Sherlock fanfic: Connection part 1
From the following prompt on the sherlock kinkmeme: ( link) "I have decided to take care of my virginity.
Please arrange for a suitable
partner.
SH
That's good to hear.
Tomorrow 8 p.m.
MH
Sherlock of course expects some exotic youth trained in Kama Sutra, because Mycroft is nothing if not thorough. Cue a middle-aged army doctor in a cuddly jumper appearing at his doorsteep, smiling and asking for a cuppa. Because yes, Mycroft is very, very thorough at everything he does."
It was, not surprisingly, a case that drove Sherlock to it. He was, as he often admitted, happily married to his work; baser instincts like lust were just that, base. Beneath him. But hearing Sally Donovan’s snort of laughter, seeing the quickly-suppressed smirk on Lestrade’s lips when his logic stumbled over the sexual motive of a murder suicide hammered the point home. Sherlock tolerated their scorn, but he would not allow himself to be mocked by them. Anderson’s smug, disgusting, knowing face haunted him. Anderson understood sex. Even he had seen the connection that Sherlock had missed. It was unacceptable.
The consulting detective typed out the text quickly (efficiency, not nerves, he commented silently to his skull) and sent it to Mycroft, not bothering to initial at the end. The message itself would be enough blackmail material for his brother; he wanted some plausible deniability that he’d sent it. (His skull did not point out the obvious, that someone impersonating him would surely have adopted his signature texting style, which is why he greatly preferred the skull’s company to a vast majority of the people he’d met).
Mycroft’s response, that he will send over a suitable partner to relieve him of his virginity at 8pm the next evening, came quickly; Mycroft either had an appropriate partner ready for Sherlock before he’d asked, or he was incredibly confident in his ability to find one within twenty-four hours.
Sherlock didn’t like the implications of either. He hoped, rather counterintuitively, that Mycroft would fail to produce someone fitting, just so he could lord his brother’s failure over him.
By five o’clock the next evening, Sherlock had driven his landlady out of Baker Street with his restless antics. He had at first attempted to clean the flat, but then decided that if whoever Mycroft sent was deterred by a few severed fingers on the coffee table, they were obviously not suitable. He had then conspired to make his flat even more inhospitable, only stopping when he reasoned that simple spite did not merit disrupting his experiment on frostbitten noses.
For a while, he paced, played some screeching notes on his violin, and eventually, took up the handgun he’d pinched from Lestrade and began shooting the wall. Mrs. Hudson had been less than pleased, but the exercise she got when she stormed out of the flat to complain to Mrs. Turner next door would only help that hip of hers, so Sherlock counted it as a kindness.
By six, Sherlock collapsed on the sofa, curls in disarray and pajamas peeking out from beneath his dressing gown. He reviewed some of the anatomical diagrams he’d pulled up earlier on his laptop, trying to understand how the stimulation of a few nerve bundles and the exchange of bodily fluids could push one to murder.
At seven forty-three, Sherlock shut down the computer and changed into a suit. If he was going to meet with whatever high class prostitute Mycroft was sending, he would do it on his own terms, and carry it out like any of his other experiments, with full confidence in his brilliance. He combed back his hair and buttoned up his tailored shirt.
The detective expected a knock on the door at 8pm precisely, but none came. He stared at the doorway for a full two minutes. Hmm. A wry smile worked its way across his face. Mycroft had failed. He had lost, and therefore Sherlock had won.
His smile quickly faded. No sexual partner meant no sexual encounter. He would not be able to experience, to learn, to categorize sex into one of the convenient file folders in his head. Donovan and Anderson would laugh again. Sherlock had lost.
The detective ran his fingers through his hair and collapsed on the sofa once more, weighing the pros and cons of this turn of events.
At eight twelve, the doorbell buzzed. Sherlock paused, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to answer it, before remembering she’d gone out. Opening the door would involve getting up, going down stairs, and speaking to whatever idiot waited on the other side. It might not even be the one Mycroft sent; it was statistically possible that the person buzzing was a delivery man, or a solicitor, or some lost tourist asking directions.
