Sherlock fanfic: Connection part 2
Back to Part 1
Sherlock ended up not needing to provide John with breakfast. After chatting for several hours, John declared himself starving and Sherlock recommended the Chinese restaurant down the street. The detective picked at his food and predicted their fortune cookie fortunes flawlessly, which sent John into an absolutely delightful bout of giggles.
They went back and forth, Sherlock deducing aspects of John’s life and John filling in all the blanks. All the while, Sherlock gathered and catalogued important tidbits of information for the seduction of John Watson.
“You’ve slept on a sofa for the last two…no, three night,” he pointed out. John nodded, finishing a sip of tea before responding.
“Yes, I was staying in a hotel at first, but I got thrown out.” He looked around sheepishly, making sure no one was listening in before adding, “I have a handgun. The maid found it and made a fuss, so the manager asked me to leave. Sarah, another doctor at the clinic…my boss, I suppose, she let me stay for a few days.”
He smiled at Sherlock, but his body language and tone did not indicate happiness. “She’s great, she’s really great. I thought there might be something between us, but I suppose after three nights, if I’m still on the sofa, that might be a hint. And it would be rather unprofessional, anyways.”
Sherlock gave a nod similar to the ones he’s seen others do when eliciting sympathy to others. He made a mental note to interrupt John at the clinic as much as possible. The less time spent in the company of this ‘Sarah’, the better.
“And how does my brother figure in to all this?” Sherlock inquired, because he could find no clues to indicate. Mycroft, infuriating as he was, knew how not to leave a trail when he meddled.
“Funny story, that. I met him a few days back. He came in for a toothache, of all things. I took a quick look and sent him on to a specialist.”
Ah, that would explain the text response Mycroft had sent him, rather than a call. Probably a root canal.
John leaned forward. “But then, yesterday, I was walking back from the clinic, and some officer on the street ended up getting me mixed up with some graffiti-punk. He was going to give me an ASBO, until Mycroft showed up out of nowhere and cleared it all up. Then he drove me off to some abandoned warehouse and told me that instead of sleeping on sofas and spending my paycheck on a shite therapist, I should move in with you. And now here I am.”
Sherlock blinked. “Yes, here you are.” Mycroft had orchestrated all of this, he was sure. The detective wasn’t sure he wanted to know how Mycroft had predicted he would ask for help with his virginity (well, alright, he did want to know, but that was just because he was Sherlock and he wanted to know everything, so he thought it excusable), but predicted he had. His brother had gone to the clinic to scout John out and establish contact. He must have liked what he’d seen, to pay off the officer and the street artist to manufacture that scene.
But, of course, he couldn’t exactly explain all of that to John, not without revealing his intent to bed him. Sherlock was somewhat convinced etiquette demanded he at least finish this date before announcing his intentions to shag or be shagged by the doctor.
“How fascinating,” he said instead. “But why listen to my brother and not your own? Was it the alcohol?” he prompted, and settled back to glean more information for his seduction as John answered.
……………………………
The next day, Lestrade showed up with a case, so Sherlock dragged John onto a crime scene with him. It took very little dragging, actually, and only the slightest bit of prodding, which reassured Sherlock that John was, indeed, his perfect match. While John didn’t have anything brilliant to point out about the pink-clad woman’s corpse, he kept his composure, listened, and complimented Sherlock as he explained his methods. Sherlock supposed he wasn’t actually looking for an intellectual equal for a bedmate; that would be like shagging Mycroft. The detective just needed someone to be incredibly flattering to his superior mind and not embarrassingly stupid. John delivered quite adequately.
And in return, Sherlock might have shown off just a little. He riled up Lestrade’s team more than usual, just to show John that he didn’t need to cooperate with them in order to do his investigation; he was so good at his job, he could act however he pleased and still have a carte blanche behind the police tape. Sherlock also made sure to explain every step in logic, even the incredibly obvious ones. He usually didn’t bother with just Lestrade and his team; they wouldn’t understand anyways, so why waste the effort?
It was rather embarrassing, then, when he got so involved in solving the case to impress John that he actually left the man behind for a few hours. It was that infuriating limp. Sherlock would have to sort that out if he wanted John to keep up with him. Perhaps dinner at Jacques’…no, Antonio’s. Antonio would put a candle on the table, much more romantic.
