Fic: The Adventure of Kitty Riley - Sherlock/John - 2/3
Title: The Adventure of Kitty Riley
Rating: PG-13
Alternate link: AO3
Category: Sherlock/John
Length: ~11,000 words in total
Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show’s writers and its actors.
Warning: Rated for non-explicit naughty bits. Post-Reichenbach.
Summary: Kitty Riley has started using her position as a tabloid journalist to blackmail people. After his return, Sherlock decides to do something about it.
This part: Sherlock goes on a date, then he and John do some breaking and entering and walking around in the dark holding hands.
John ate his bacon sandwich and flicked through the feeds from the external cameras. Sherlock had texted him from the restaurant as planned and John had obediently taken the Tube to Hampstead Heath to take his place in the surveillance van. He bit angrily into his sandwich and reflected that it wasn’t fair that Sherlock of all people was on a date. It occurred to him that he had been on many dates while he lived with Sherlock Before, but he doubted Sherlock had been this upset about them. Right. Because Sherlock wasn’t in love with John. John rubbed his face and flicked through the surveillance feeds to take his mind off the situation.
To his surprise, there was a new feed. Sherlock had apparently seized an opportunity and was setting up the bug he’d prepared, though he possibly didn’t realise that the van was already scanning for its signal and John would be able to see it immediately.
It initially gave John an excellent view of Sherlock’s nostril hair and an earful of static, but when Sherlock moved away, John was able to admire almost the entirety of Riley’s gaudily-decorated living room. Sherlock was alone for a few seconds, his keen gaze taking in the entire room, no doubt reading everything there was to know about Riley’s life from her possessions. Sherlock stopped looking around when he was joined by his date.
John had to admit that, as dates went, Sherlock had made a nice choice. Agathe the maid was tall and handsome, with very dark skin and intricately braided hair. She was carrying two drinks that looked as if they might be wine, and gave Sherlock a smile which suggested that he was about to get lucky.
“Santé,” she said, raising her glass.
Sherlock repeated the word and for one horrible moment, John thought they were going to speak French to each other. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to remember that despite French being taught in every secondary school in the country, ordinary British people never learned to speak a word of it. He switched to English again.
“Nice place, innit?” he remarked, his affected "Chav" accent sounding strange to John’s ears.
“Yes, Miss Riley is very rich. She sells people’s secrets in the newspaper.”
“Yeah, I know, read her stuff in The Sun,” said Sherlock with a smile. He sipped his wine. “Nice wine. Châ-” He interrupted himself before identifying the wine. John scoffed at the idea of Sherlock being good at disguises; it would be a miracle if he could suppress his Smart Alec tendencies for more than an hour at a time. “Don’t like her much, do you?”
Agathe pursed her dark lips. “No, she is a bad woman. The other day, a woman came and was crying and Miss Riley told her bodyguard to put the woman outside. She always say bad things about me also, about my accent and how do I look, and how do people live in my country.” She gave a Gallic shrug; something the French had apparently passed on to their former colonies. “But I go to Paris this weekend. I have a holiday, then I finish the term at school and I go back to Senegal with good English.”
“You’re visiting your fiancé this weekend?” asked Sherlock with interest; John could see the calculating look on his face. “How will Ms Riley survive without you?”
Agathe’s eyes widened. “How you know about Claude?”
“Overheard your conversation with him the other day,” said Sherlock, putting on a sheepish smile. John thought he looked adorable. “It’s all right, I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“Good,” said Agathe with a laugh. “We agree he can play with French girls if I can play with English boys.”
“I’m not sure you got the best of that particular deal.” Sherlock gave her a cheeky smile. “Though I s’pose a plumber from Peckham’s a bit exotic if you’re from Dakar, innit?”
Agathe took Sherlock’s glass and put it on the mantelpiece beside them. “You are not a plumber, Shezza Escott.”
She moved closer and Sherlock shrank back slightly, though he said nothing when she put her hand on his chest. He tilted his head with curiosity; John realised with a painful jolt that it was the same appraising look Sherlock had given Irene Adler when they first met.
“You are, how you call it, ‘casing the joint’?” said Agathe carefully. “It is meaning you look for opportunity to burglar the house?”
“‘It means you are looking for an opportunity to burgle the house’,” corrected Sherlock, because apparently even when he was rumbled and in a potentially dangerous situation, he couldn’t suppress his inner supply teacher instincts. He had dropped the accent. “You think I am a thief?”
“Maybe,” said Agathe nonchalantly. “I am not thinking it is good to burglar people’s things, you know. But she is very rich and not a good person, so I do not mind.”
Sherlock blinked, apparently mesmerised by her black eyes on him. “I’m a private detective,” he said. “I need information stored on Riley’s laptop.”
“Oh, a détective like Hercule Poirot,” said Agathe with a laugh. John could tell from the crease at the top of Sherlock’s nose that he didn’t remember who Hercule Poirot was.
“But more handsome,” she added. “Her laptop, Riley, she is always leaving it in the office when she is asleep. She uses a tablet in bed. The conservatory door is not always locked because she thinks the back door is safe. But maybe the key, it is left in the back door sometimes. I will text you the code for the alarm so you can turn it off if she has put it on. You can come this weekend when I am not here.”