The bell buzzed again.
“Why should I get up for someone who’s late?” he asked his skull sulkily. A third time, the bell rang out. Sherlock dragged himself off of the sofa. He descended the staircase, hoping that the information he gained from this experiment was worth it.
Sherlock opened the door before the person outside had a chance to ring a fourth time or give up. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected from his brother; some tragically beautiful call girl, or perhaps an exotic love guru, but not this. This man (early 40s, shorter than average, past military career, currently in the medical profession, slept on a sofa last night, his mind provided), he could safely say, was not at all what he’d prepared himself for.
The man smiled up at him and mentioned how dreadfully much he could use a good cuppa right now, and Sherlock realized that Mycroft, that devious blighter, must have something up his sleeve.
“I’m John,” the man at the door stated, in a tone that suggested Sherlock already knew who he was.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replied, not budging from the door. John picked up a suitcase he’d sat down on the steps with his left hand, and a cane leaning up against 221 Baker Street with his right.
“Shall we, then?” he asked, nodding toward the building.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Ahem, yes, of course. This way.”
--------
Sherlock wasn’t sure how the sexual congress would initiate, so he decided to let John lead, and fell back into his default mode of deduction. John stood, glancing around the flat, no longer relying on his cane for support yet not asking for a chair. Limp: psychosomatic. Tan lines, haircut: military, Iraq or Afghanistan. A mark on his neck where a stethoscope had rested for a number of hours, just recently removed, and the smell of antiseptic still clinging to his clothes: doctor, arrived straight from work.
“I…guess I’ll put on the kettle then?” John suggested after a few moments of silence. Sherlock waved him toward the kitchen, still involved in his thoughts.
A military man that made enough sense. John didn’t faint, or vomit, or run away screaming when he had to push aside the bowl of severed noses to get to the milk when he opened the fridge. Medical background was another bonus; Mycroft wouldn’t want to send anyone that he thought might accidentally injure his brother. Friendly and plain enough to put a nervous man at ease. Sherlock might have been relieved, if he had ever indulged in such petty emotions, if not for the case.
The bloody case. Why was there a case? What could John possibly need for their endeavor, other than the standard lubricants and condoms? Certainly Mycroft hadn’t hired John for anything…irregular. Although, Sherlock had been meaning to do some tests on the bruising patterns caused by non-police issued handcuffs, so perhaps a little bondage gear would not be unacceptable.
The kettle whistled. John talked to himself as he peered into cabinets. “Jar of rats, old shoe…ah, tea cups! Might need a bit of a rinse…” Sherlock listened as the blond turned on the tap and washed out the cups (which were perfectly clean, he might add. He wasn’t a barbarian.).
“Cup of tea, Sherlock?” John offered.
……………………….
John sat across from him in the armchair now, sipping at his tea. He’d made no move toward the case yet. Sherlock waited.
“So…is there anything edible in the cupboard or should I pop down to the store and pick up something for breakfast before it gets too late?”
Sherlock blinked at the blond. “You’ll be staying for breakfast, then?” he sniffed. That seemed a might unprofessional, to presume he could hang about without Sherlock’s invitation.
John waved him off. “I can last at least until morning.” He took another sip of tea, nonchalantly.
Sherlock furrowed his brow. Surely not. A man of John’s age, with refractory periods, and tired from his day job…
“You won’t be ready to leave earlier than that?” he prodded. John shook his head.
“It takes more than that to finish off ‘Three Continents Watson’. Besides, your brother warned me about you. I’ve prepared myself.”
And now Sherlock was wildly curious. “Very well then. Go right ahead,” he said, putting aside his own untouched teacup, in case ‘Three Continents Watson’ decided to lunge at him.
---
John frowned. “I figured you’d go first. If you’re anything like your brother, you already know all about me.”
“What?”
“You do that thing, right? Tell a banker by his cuff-links and such? I looked up your website. ‘The Science of Deduction’.”