…………………….
Two months into life with John, and Sherlock was starting to think he would end up on a murder spree, just like Sally Donovan always said he would. Sherlock had done everything he could think to impress upon John the full weight of his genius, yet the doctor still hadn’t made any move initiating sexual congress. He was starting to think Mycroft had gotten something wrong in his analysis.
“The issue of my virginity remains unchanged,” he hissed at his brother over their monthly kidnapping/luncheon.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow over his cup of tea. “Really, Sherlock, isn’t this a conversation for after lunch?”
Sherlock glared. “You could stand to be put off food for one meal,” he pointed out. His brother was up half a pound from the last time Sherlock had seen him; that meant either a certain cabinet member had rekindled his affair with his secretary or the Korean election was running into difficulty.
Mycroft pointedly took a bite of his sandwich. “I doubt your lack of sexual contact with Doctor Watson will spoil my appetite. I was attempting a civilized meal, but go right ahead.”
Sherlock turned over his salad with his fork, but never lifted it to his mouth. “Why did you send me John? He hasn’t relieved me of my virginity. He hasn’t shown any interest in men at all. I have done everything I can think to impress him, and nothing works.”
His brother’s lips turned up in that smug, superior grin of his. “You know full well why I sent Doctor Watson. If you had wanted just anyone, you could have hired an escort yourself. Besides, what would Mummy say if I let that happen? You know how set she is that you find a nice person to settle down with. Do try to work things out with him before Christmas so you can bring him to meet the family.”
Sherlock pushed away his salad bowl in disgust. “I hope you realize that your attempt to find me a date for Christmas dinner has made my every waking moment a new brand of misery, Mycroft.”
The older man shook his head. “Always so melodramatic. I assure you, Doctor Watson has had homosexual liaisons in the past. Perhaps you just need a…different approach. Legwork. Now, about that invitation Mummy sent about the garden party…”
………………………….
After his chat with Mycroft, Sherlock adopted a different approach to the seduction of John. Instead of trying to impress the doctor into pouncing on him, he would study John’s preferences and adjust his actions accordingly.
John didn’t seem to care for any of the usual displays his research indicated was used in the gay community (the particular brand of underwear Sherlock had bought in those first few days of flat-sharing with John would lay unused in his drawer; a shame, they were quite comfortable). So instead, Sherlock watched and noted the more subtle interactions between John and the people of London, supplementing with videos and magazines when John left for work.
A pretty blonde waitress smiled and twirled her hair as they ordered dinner; John smiled back and followed her with her eyes as she left to fetch their drinks. An old rugby mate patted John on the back; John clasped his shoulder and gave him a friendly nod. Mrs. Hudson brought over sandwiches and tea and John declared his undying affection.
Sherlock had a much lower success rate when he attempted to recreate these scenarios.
“Tea and sandwiches on the table, John,” he told the doctor upon his return from the clinic one day. John turned to the table and eyed the cup and plate suspiciously.
“But Mrs. Hudson is away visiting her sister. Where did these come from?”
Sherlock looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read. “I made them.” He ducked back down behind the paper and watched John from a mirror he had mounted on the wall for observational purposes. John poked at the sandwich with a chopstick left over from last night’s take-out. Please, if he had done something to it, did John really think it would be so easily detected?
“Roast beef and cheddar,” the detective stated.
“And…experiment-free?” John clarified.
Sherlock snorted. Not technically; Sherlock treated every moment as an ongoing experiment, but not in this case. “Absolutely,” he lied.
John still hesitated over the snack. “…thanks…” he said hesitantly. He sniffed the tea before he took a sip, but when he finally relented and sampled it, Sherlock heard a quiet gasp. ‘Yes, John, of course I know exactly how you take your tea. Is this news to you?’ he thought to himself. He’d spent the last few evenings practicing brewing the perfect John Watson blend.
John carried his mug in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other and sat down on the armchair. “So, news or more crap telly?” he asked, placing the plate on his lap and reaching for the remote.