“Thank you. How do you know I’m not lying? I might just be a thief. I could sneak in tonight and steal all your possessions too; your mobile phone, all the jewellery your mother gave you.” He leaned forward and murmured, “I could ravish you in your sleep.”
Agathe drew white teeth over her lower lip. “I know you are not a bad man, private détective.”
Sherlock observed her with curiosity. “You’ve been down the pub with me twice and you know I am not a bad man?”
“You are a lonely man and you are very sad.” She rubbed his chest gently and leaned closer. She was tall enough that her lips were almost level with his. “But you have a good heart.”
“I’m a lot older than I look,” blurted out Sherlock.
Her lips were almost touching his now. “You are looking thirty-five years old, maybe? I think you are looking good.”
John’s heart missed a beat as Agathe leaned forward and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. He had never seen anyone kiss Sherlock before, and even his own imagination had left him unprepared for how arousing he found it. Arousing and of course, hideously painful.
“Opinion is quite divided on that subject,” said Sherlock, apparently unable to stop himself even though he made no effort to stop her kissing him again. “In fact-”
She cupped his head and pressed her lips to his more firmly. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and to John’s horror, he opened his mouth and started to kiss her back.
John grabbed his phone and dialled Sherlock’s number. On screen, Sherlock jumped away from Agathe. His lips were wet.
“Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, bloody hell. Sorry, I have to go. Riley is on her way back.”
“Oh, you can come in my room, she will not see you.”
“No, um, best not,” said Sherlock, though John was sure he was tempted. “Thank you, but my ... colleague will be expecting me.”
The obvious response to that one would have been to suggest that Sherlock call John and tell him not to wait, but Agathe didn’t insist. She picked up their glasses and gave Sherlock another quick kiss before hurrying out of the room. Left alone, Sherlock breathed in deeply and ... was he actually adjusting himself?
John had returned to the front passenger seat when Sherlock reached the van a few minutes later. Sherlock was back to his usual self and swung into the driver’s seat, an enthusiastic grin on his lips as he started the engine and drove off.
“John, do we still have those ninja costumes we wore a few years ago?”
“Possibly. I don’t think Mrs Hudson threw any of your clothes away while you were gone.”
“Excellent. Agathe will be away this weekend and she’s given me some pointers on how to get into the house to get Riley’s laptop. Where is Riley, anyway?”
“She isn’t back yet,” admitted John.
“Then why did you call me?” asked Sherlock, sounding curious rather than angry.
“Why, did I interrupt anything important?” snapped John.
“Well-” started Sherlock before he glanced at John and understanding lit up his face. “You were watching. Of course. The eavesdropping device is still connected to the equipment in this van.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. I obviously didn’t expect you to see that.”
Now that the subject was out in the open, John couldn’t help showing some of his anger. “Since when do you have sex? I never saw you with anyone while we lived together!”
“She kissed me. I wasn’t having sex with her,” mumbled Sherlock. “And anyway, you more than made up for me with all those girlfriends you had. You definitely had sex with them. That was a little difficult to ignore!”
“You were listening?”
“I have very sensitive ears,” said Sherlock petulantly. “And you’re a very good lover judging by the amount of noise they were making.”
“Knowing my luck, they were probably faking it,” said John, though he was secretly pleased.
“Oh, no, they weren’t,” said Sherlock. “That’s why they came back for more even after they’d met me.”
He grinned and John couldn’t help but smile back. Sherlock turned his attention to the road and drove the van back to the garage where they kept it hidden.
They walked back to the flat in silence; Sherlock’s mind already seemed to be on the planned break-in that weekend. He pounced on his laptop as soon as they came home, leaving John to check his own emails and read his book in silence.
“You’re surprised that I enjoyed kissing Agathe,” said Sherlock suddenly.
John put down the e-reader and stared at Sherlock a moment. “Well, um, yes, I suppose I am a bit.”
“You thought I was asexual.” Sherlock’s eyes were on his laptop and it was hard to tell how he felt about the conversation from his light tone. “I’m not.”
“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Okay. And I suppose Mycroft is wrong about, er, sex being alarming for you.”
“Yes.” Sherlock looked up at John over the laptop’s screen and John’s heart missed a beat. “It is always a mistake to theorise without full possession of all-Ah, sorry.”
He looked down at the text message that had just made his phone beep. He smiled and leaned back in his seat.
“John, are you up for a little breaking and entering this weekend?” asked Sherlock as his long thumbs slid across the screen, entering a reply. “According to Agathe, we’ll have to break in while Riley is in the house,” he added. He gave John a knowing smile. “Very dangerous.”
“My favourite thing.”
They didn’t discuss Sherlock’s date any further, which left John feeling both relieved and frustrated. Sherlock plunged into the preparations for the break-in with his usual gusto while John finished off an otherwise humdrum week with a late night on Friday. Sherlock didn’t mention Agathe again, so neither did John.