“Oh?” Sherlock pretended to find his nails suddenly fascinating. “What did you think of it?” he asked casually.
John leaned forward in the chair. “It’s amazing. Absolutely brilliant.” When Sherlock looked up, John shot him a warm smile. Oh, he was good. Sherlock wondered where Mycroft had found him.
“’s not what people usually say,” he confessed to the blond. At John’s questioning look, he added, “They normally say, ‘Piss Off.’”
John snorted at that. “’They’ must be idiots, then. You and your brother are fantastic. He knew all about the clinic I work at just by glancing at my coat. How is that not incredible?”
Sherlock found his brother quite intolerable, so it was only natural that he felt a quick stab of anger when John praised Mycroft. “That was just basic observation. Did he mention you should fire your therapist?”
John nodded, and Sherlock’s annoyance grew. Of course Mycroft would have seen through the tremor in John’s hand and his psychosomatic limp.
“Anyways, we should get down to business,” John suggested, seeming to sense Sherlock’s irritation and steering around it.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock agreed, once again sitting back and letting John lead, as he had before John’s tangent about his website.
“I snore, I’m surviving on an army pension and a few days a week at a clinic, all of my possessions fit into a single suitcase, and when I lose my temper, I sometimes storm out and don’t come home for days. I think that just about covers it.”
The consulting detective just stared at the other man. John Watson was, without a doubt, the most unconventional rent-boy he’d ever encountered (not that Sherlock was complaining).
“Well, anything on your end? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”
Oh. Well, that explained it. Sherlock slumped back into the sofa. He’d asked Mycroft for someone to shag, and he’d sent him some bizarre blond flatmate. And it was Sherlock’s own bloody fault for trusting Mycroft.
He forced a smile. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. You’ve already been warned about the experiments, I take it, so that goes without saying.”
The discussion of quirks and character flaws went back and forth, and three things quickly became apparent to Sherlock. One, he was not going to get laid tonight. Two, he was going to let John move in to Baker Street with him. And three, John Watson was going to have to be the one to take his virginity, because now that he’d met him, no one else would do.
On to Part 2
Please arrange for a suitable
partner.
SH
That's good to hear.
Tomorrow 8 p.m.
MH
Sherlock of course expects some exotic youth trained in Kama Sutra, because Mycroft is nothing if not thorough. Cue a middle-aged army doctor in a cuddly jumper appearing at his doorsteep, smiling and asking for a cuppa. Because yes, Mycroft is very, very thorough at everything he does."
It was, not surprisingly, a case that drove Sherlock to it. He was, as he often admitted, happily married to his work; baser instincts like lust were just that, base. Beneath him. But hearing Sally Donovan’s snort of laughter, seeing the quickly-suppressed smirk on Lestrade’s lips when his logic stumbled over the sexual motive of a murder suicide hammered the point home. Sherlock tolerated their scorn, but he would not allow himself to be mocked by them. Anderson’s smug, disgusting, knowing face haunted him. Anderson understood sex. Even he had seen the connection that Sherlock had missed. It was unacceptable.
The consulting detective typed out the text quickly (efficiency, not nerves, he commented silently to his skull) and sent it to Mycroft, not bothering to initial at the end. The message itself would be enough blackmail material for his brother; he wanted some plausible deniability that he’d sent it. (His skull did not point out the obvious, that someone impersonating him would surely have adopted his signature texting style, which is why he greatly preferred the skull’s company to a vast majority of the people he’d met).
Mycroft’s response, that he will send over a suitable partner to relieve him of his virginity at 8pm the next evening, came quickly; Mycroft either had an appropriate partner ready for Sherlock before he’d asked, or he was incredibly confident in his ability to find one within twenty-four hours.
Sherlock didn’t like the implications of either. He hoped, rather counterintuitively, that Mycroft would fail to produce someone fitting, just so he could lord his brother’s failure over him.