Sherlock lowered the paper and reached a hand over to clasp John’s shoulder. From the clips of movies he’d queued up on John’s laptop, the optimal length of contact was three seconds, firm squeeze, and drop. “What would you prefer?” he asked. Mrs. Hudson’s magazines put a firm emphasis on listening to the object of one’s affection.
John blinked. “You…what? You’re letting me decide? You sure you didn’t slip something in this?” He looked down at the cup once more, suspicion revived. Sherlock chose that moment to direct at John the widest smile he could manage.
John shuddered, in what Sherlock would have interpreted in a less stalwart companion as fear. Sherlock stood up and retreated to his room, slamming the door closed behind him.
…………………..
After three days of silent re-evaluation, Sherlock decided that the ‘normal’ approach to seduction would not work, because Sherlock was not, by any means, a normal person. Techniques that others might use to flirt and hint were beyond him. So, instead, he fell back to what he knew best, his deduction.
By now, John had grown accustomed to Sherlock’s methods, so the simple skips from an observation to a conclusion elicited less response than they had initially. Larger leaps and bounds still merited reaction, but reduced. John’s flush faded faster, his breathing returned to normal more quickly, his verbal responses became less involuntary.
After another day of rejecting boring cases, he fell onto the couch, violin in hand, despairing that he would never win John’s affections. Like an addict, John was gaining tolerance to him. He would either have to up the dose, or contend with diminished response. The detective sighed, and the tune he played on his violin resembled less a song than a cat in pain.
John just shook his head and sighed when he came in from the clinic. “No new case then,” he observed, and went about brewing his tea.
…………………….
It was John, of couse, who eventually drew Sherlock out of his sulk.
“Come,” he ordered, dragging Sherlock off of the couch by his wrist. “You haven’t moved in four days. Get up.”
“I’ve moved,” Sherlock challenged. He wiggled his toes to prove the fact. “I’m moving as we speak.”
John ignored him and yanked. Sherlock let himself go limp, and in the end, they ended up falling, with Sherlock sprawled over John. The doctor gave him one of those looks.
“Listen, Sherlock, the couch will be here when you get back. I am hungry. We’re getting dinner. Get dressed.”
Sherlock stood quickly, if only so John didn’t notice how…intriguing Sherlock found his blogger when he started barking orders. Usually, John submitted wholeheartedly to Sherlock’s commands, which Sherlock also enjoyed, but this other, oft unseen side of his friend held potential.
“I’ll be ready in a moment,” was all he said.
………………..
Sherlock ended up not needing to provide John with breakfast. After chatting for several hours, John declared himself starving and Sherlock recommended the Chinese restaurant down the street. The detective picked at his food and predicted their fortune cookie fortunes flawlessly, which sent John into an absolutely delightful bout of giggles.
They went back and forth, Sherlock deducing aspects of John’s life and John filling in all the blanks. All the while, Sherlock gathered and catalogued important tidbits of information for the seduction of John Watson.
“You’ve slept on a sofa for the last two…no, three night,” he pointed out. John nodded, finishing a sip of tea before responding.
“Yes, I was staying in a hotel at first, but I got thrown out.” He looked around sheepishly, making sure no one was listening in before adding, “I have a handgun. The maid found it and made a fuss, so the manager asked me to leave. Sarah, another doctor at the clinic…my boss, I suppose, she let me stay for a few days.”
He smiled at Sherlock, but his body language and tone did not indicate happiness. “She’s great, she’s really great. I thought there might be something between us, but I suppose after three nights, if I’m still on the sofa, that might be a hint. And it would be rather unprofessional, anyways.”
Sherlock gave a nod similar to the ones he’s seen others do when eliciting sympathy to others. He made a mental note to interrupt John at the clinic as much as possible. The less time spent in the company of this ‘Sarah’, the better.
“And how does my brother figure in to all this?” Sherlock inquired, because he could find no clues to indicate. Mycroft, infuriating as he was, knew how not to leave a trail when he meddled.
“Funny story, that. I met him a few days back. He came in for a toothache, of all things. I took a quick look and sent him on to a specialist.”
Ah, that would explain the text response Mycroft had sent him, rather than a call. Probably a root canal.