It wasn’t until John was sitting in the back of the van again, feeling faintly ridiculous with a full ninja costume under his plumber’s overalls, that he plucked up the courage to ask whether Sherlock would to see Agathe again after the current adventure.
“I doubt it,” replied Sherlock, his eyes focussed on a video feed of Riley’s bedroom window. The light had been off for a while but they needed to be sure she was asleep. “Agathe will spend this weekend rekindling her romantic relationship with her fiancé Claude, and it is doubtful whether she will even bother to return to England to finish her course. The whole endeavour was largely designed to prove her independence as she does not intend to be a traditional wife.”
“Right, so playing with English boys was just asserting her independence.”
“Yes, it is quite possible that she didn’t intend to sleep with me at all.” Sherlock’s eyes were still on the screen, but John was observing him closely enough to notice him purse his lips. Not being Sherlock, John wasn’t sure what it meant. “It seems unlikely given ... but possible. I’ve never understood women.”
That was quite possibly the most blokey thing Sherlock had ever said. “I can’t say I do either,” said John with a laugh. “Harry says it isn’t because women are complicated, just that men are stupid.”
“I’m not stupid,” said Sherlock. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what goes on in women’s heads.” He paused and then added, “I don’t like women. Not that I don’t find some of them attractive or intelligent or useful. I don’t dislike women. But when it comes to-“ He looked pained but persevered. “I have come to realise that my emotional needs are not fulfilled by the company of women.”
“Right.” John hesitated, but then decided to state matters clearly, just to make sure he was following this conversation. “You prefer men?”
“Yes.”
John’s heart skipped a beat. If Sherlock preferred men, then that meant there was a chance... He stared at Sherlock’s profile. Why was Sherlock sharing this now? Was it just because his kiss with Agathe had confirmed his sexuality; or was he trying to tell John something? Aside from the fact that he was gay, that is.
“You didn’t know that?” asked Sherlock with a frown.
“What, that you-you, um, no, I didn’t, no.”
"Of course not. You thought I was asexual."
"Yes." John imagined what would happen if he reached out and touched Sherlock’s chiselled cheek. Would Sherlock recoil in horror or would he lean into the touch? After all, Sherlock being gay didn't mean he was attracted to John.
“Her light has been off for an hour now,” said Sherlock. “We should go.”
“Wha- oh, yes. Right.”
They exited the van into the cold night air and walked around to the garages in an adjacent road, where they quickly removed their coats and overalls to reveal their black outfits. Sherlock, of course, looked good in the tight-fitting ninja costume, only his small almond-shaped eyes and wide eyebrows showing in the slit in the black material. John on the other hand, still felt ridiculous.
However, this was no time for sartorial pride. Sherlock hoisted himself easily up onto the concrete roof of the garage and dropped down into the private garden behind it. John sighed, picked up the tool bag Sherlock had instructed him to bring and, with some difficulty, climbed up after him. By the time Sherlock had vaulted over five more six-foot fences as they made their way through the gardens on Riley's street, John's romantic feelings were all but forgotten, and he wanted to strangle Sherlock rather than snog him.
Riley’s home was a large semi-detached house in a row of houses that had once all been identical, but now sported a variety of mismatched extensions on the back, side and roof. Hers also boasted a full width plastic-framed conservatory on the back of the rear extension. As in most urban areas, even in the depth of night, the garden wasn’t truly dark and Sherlock and John had to furtively dart from the back shed to the water feature to the side of the conservatory in the hopes of not being seen by any of the neighbours. Given the number of burglaries, rapes and murders that happened in densely populated areas of London without anyone seeing a thing, John presumed they were pretty safe, but it was best to be prudent; he quickly identified all the windows that overlooked the garden to check that no one was looking out. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins.
After they had lurked in the shadows for a couple of minutes, Sherlock picked up the toolbag and started work on the double-glazed window on the side of the conservatory facing the side fence. Though he was still keeping a lookout, John couldn’t help admiring Sherlock as he carefully cut though the plastic beading around the outer window pane until the glass was loose. He then used a fine carbon blade to break the glass neatly so he could shimmy the pieces out. John couldn’t help wondering where Sherlock had learned this particular skill.
Sherlock removed the inner pane much the same way, then reached into the conservatory through the now unglazed opening and moved some of the decorative items on the windowsill inside. John expected Sherlock to climb in through the window, but instead, he walked around to the conservatory door, pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
“Take your shoes off, John,” he hissed as he carefully stepped into the conservatory sideways. He then walked backwards towards the window he had removed and forward again, keeping his steps the same forward and back to leave only one set of muddy footprints apparently leading from the window.
“A child could see through that, but it should fool the police,” he commented quietly. “John, your shoes.”
Muttering under his breath about how he always got the short end of the stick, John removed his shoes and followed Sherlock into the conservatory. Sherlock locked the conservatory door again, this time leaving the keys inside, and repeated the same trick on the back door, painstakingly removing the double-glazing only to then unlock the door with the key that was already on the other side of the lock.
The extended kitchen was plunged in darkness. John could barely make out the contours of the modern minimalist table and counters. Before he could find his bearings, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the back of the room.