By five o’clock the next evening, Sherlock had driven his landlady out of Baker Street with his restless antics. He had at first attempted to clean the flat, but then decided that if whoever Mycroft sent was deterred by a few severed fingers on the coffee table, they were obviously not suitable. He had then conspired to make his flat even more inhospitable, only stopping when he reasoned that simple spite did not merit disrupting his experiment on frostbitten noses.
For a while, he paced, played some screeching notes on his violin, and eventually, took up the handgun he’d pinched from Lestrade and began shooting the wall. Mrs. Hudson had been less than pleased, but the exercise she got when she stormed out of the flat to complain to Mrs. Turner next door would only help that hip of hers, so Sherlock counted it as a kindness.
By six, Sherlock collapsed on the sofa, curls in disarray and pajamas peeking out from beneath his dressing gown. He reviewed some of the anatomical diagrams he’d pulled up earlier on his laptop, trying to understand how the stimulation of a few nerve bundles and the exchange of bodily fluids could push one to murder.
At seven forty-three, Sherlock shut down the computer and changed into a suit. If he was going to meet with whatever high class prostitute Mycroft was sending, he would do it on his own terms, and carry it out like any of his other experiments, with full confidence in his brilliance. He combed back his hair and buttoned up his tailored shirt.
The detective expected a knock on the door at 8pm precisely, but none came. He stared at the doorway for a full two minutes. Hmm. A wry smile worked its way across his face. Mycroft had failed. He had lost, and therefore Sherlock had won.
His smile quickly faded. No sexual partner meant no sexual encounter. He would not be able to experience, to learn, to categorize sex into one of the convenient file folders in his head. Donovan and Anderson would laugh again. Sherlock had lost.
The detective ran his fingers through his hair and collapsed on the sofa once more, weighing the pros and cons of this turn of events.
At eight twelve, the doorbell buzzed. Sherlock paused, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to answer it, before remembering she’d gone out. Opening the door would involve getting up, going down stairs, and speaking to whatever idiot waited on the other side. It might not even be the one Mycroft sent; it was statistically possible that the person buzzing was a delivery man, or a solicitor, or some lost tourist asking directions.
The bell buzzed again.
“Why should I get up for someone who’s late?” he asked his skull sulkily. A third time, the bell rang out. Sherlock dragged himself off of the sofa. He descended the staircase, hoping that the information he gained from this experiment was worth it.
Sherlock opened the door before the person outside had a chance to ring a fourth time or give up. He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d expected from his brother; some tragically beautiful call girl, or perhaps an exotic love guru, but not this. This man (early 40s, shorter than average, past military career, currently in the medical profession, slept on a sofa last night, his mind provided), he could safely say, was not at all what he’d prepared himself for.
The man smiled up at him and mentioned how dreadfully much he could use a good cuppa right now, and Sherlock realized that Mycroft, that devious blighter, must have something up his sleeve.
“I’m John,” the man at the door stated, in a tone that suggested Sherlock already knew who he was.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replied, not budging from the door. John picked up a suitcase he’d sat down on the steps with his left hand, and a cane leaning up against 221 Baker Street with his right.
“Shall we, then?” he asked, nodding toward the building.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Ahem, yes, of course. This way.”
--------
Sherlock wasn’t sure how the sexual congress would initiate, so he decided to let John lead, and fell back into his default mode of deduction. John stood, glancing around the flat, no longer relying on his cane for support yet not asking for a chair. Limp: psychosomatic. Tan lines, haircut: military, Iraq or Afghanistan. A mark on his neck where a stethoscope had rested for a number of hours, just recently removed, and the smell of antiseptic still clinging to his clothes: doctor, arrived straight from work.
“I…guess I’ll put on the kettle then?” John suggested after a few moments of silence. Sherlock waved him toward the kitchen, still involved in his thoughts.
A military man that made enough sense. John didn’t faint, or vomit, or run away screaming when he had to push aside the bowl of severed noses to get to the milk when he opened the fridge. Medical background was another bonus; Mycroft wouldn’t want to send anyone that he thought might accidentally injure his brother. Friendly and plain enough to put a nervous man at ease. Sherlock might have been relieved, if he had ever indulged in such petty emotions, if not for the case.