John leaned forward. “But then, yesterday, I was walking back from the clinic, and some officer on the street ended up getting me mixed up with some graffiti-punk. He was going to give me an ASBO, until Mycroft showed up out of nowhere and cleared it all up. Then he drove me off to some abandoned warehouse and told me that instead of sleeping on sofas and spending my paycheck on a shite therapist, I should move in with you. And now here I am.”
Sherlock blinked. “Yes, here you are.” Mycroft had orchestrated all of this, he was sure. The detective wasn’t sure he wanted to know how Mycroft had predicted he would ask for help with his virginity (well, alright, he did want to know, but that was just because he was Sherlock and he wanted to know everything, so he thought it excusable), but predicted he had. His brother had gone to the clinic to scout John out and establish contact. He must have liked what he’d seen, to pay off the officer and the street artist to manufacture that scene.
But, of course, he couldn’t exactly explain all of that to John, not without revealing his intent to bed him. Sherlock was somewhat convinced etiquette demanded he at least finish this date before announcing his intentions to shag or be shagged by the doctor.
“How fascinating,” he said instead. “But why listen to my brother and not your own? Was it the alcohol?” he prompted, and settled back to glean more information for his seduction as John answered.
……………………………
The next day, Lestrade showed up with a case, so Sherlock dragged John onto a crime scene with him. It took very little dragging, actually, and only the slightest bit of prodding, which reassured Sherlock that John was, indeed, his perfect match. While John didn’t have anything brilliant to point out about the pink-clad woman’s corpse, he kept his composure, listened, and complimented Sherlock as he explained his methods. Sherlock supposed he wasn’t actually looking for an intellectual equal for a bedmate; that would be like shagging Mycroft. The detective just needed someone to be incredibly flattering to his superior mind and not embarrassingly stupid. John delivered quite adequately.
And in return, Sherlock might have shown off just a little. He riled up Lestrade’s team more than usual, just to show John that he didn’t need to cooperate with them in order to do his investigation; he was so good at his job, he could act however he pleased and still have a carte blanche behind the police tape. Sherlock also made sure to explain every step in logic, even the incredibly obvious ones. He usually didn’t bother with just Lestrade and his team; they wouldn’t understand anyways, so why waste the effort?
It was rather embarrassing, then, when he got so involved in solving the case to impress John that he actually left the man behind for a few hours. It was that infuriating limp. Sherlock would have to sort that out if he wanted John to keep up with him. Perhaps dinner at Jacques’…no, Antonio’s. Antonio would put a candle on the table, much more romantic.
…………………….
Two months into life with John, and Sherlock was starting to think he would end up on a murder spree, just like Sally Donovan always said he would. Sherlock had done everything he could think to impress upon John the full weight of his genius, yet the doctor still hadn’t made any move initiating sexual congress. He was starting to think Mycroft had gotten something wrong in his analysis.
“The issue of my virginity remains unchanged,” he hissed at his brother over their monthly kidnapping/luncheon.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow over his cup of tea. “Really, Sherlock, isn’t this a conversation for after lunch?”
Sherlock glared. “You could stand to be put off food for one meal,” he pointed out. His brother was up half a pound from the last time Sherlock had seen him; that meant either a certain cabinet member had rekindled his affair with his secretary or the Korean election was running into difficulty.
Mycroft pointedly took a bite of his sandwich. “I doubt your lack of sexual contact with Doctor Watson will spoil my appetite. I was attempting a civilized meal, but go right ahead.”
Sherlock turned over his salad with his fork, but never lifted it to his mouth. “Why did you send me John? He hasn’t relieved me of my virginity. He hasn’t shown any interest in men at all. I have done everything I can think to impress him, and nothing works.”
His brother’s lips turned up in that smug, superior grin of his. “You know full well why I sent Doctor Watson. If you had wanted just anyone, you could have hired an escort yourself. Besides, what would Mummy say if I let that happen? You know how set she is that you find a nice person to settle down with. Do try to work things out with him before Christmas so you can bring him to meet the family.”
Sherlock pushed away his salad bowl in disgust. “I hope you realize that your attempt to find me a date for Christmas dinner has made my every waking moment a new brand of misery, Mycroft.”