The house smelled of cigarettes; even John could work out that Riley must be a smoker. He wondered what would happen if she came downstairs and found two men in black creeping around in the dark, holding hands. He tried to chase the Men in Black theme tune from his mind as Sherlock, who apparently included the ability to see in the dark among his many talents, continued to lead him through the house.
Sherlock was taking a very roundabout route and it took John a moment to realise that he was collecting eavesdropping devices as he went along. They finally passed through what felt like the fifteenth doorway-John nearly tripped over the threshold-and into the hallway. John could just make out the fake stained glass window above the front door and the staircase opposite it. The house was double-fronted, a long side extension filling up half of what had probably once been a very wide gap between this house and the one next door, and there were doors on either side of the entrance hall. Sherlock led John to the left, into the old part of the house. This room appeared to be used as a study and was illuminated by the flickering light of an Internet router and the standby lights on various household appliances like the large TV mounted on the wall and the Sky box beneath it. After the near complete darkness of the kitchen and hallway, John found that he could make out the details of this room quite clearly. Riley’s laptop was on a desk in front of the bow window, whose long curtains were drawn.
Sherlock let go of John’s hand-although they were both wearing gloves, John had quite enjoyed that and felt a little disappointed-and went over to look at the laptop. He pulled down his mask and John followed suit, much relieved not to have the material covering his face anymore.
John stayed in the doorway, intending to keep lookout again, though he noticed that there was another door into the room, opposite the window, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Riley came anyway. It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t recognise them both the minute she saw them.
Looking around the hallway, John caught sight of a glint of metal on the front door and realised it was the door chain reflecting some faint light from the study. It took him a moment to realise that it was dangling down rather than fastened to the door frame as an added obstacle to any intruders stupid enough to come through the front door. On a hunch, John went over and tried the catch on the front door and found it completely unlocked.
“Sherlock,” he hissed.
John switched on his phone and used it to light up the door; there was a bolt, which was also unfastened. He fully expected Sherlock to ignore him as he was probably already engrossed the laptop, so it came as a bit of a shock when Sherlock whispered in his ear, having apparently sneaked up on John in the darkness.
“I don’t like this, John,” he murmured. “I’ll try to be quick.”
It was probably John’s imagination, but Sherlock’s lips seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary by John’s ear. Combined with the adrenaline already pumping through his veins, the thought sent a rush of desire through John and he had to call on all his military training to focus on the dangerous situation they were in. Sherlock was already a man of dubious repute after hoodwinking the British public into believing he was dead. Any judge or jury would throw the book at him if he was caught breaking and entering.
When they returned to the study, Sherlock connected a USB key to the laptop and sat at the desk to type, his pale features ghostly in the screen light. John thought he looked beautiful, his lightning mind at work solving a problem, oblivious to his surroundings.
John had to interrupt his admiration though when he heard the tone of a mobile phone text notification, followed by the creak of a floorboard upstairs. He froze, working out the direction of the footsteps. Maybe Riley was simply going to the loo? On the other hand, if she was texting, she must be fully awake, and besides, it was unlikely that someone with so many enemies would go to bed without at least locking her front door.
The footsteps were heading towards the back of the house, where the bathroom probably lay, positioned above the kitchen. But that was also where the staircase started on the upper floor. Sherlock had also heard the noise and was disconnecting the pen drive. He nodded towards the floor to ceiling curtains hanging across the bow window and they both slipped behind them just as Riley came down the stairs.
Fortunately, she didn’t immediately come into the study. Sherlock’s gloved hand slipped into John’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Though he appreciated the gesture, John wasn’t sure that Sherlock had noticed what he could see in the tiny gap between the curtains; the laptop’s screen was still on. John gave Sherlock’s hand a quick yank to attract his attention.
“Laptop,” he whispered as quietly as he could.
Sherlock leaned over to look through the gap and John could just make out his long nose and surprised expression in the bluish light from the screen.
“She might not come in,” hissed Sherlock, leaning close to John’s ear again.
John wanted to retort that they couldn’t be certain about that. But when he turned to talk to Sherlock, he found that his friend was still leaning down close to him and they bumped noses. Then they weren’t just face to face in the dim light but actually mouth to mouth.
The tension John had felt since they broke into Riley’s house seemed to fuel his passion and he kissed Sherlock, his heart beating wildly. The extraordinary thing was that Sherlock, whom he had believed was asexual until only a few days earlier, was kissing him back. They were both completely lost in the kiss when the light in the room came on and they sprang apart. The expression on Sherlock’s face was unguarded, and much the same mixture of surprise and pink-lipped arousal that John had seen on his face when Agathe kissed him earlier in the week. Sherlock was clearly not used to being kissed. Aware of the danger they were now in, John pulled up his mask and Sherlock did the same, though he slipped his hand into John’s again.
Fortunately, Riley was engrossed in her phone and didn’t notice the laptop screen or the curtains, which were moving slightly following Sherlock and John’s moment of passion. It occurred to John that if Riley decided to open the curtains, she would find two Men in Black who were not only holding hands but visibly aroused too.