The bloody case. Why was there a case? What could John possibly need for their endeavor, other than the standard lubricants and condoms? Certainly Mycroft hadn’t hired John for anything…irregular. Although, Sherlock had been meaning to do some tests on the bruising patterns caused by non-police issued handcuffs, so perhaps a little bondage gear would not be unacceptable.
The kettle whistled. John talked to himself as he peered into cabinets. “Jar of rats, old shoe…ah, tea cups! Might need a bit of a rinse…” Sherlock listened as the blond turned on the tap and washed out the cups (which were perfectly clean, he might add. He wasn’t a barbarian.).
“Cup of tea, Sherlock?” John offered.
……………………….
John sat across from him in the armchair now, sipping at his tea. He’d made no move toward the case yet. Sherlock waited.
“So…is there anything edible in the cupboard or should I pop down to the store and pick up something for breakfast before it gets too late?”
Sherlock blinked at the blond. “You’ll be staying for breakfast, then?” he sniffed. That seemed a might unprofessional, to presume he could hang about without Sherlock’s invitation.
John waved him off. “I can last at least until morning.” He took another sip of tea, nonchalantly.
Sherlock furrowed his brow. Surely not. A man of John’s age, with refractory periods, and tired from his day job…
“You won’t be ready to leave earlier than that?” he prodded. John shook his head.
“It takes more than that to finish off ‘Three Continents Watson’. Besides, your brother warned me about you. I’ve prepared myself.”
And now Sherlock was wildly curious. “Very well then. Go right ahead,” he said, putting aside his own untouched teacup, in case ‘Three Continents Watson’ decided to lunge at him.
---
John frowned. “I figured you’d go first. If you’re anything like your brother, you already know all about me.”
“What?”
“You do that thing, right? Tell a banker by his cuff-links and such? I looked up your website. ‘The Science of Deduction’.”
“Oh?” Sherlock pretended to find his nails suddenly fascinating. “What did you think of it?” he asked casually.
John leaned forward in the chair. “It’s amazing. Absolutely brilliant.” When Sherlock looked up, John shot him a warm smile. Oh, he was good. Sherlock wondered where Mycroft had found him.
“’s not what people usually say,” he confessed to the blond. At John’s questioning look, he added, “They normally say, ‘Piss Off.’”
John snorted at that. “’They’ must be idiots, then. You and your brother are fantastic. He knew all about the clinic I work at just by glancing at my coat. How is that not incredible?”
Sherlock found his brother quite intolerable, so it was only natural that he felt a quick stab of anger when John praised Mycroft. “That was just basic observation. Did he mention you should fire your therapist?”
John nodded, and Sherlock’s annoyance grew. Of course Mycroft would have seen through the tremor in John’s hand and his psychosomatic limp.
“Anyways, we should get down to business,” John suggested, seeming to sense Sherlock’s irritation and steering around it.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock agreed, once again sitting back and letting John lead, as he had before John’s tangent about his website.
“I snore, I’m surviving on an army pension and a few days a week at a clinic, all of my possessions fit into a single suitcase, and when I lose my temper, I sometimes storm out and don’t come home for days. I think that just about covers it.”
The consulting detective just stared at the other man. John Watson was, without a doubt, the most unconventional rent-boy he’d ever encountered (not that Sherlock was complaining).
“Well, anything on your end? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”
Oh. Well, that explained it. Sherlock slumped back into the sofa. He’d asked Mycroft for someone to shag, and he’d sent him some bizarre blond flatmate. And it was Sherlock’s own bloody fault for trusting Mycroft.
He forced a smile. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. You’ve already been warned about the experiments, I take it, so that goes without saying.”
The discussion of quirks and character flaws went back and forth, and three things quickly became apparent to Sherlock. One, he was not going to get laid tonight. Two, he was going to let John move in to Baker Street with him. And three, John Watson was going to have to be the one to take his virginity, because now that he’d met him, no one else would do.
On to Part 2