednesday was drilled into Sherlock’s mind.  He’d woken himself in the middle of the night demanding that John went faster.  John had been on top of him, barely awake, thrusting against him.  John’s hand was wrapped around Sherlock’s cock.  Sleepy John came on his hip and flopped back on the bed.  He’d snored before Sherlock had time to grasp his own cock.   When they woke the following morning, John had regaled him with a story of a wet dream he’d had, only to find Sherlock less than impressed.  If anecdotal evidence was true and that was what women dealt with on a regular basis, Sherlock wasn’t sure how they managed not to kill their partners.

“What I’m trying to say,” John said, his face flushed with embarrassment, “is please, please take me to bed and… well, you know.”

“Make love to you?”  Sherlock finished. 

“Is that mushy?  Ridiculous?” 

“You’ve just taken me to a romantic restaurant to propose, had Mrs Hudson arrange soft music for our return and now you’re worried about being ridiculous?”  Sherlock tugged John against him and kissed him hard, his tongue pushing into John’s mouth before their lips met.    He ended the kiss, grabbed John’s hand and dragged him through the living room, the kitchen and into the bedroom. 

“Clothes. Off.”  Sherlock said as he worked on his cuffs and shrugged off his jacket.   He’d wrestled himself free of everything but his pants when he looked up to see John squeezing lube into his palm.  

“Don’t you dare do that yourself,” Sherlock said.  He took the lube from John and motioned for him to get onto the bed.   After crawling over, Sherlock kissed a line down John’s chest and groin.  He grasped John’s cock and licked a stripe down its length before sucking the head into his mouth.

“Oh fah-king hell.”  John’s thighs trembled and his hips lifted off the bed. “Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus fucking mother of God.”

Sherlock pressed a slick finger against John’s hole and swirled his tongue over the head of John’s cock.   John’s internal muscles clenched, then relaxed as Sherlock worked one, then two fingers in and out.   He pulled off John’s cock and removed his fingers in order to yank John’s bedside table open.

“Where’s your vibrator?”  Sherlock asked.   He moved John’s trashy novel aside and found the toy. 

“I’d rather have you.”  John’s slick fingers pressed inside himself. 

Sherlock found a packet of baby wipes, cleaned lint off the anal vibrator and slicked it with lube.  All the time, he barely stopped watching John.  When he finally stopped John’s exertions, his hole was open and wet with lube. The vibrator slipped in easily and Sherlock used its remote to put it on the lowest setting.

“Please, yes, yes, oh, oh, I can’t tell, jeez, how good, good, so good.” John thumped the bed and opened his legs wider. 

Sherlock pressed giggling kisses along the inside of John’s thighs.  He pushed a slick finger inside against the slim vibrator and directed it to John’s prostate.

“Sherlock!” John’s eyes opened wide.  He stopped breathing for a moment and his hips rose as he arced off the bed.   “I’m going to come too soon, too soon if you don’t…”  John’s cock dripped with clear precome and Sherlock reached out to give it a slow stroke. 

“God, yes, yes.” John bucked up into Sherlock’s hand and then back against the vibrator.    “More, more, please, more.”  Sherlock leant forward and guided the dripping head of John’s cock between his lips.  The salty bitterness spread on his tongue and he sucked hard.  “I’m almost there, love.” 

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled.  He clicked the vibrator off and John hummed long and low as if he’d been powered down.  His eyes closed. 

“What do you want, my love?”  Sherlock stroked John’s face until his breathing slowed and he opened his eyes. 

“That vibrator’s amazing,” John said.  “But lethal.  You can’t use it on me if you want me to last more than about three minutes.”

Sherlock wrapped a hand around John’s cock and stroked him up and down.  John’s cock was smooth and stiff against his palm.  Sherlock flicked the vibrator back on and pushed another finger in alongside it. 

“Oh, oh, oh!”  John’s hips thrust hard in the air, almost dislodging Sherlock’s hands.  “Please, please, please…”

“What do you want, my love?” Sherlock asked again.  He let John’s cock go, mindful of his admitted lack of control.  John’s hips still rose as he fucked thin air above him and drove back down onto Sherlock’s hand and the vibrator pushed deep inside.

“Hurry, Sherlock,” John said.  “Inside me.  Want you.” 

Sherlock slowly eased his hand and the vibrator free.  John groaned at their loss.  He took his erection in hand, squeezing the shaft with slow strokes.  Sherlock slicked himself up.  It felt so good to touch his neglected prick and if it weren’t for John’s sighs as he stroked his own dick and fingered his arse, Sherlock might have continued. 