Rating: PG-13
Alternate link: AO3
Category: Sherlock/John
Length: ~11,000 words in total
Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show’s writers and its actors.
Warning: Rated for non-explicit naughty bits. Post-Reichenbach.
Summary: Kitty Riley has started using her position as a tabloid journalist to blackmail people. After his return, Sherlock decides to do something about it.
This part: Sherlock goes on a date, then he and John do some breaking and entering and walking around in the dark holding hands.
John ate his bacon sandwich and flicked through the feeds from the external cameras. Sherlock had texted him from the restaurant as planned and John had obediently taken the Tube to Hampstead Heath to take his place in the surveillance van. He bit angrily into his sandwich and reflected that it wasn’t fair that Sherlock of all people was on a date. It occurred to him that he had been on many dates while he lived with Sherlock Before, but he doubted Sherlock had been this upset about them. Right. Because Sherlock wasn’t in love with John. John rubbed his face and flicked through the surveillance feeds to take his mind off the situation.
To his surprise, there was a new feed. Sherlock had apparently seized an opportunity and was setting up the bug he’d prepared, though he possibly didn’t realise that the van was already scanning for its signal and John would be able to see it immediately.
It initially gave John an excellent view of Sherlock’s nostril hair and an earful of static, but when Sherlock moved away, John was able to admire almost the entirety of Riley’s gaudily-decorated living room. Sherlock was alone for a few seconds, his keen gaze taking in the entire room, no doubt reading everything there was to know about Riley’s life from her possessions. Sherlock stopped looking around when he was joined by his date.
John had to admit that, as dates went, Sherlock had made a nice choice. Agathe the maid was tall and handsome, with very dark skin and intricately braided hair. She was carrying two drinks that looked as if they might be wine, and gave Sherlock a smile which suggested that he was about to get lucky.
“Santé,” she said, raising her glass.
Sherlock repeated the word and for one horrible moment, John thought they were going to speak French to each other. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to remember that despite French being taught in every secondary school in the country, ordinary British people never learned to speak a word of it. He switched to English again.
“Nice place, innit?” he remarked, his affected "Chav" accent sounding strange to John’s ears.
“Yes, Miss Riley is very rich. She sells people’s secrets in the newspaper.”
“Yeah, I know, read her stuff in The Sun,” said Sherlock with a smile. He sipped his wine. “Nice wine. Châ-” He interrupted himself before identifying the wine. John scoffed at the idea of Sherlock being good at disguises; it would be a miracle if he could suppress his Smart Alec tendencies for more than an hour at a time. “Don’t like her much, do you?”
Agathe pursed her dark lips. “No, she is a bad woman. The other day, a woman came and was crying and Miss Riley told her bodyguard to put the woman outside. She always say bad things about me also, about my accent and how do I look, and how do people live in my country.” She gave a Gallic shrug; something the French had apparently passed on to their former colonies. “But I go to Paris this weekend. I have a holiday, then I finish the term at school and I go back to Senegal with good English.”
“You’re visiting your fiancé this weekend?” asked Sherlock with interest; John could see the calculating look on his face. “How will Ms Riley survive without you?”
Agathe’s eyes widened. “How you know about Claude?”
“Overheard your conversation with him the other day,” said Sherlock, putting on a sheepish smile. John thought he looked adorable. “It’s all right, I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“Good,” said Agathe with a laugh. “We agree he can play with French girls if I can play with English boys.”
“I’m not sure you got the best of that particular deal.” Sherlock gave her a cheeky smile. “Though I s’pose a plumber from Peckham’s a bit exotic if you’re from Dakar, innit?”
Agathe took Sherlock’s glass and put it on the mantelpiece beside them. “You are not a plumber, Shezza Escott.”
She moved closer and Sherlock shrank back slightly, though he said nothing when she put her hand on his chest. He tilted his head with curiosity; John realised with a painful jolt that it was the same appraising look Sherlock had given Irene Adler when they first met.
“You are, how you call it, ‘casing the joint’?” said Agathe carefully. “It is meaning you look for opportunity to burglar the house?”
“‘It means you are looking for an opportunity to burgle the house’,” corrected Sherlock, because apparently even when he was rumbled and in a potentially dangerous situation, he couldn’t suppress his inner supply teacher instincts. He had dropped the accent. “You think I am a thief?”
“Maybe,” said Agathe nonchalantly. “I am not thinking it is good to burglar people’s things, you know. But she is very rich and not a good person, so I do not mind.”
Sherlock blinked, apparently mesmerised by her black eyes on him. “I’m a private detective,” he said. “I need information stored on Riley’s laptop.”
“Oh, a détective like Hercule Poirot,” said Agathe with a laugh. John could tell from the crease at the top of Sherlock’s nose that he didn’t remember who Hercule Poirot was.
“But more handsome,” she added. “Her laptop, Riley, she is always leaving it in the office when she is asleep. She uses a tablet in bed. The conservatory door is not always locked because she thinks the back door is safe. But maybe the key, it is left in the back door sometimes. I will text you the code for the alarm so you can turn it off if she has put it on. You can come this weekend when I am not here.”