“Come on,” John said.  He looked at Sherlock, his face as flushed red as his eager cock.  The sounds of his hands working over and inside him filled the air.  “Uh.”  John’s hips lifted again.  “Please, Sherlock. I need you.” 

Sherlock crawled over him.  John let go and hitched his legs up, around Sherlock’s waist.  He clung on with slick fingers as Sherlock lined up his cock and slid in with a slow glide. John pushed up against him.  Sherlock was deep inside before he realised it.

“Oh love, that feels so good.”  John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders with both hands.   

Sherlock had planned a gentle, slow night of sensuous pleasure.  John had other ideas.  He writhed against him, fucking himself until Sherlock’s body reacted.   Each rolling thrust began carefully, but ended with a sharp jab of his hips, his cock plunging inside.

“Vibrator, now,” John demanded, his eyes open.  Sherlock paused as he scrambled for the toy.  He leant back on his heels and John’s legs slipped down to the bed.  “Let me turn,” John said, and he rolled onto his front.  He got up on his knees, his elbows on the mattress and he presented his arse.  After he’d re-lubed the vibrator and his dick, Sherlock re-entered John.

“Vibrator, vibrator.”  John’s head dropped between his arms and he groaned when Sherlock pushed the vibrator inside next to his cock.  “On, on,” John prompted. 

Sherlock juggled the remote with slippery hands.  He turned the vibrator on at a medium setting, then dropped the controller as shivers of pleasure overwhelmed him.  The vibrations against his cock were delicious.

“Yes,” John hissed.   He clutched at the bed clothes beneath them and tilted up his hips.  Sherlock’s thrusts must’ve moved the vibrator against John’s prostate because he squirmed and cried out, pushing back against each thrust.  “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” John mumbled as they rocked together, the motion thumping the headboard against the wall.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry, I’m not going to last.”  Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight and arched his neck. The vibrator was against the underside of his cock, rubbing his fraenulum and buzzing the head.  It was almost much too much but far too good to stop.  Sherlock clutched John’s hips and fucked him with firm, fast strokes. 

“Just, just…”   John started to speak but a guttural howl took over.  John’s untouched cock shot thick spurts of come up John’s chest and the bed beneath them. His body reflexively tightened and relaxed in waves. He sagged in Sherlock’s arms.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock thrust again, then again, shallower, faster.  John’s hand reached back and grabbed Sherlock’s hip and pulled him in, deeper until it reached the heart of them both.  Sherlock came with an intensity that buckled and surprised him.  For a while, all he knew was searing pleasure that seemed to radiate outwards and made his mind and limbs feel warm and liquid. 

Sherlock felt John pull the vibrator out and he rolled sideways.  John collapsed next to him.  With his last coherent thought, Sherlock pulled John close and just breathed. 

*

It was two in the morning when John woke Sherlock.  The bed was crunchy and unpleasant. Sherlock realised his bladder was full when he heard John pee.  A quiet, naked debate decided that between an unpleasant bed or showers, damp flannels and clean sheets won out.

Sherlock yawned as he stuffed a pillow into a clean case.  John tucked in the last layer of sheets and blankets.  He stood.  

“You know you’re a bit funny about your bum?” 

Sherlock paused for a moment. He stopped stuffing. He took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s heart thudded in his chest.  The question formed heavy in the misty air between them. 

“Was there, y’know, anything that happened?”  John picked up the bedspread and threw it over the bed.

“Anything?”

“Did anyone hurt you?” John smoothed the deep red fabric over the bed.

“Lots of people hurt other people.” Sherlock threw the pillow on the bed and picked up another.

“Yes, they do.”

“We can’t talk about this now.”  Sherlock rammed the pillow into its case with such force he heard the stitches creak.  “I will.  One day.”

“Doesn’t matter,” John said.  He moved next to Sherlock and took the mangled pillow from him.  “It only just occurred to me that I never asked. I just assumed. I won’t push.  Your secrets are yours to tell.”

Sherlock nodded.  John smoothed out the pillow, put it on the bed and climbed back in. 

“Come on,” John lifted his arm for Sherlock to cuddle up, head rested on his uninjured shoulder.

Sherlock nodded again.   Before he turned off the light, the darkness crept in, even in his room where pictures and polished furniture refracted the light from the street below into fractured slivers.  The past was coming back to haunt Sherlock.  All he could hope was that it didn’t swallow John too.