“Thank you. How do you know I’m not lying? I might just be a thief. I could sneak in tonight and steal all your possessions too; your mobile phone, all the jewellery your mother gave you.” He leaned forward and murmured, “I could ravish you in your sleep.”
Agathe drew white teeth over her lower lip. “I know you are not a bad man, private détective.”
Sherlock observed her with curiosity. “You’ve been down the pub with me twice and you know I am not a bad man?”
“You are a lonely man and you are very sad.” She rubbed his chest gently and leaned closer. She was tall enough that her lips were almost level with his. “But you have a good heart.”
“I’m a lot older than I look,” blurted out Sherlock.
Her lips were almost touching his now. “You are looking thirty-five years old, maybe? I think you are looking good.”
John’s heart missed a beat as Agathe leaned forward and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. He had never seen anyone kiss Sherlock before, and even his own imagination had left him unprepared for how arousing he found it. Arousing and of course, hideously painful.
“Opinion is quite divided on that subject,” said Sherlock, apparently unable to stop himself even though he made no effort to stop her kissing him again. “In fact-”
She cupped his head and pressed her lips to his more firmly. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and to John’s horror, he opened his mouth and started to kiss her back.
John grabbed his phone and dialled Sherlock’s number. On screen, Sherlock jumped away from Agathe. His lips were wet.
“Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, bloody hell. Sorry, I have to go. Riley is on her way back.”
“Oh, you can come in my room, she will not see you.”
“No, um, best not,” said Sherlock, though John was sure he was tempted. “Thank you, but my ... colleague will be expecting me.”
The obvious response to that one would have been to suggest that Sherlock call John and tell him not to wait, but Agathe didn’t insist. She picked up their glasses and gave Sherlock another quick kiss before hurrying out of the room. Left alone, Sherlock breathed in deeply and ... was he actually adjusting himself?
John had returned to the front passenger seat when Sherlock reached the van a few minutes later. Sherlock was back to his usual self and swung into the driver’s seat, an enthusiastic grin on his lips as he started the engine and drove off.
“John, do we still have those ninja costumes we wore a few years ago?”
“Possibly. I don’t think Mrs Hudson threw any of your clothes away while you were gone.”
“Excellent. Agathe will be away this weekend and she’s given me some pointers on how to get into the house to get Riley’s laptop. Where is Riley, anyway?”
“She isn’t back yet,” admitted John.
“Then why did you call me?” asked Sherlock, sounding curious rather than angry.
“Why, did I interrupt anything important?” snapped John.
“Well-” started Sherlock before he glanced at John and understanding lit up his face. “You were watching. Of course. The eavesdropping device is still connected to the equipment in this van.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. I obviously didn’t expect you to see that.”
Now that the subject was out in the open, John couldn’t help showing some of his anger. “Since when do you have sex? I never saw you with anyone while we lived together!”
“She kissed me. I wasn’t having sex with her,” mumbled Sherlock. “And anyway, you more than made up for me with all those girlfriends you had. You definitely had sex with them. That was a little difficult to ignore!”
“You were listening?”
“I have very sensitive ears,” said Sherlock petulantly. “And you’re a very good lover judging by the amount of noise they were making.”
“Knowing my luck, they were probably faking it,” said John, though he was secretly pleased.
“Oh, no, they weren’t,” said Sherlock. “That’s why they came back for more even after they’d met me.”
He grinned and John couldn’t help but smile back. Sherlock turned his attention to the road and drove the van back to the garage where they kept it hidden.
They walked back to the flat in silence; Sherlock’s mind already seemed to be on the planned break-in that weekend. He pounced on his laptop as soon as they came home, leaving John to check his own emails and read his book in silence.
“You’re surprised that I enjoyed kissing Agathe,” said Sherlock suddenly.
John put down the e-reader and stared at Sherlock a moment. “Well, um, yes, I suppose I am a bit.”
“You thought I was asexual.” Sherlock’s eyes were on his laptop and it was hard to tell how he felt about the conversation from his light tone. “I’m not.”
“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Okay. And I suppose Mycroft is wrong about, er, sex being alarming for you.”
“Yes.” Sherlock looked up at John over the laptop’s screen and John’s heart missed a beat. “It is always a mistake to theorise without full possession of all-Ah, sorry.”
He looked down at the text message that had just made his phone beep. He smiled and leaned back in his seat.
“John, are you up for a little breaking and entering this weekend?” asked Sherlock as his long thumbs slid across the screen, entering a reply. “According to Agathe, we’ll have to break in while Riley is in the house,” he added. He gave John a knowing smile. “Very dangerous.”
“My favourite thing.”
They didn’t discuss Sherlock’s date any further, which left John feeling both relieved and frustrated. Sherlock plunged into the preparations for the break-in with his usual gusto while John finished off an otherwise humdrum week with a late night on Friday. Sherlock didn’t mention Agathe again, so neither did John.
It wasn’t until John was sitting in the back of the van again, feeling faintly ridiculous with a full ninja costume under his plumber’s overalls, that he plucked up the courage to ask whether Sherlock would to see Agathe again after the current adventure.
“I doubt it,” replied Sherlock, his eyes focussed on a video feed of Riley’s bedroom window. The light had been off for a while but they needed to be sure she was asleep. “Agathe will spend this weekend rekindling her romantic relationship with her fiancé Claude, and it is doubtful whether she will even bother to return to England to finish her course. The whole endeavour was largely designed to prove her independence as she does not intend to be a traditional wife.”
“Right, so playing with English boys was just asserting her independence.”
“Yes, it is quite possible that she didn’t intend to sleep with me at all.” Sherlock’s eyes were still on the screen, but John was observing him closely enough to notice him purse his lips. Not being Sherlock, John wasn’t sure what it meant. “It seems unlikely given ... but possible. I’ve never understood women.”
That was quite possibly the most blokey thing Sherlock had ever said. “I can’t say I do either,” said John with a laugh. “Harry says it isn’t because women are complicated, just that men are stupid.”
“I’m not stupid,” said Sherlock. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what goes on in women’s heads.” He paused and then added, “I don’t like women. Not that I don’t find some of them attractive or intelligent or useful. I don’t dislike women. But when it comes to-“ He looked pained but persevered. “I have come to realise that my emotional needs are not fulfilled by the company of women.”
“Right.” John hesitated, but then decided to state matters clearly, just to make sure he was following this conversation. “You prefer men?”
“Yes.”
John’s heart skipped a beat. If Sherlock preferred men, then that meant there was a chance... He stared at Sherlock’s profile. Why was Sherlock sharing this now? Was it just because his kiss with Agathe had confirmed his sexuality; or was he trying to tell John something? Aside from the fact that he was gay, that is.
“You didn’t know that?” asked Sherlock with a frown.
“What, that you-you, um, no, I didn’t, no.”
"Of course not. You thought I was asexual."
"Yes." John imagined what would happen if he reached out and touched Sherlock’s chiselled cheek. Would Sherlock recoil in horror or would he lean into the touch? After all, Sherlock being gay didn't mean he was attracted to John.
“Her light has been off for an hour now,” said Sherlock. “We should go.”
“Wha- oh, yes. Right.”
They exited the van into the cold night air and walked around to the garages in an adjacent road, where they quickly removed their coats and overalls to reveal their black outfits. Sherlock, of course, looked good in the tight-fitting ninja costume, only his small almond-shaped eyes and wide eyebrows showing in the slit in the black material. John on the other hand, still felt ridiculous.
However, this was no time for sartorial pride. Sherlock hoisted himself easily up onto the concrete roof of the garage and dropped down into the private garden behind it. John sighed, picked up the tool bag Sherlock had instructed him to bring and, with some difficulty, climbed up after him. By the time Sherlock had vaulted over five more six-foot fences as they made their way through the gardens on Riley's street, John's romantic feelings were all but forgotten, and he wanted to strangle Sherlock rather than snog him.
Riley’s home was a large semi-detached house in a row of houses that had once all been identical, but now sported a variety of mismatched extensions on the back, side and roof. Hers also boasted a full width plastic-framed conservatory on the back of the rear extension. As in most urban areas, even in the depth of night, the garden wasn’t truly dark and Sherlock and John had to furtively dart from the back shed to the water feature to the side of the conservatory in the hopes of not being seen by any of the neighbours. Given the number of burglaries, rapes and murders that happened in densely populated areas of London without anyone seeing a thing, John presumed they were pretty safe, but it was best to be prudent; he quickly identified all the windows that overlooked the garden to check that no one was looking out. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins.
After they had lurked in the shadows for a couple of minutes, Sherlock picked up the toolbag and started work on the double-glazed window on the side of the conservatory facing the side fence. Though he was still keeping a lookout, John couldn’t help admiring Sherlock as he carefully cut though the plastic beading around the outer window pane until the glass was loose. He then used a fine carbon blade to break the glass neatly so he could shimmy the pieces out. John couldn’t help wondering where Sherlock had learned this particular skill.
Sherlock removed the inner pane much the same way, then reached into the conservatory through the now unglazed opening and moved some of the decorative items on the windowsill inside. John expected Sherlock to climb in through the window, but instead, he walked around to the conservatory door, pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
“Take your shoes off, John,” he hissed as he carefully stepped into the conservatory sideways. He then walked backwards towards the window he had removed and forward again, keeping his steps the same forward and back to leave only one set of muddy footprints apparently leading from the window.
“A child could see through that, but it should fool the police,” he commented quietly. “John, your shoes.”
Muttering under his breath about how he always got the short end of the stick, John removed his shoes and followed Sherlock into the conservatory. Sherlock locked the conservatory door again, this time leaving the keys inside, and repeated the same trick on the back door, painstakingly removing the double-glazing only to then unlock the door with the key that was already on the other side of the lock.
The extended kitchen was plunged in darkness. John could barely make out the contours of the modern minimalist table and counters. Before he could find his bearings, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the back of the room.
The house smelled of cigarettes; even John could work out that Riley must be a smoker. He wondered what would happen if she came downstairs and found two men in black creeping around in the dark, holding hands. He tried to chase the Men in Black theme tune from his mind as Sherlock, who apparently included the ability to see in the dark among his many talents, continued to lead him through the house.
Sherlock was taking a very roundabout route and it took John a moment to realise that he was collecting eavesdropping devices as he went along. They finally passed through what felt like the fifteenth doorway-John nearly tripped over the threshold-and into the hallway. John could just make out the fake stained glass window above the front door and the staircase opposite it. The house was double-fronted, a long side extension filling up half of what had probably once been a very wide gap between this house and the one next door, and there were doors on either side of the entrance hall. Sherlock led John to the left, into the old part of the house. This room appeared to be used as a study and was illuminated by the flickering light of an Internet router and the standby lights on various household appliances like the large TV mounted on the wall and the Sky box beneath it. After the near complete darkness of the kitchen and hallway, John found that he could make out the details of this room quite clearly. Riley’s laptop was on a desk in front of the bow window, whose long curtains were drawn.
Sherlock let go of John’s hand-although they were both wearing gloves, John had quite enjoyed that and felt a little disappointed-and went over to look at the laptop. He pulled down his mask and John followed suit, much relieved not to have the material covering his face anymore.
John stayed in the doorway, intending to keep lookout again, though he noticed that there was another door into the room, opposite the window, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Riley came anyway. It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t recognise them both the minute she saw them.
Looking around the hallway, John caught sight of a glint of metal on the front door and realised it was the door chain reflecting some faint light from the study. It took him a moment to realise that it was dangling down rather than fastened to the door frame as an added obstacle to any intruders stupid enough to come through the front door. On a hunch, John went over and tried the catch on the front door and found it completely unlocked.
“Sherlock,” he hissed.
John switched on his phone and used it to light up the door; there was a bolt, which was also unfastened. He fully expected Sherlock to ignore him as he was probably already engrossed the laptop, so it came as a bit of a shock when Sherlock whispered in his ear, having apparently sneaked up on John in the darkness.
“I don’t like this, John,” he murmured. “I’ll try to be quick.”
It was probably John’s imagination, but Sherlock’s lips seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary by John’s ear. Combined with the adrenaline already pumping through his veins, the thought sent a rush of desire through John and he had to call on all his military training to focus on the dangerous situation they were in. Sherlock was already a man of dubious repute after hoodwinking the British public into believing he was dead. Any judge or jury would throw the book at him if he was caught breaking and entering.
When they returned to the study, Sherlock connected a USB key to the laptop and sat at the desk to type, his pale features ghostly in the screen light. John thought he looked beautiful, his lightning mind at work solving a problem, oblivious to his surroundings.
John had to interrupt his admiration though when he heard the tone of a mobile phone text notification, followed by the creak of a floorboard upstairs. He froze, working out the direction of the footsteps. Maybe Riley was simply going to the loo? On the other hand, if she was texting, she must be fully awake, and besides, it was unlikely that someone with so many enemies would go to bed without at least locking her front door.
The footsteps were heading towards the back of the house, where the bathroom probably lay, positioned above the kitchen. But that was also where the staircase started on the upper floor. Sherlock had also heard the noise and was disconnecting the pen drive. He nodded towards the floor to ceiling curtains hanging across the bow window and they both slipped behind them just as Riley came down the stairs.
Fortunately, she didn’t immediately come into the study. Sherlock’s gloved hand slipped into John’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Though he appreciated the gesture, John wasn’t sure that Sherlock had noticed what he could see in the tiny gap between the curtains; the laptop’s screen was still on. John gave Sherlock’s hand a quick yank to attract his attention.
“Laptop,” he whispered as quietly as he could.
Sherlock leaned over to look through the gap and John could just make out his long nose and surprised expression in the bluish light from the screen.
“She might not come in,” hissed Sherlock, leaning close to John’s ear again.
John wanted to retort that they couldn’t be certain about that. But when he turned to talk to Sherlock, he found that his friend was still leaning down close to him and they bumped noses. Then they weren’t just face to face in the dim light but actually mouth to mouth.
The tension John had felt since they broke into Riley’s house seemed to fuel his passion and he kissed Sherlock, his heart beating wildly. The extraordinary thing was that Sherlock, whom he had believed was asexual until only a few days earlier, was kissing him back. They were both completely lost in the kiss when the light in the room came on and they sprang apart. The expression on Sherlock’s face was unguarded, and much the same mixture of surprise and pink-lipped arousal that John had seen on his face when Agathe kissed him earlier in the week. Sherlock was clearly not used to being kissed. Aware of the danger they were now in, John pulled up his mask and Sherlock did the same, though he slipped his hand into John’s again.
Fortunately, Riley was engrossed in her phone and didn’t notice the laptop screen or the curtains, which were moving slightly following Sherlock and John’s moment of passion. It occurred to John that if Riley decided to open the curtains, she would find two Men in Black who were not only holding hands but visibly aroused too.