The older man shook his head. “Always so melodramatic. I assure you, Doctor Watson has had homosexual liaisons in the past. Perhaps you just need a…different approach. Legwork. Now, about that invitation Mummy sent about the garden party…”
………………………….
After his chat with Mycroft, Sherlock adopted a different approach to the seduction of John. Instead of trying to impress the doctor into pouncing on him, he would study John’s preferences and adjust his actions accordingly.
John didn’t seem to care for any of the usual displays his research indicated was used in the gay community (the particular brand of underwear Sherlock had bought in those first few days of flat-sharing with John would lay unused in his drawer; a shame, they were quite comfortable). So instead, Sherlock watched and noted the more subtle interactions between John and the people of London, supplementing with videos and magazines when John left for work.
A pretty blonde waitress smiled and twirled her hair as they ordered dinner; John smiled back and followed her with her eyes as she left to fetch their drinks. An old rugby mate patted John on the back; John clasped his shoulder and gave him a friendly nod. Mrs. Hudson brought over sandwiches and tea and John declared his undying affection.
Sherlock had a much lower success rate when he attempted to recreate these scenarios.
“Tea and sandwiches on the table, John,” he told the doctor upon his return from the clinic one day. John turned to the table and eyed the cup and plate suspiciously.
“But Mrs. Hudson is away visiting her sister. Where did these come from?”
Sherlock looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read. “I made them.” He ducked back down behind the paper and watched John from a mirror he had mounted on the wall for observational purposes. John poked at the sandwich with a chopstick left over from last night’s take-out. Please, if he had done something to it, did John really think it would be so easily detected?
“Roast beef and cheddar,” the detective stated.
“And…experiment-free?” John clarified.
Sherlock snorted. Not technically; Sherlock treated every moment as an ongoing experiment, but not in this case. “Absolutely,” he lied.
John still hesitated over the snack. “…thanks…” he said hesitantly. He sniffed the tea before he took a sip, but when he finally relented and sampled it, Sherlock heard a quiet gasp. ‘Yes, John, of course I know exactly how you take your tea. Is this news to you?’ he thought to himself. He’d spent the last few evenings practicing brewing the perfect John Watson blend.
John carried his mug in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other and sat down on the armchair. “So, news or more crap telly?” he asked, placing the plate on his lap and reaching for the remote.
Sherlock lowered the paper and reached a hand over to clasp John’s shoulder. From the clips of movies he’d queued up on John’s laptop, the optimal length of contact was three seconds, firm squeeze, and drop. “What would you prefer?” he asked. Mrs. Hudson’s magazines put a firm emphasis on listening to the object of one’s affection.
John blinked. “You…what? You’re letting me decide? You sure you didn’t slip something in this?” He looked down at the cup once more, suspicion revived. Sherlock chose that moment to direct at John the widest smile he could manage.
John shuddered, in what Sherlock would have interpreted in a less stalwart companion as fear. Sherlock stood up and retreated to his room, slamming the door closed behind him.
…………………..
After three days of silent re-evaluation, Sherlock decided that the ‘normal’ approach to seduction would not work, because Sherlock was not, by any means, a normal person. Techniques that others might use to flirt and hint were beyond him. So, instead, he fell back to what he knew best, his deduction.
By now, John had grown accustomed to Sherlock’s methods, so the simple skips from an observation to a conclusion elicited less response than they had initially. Larger leaps and bounds still merited reaction, but reduced. John’s flush faded faster, his breathing returned to normal more quickly, his verbal responses became less involuntary.
After another day of rejecting boring cases, he fell onto the couch, violin in hand, despairing that he would never win John’s affections. Like an addict, John was gaining tolerance to him. He would either have to up the dose, or contend with diminished response. The detective sighed, and the tune he played on his violin resembled less a song than a cat in pain.
John just shook his head and sighed when he came in from the clinic. “No new case then,” he observed, and went about brewing his tea.
…………………….
It was John, of couse, who eventually drew Sherlock out of his sulk.
“Come,” he ordered, dragging Sherlock off of the couch by his wrist. “You haven’t moved in four days. Get up.”
“I’ve moved,” Sherlock challenged. He wiggled his toes to prove the fact. “I’m moving as we speak.”
John ignored him and yanked. Sherlock let himself go limp, and in the end, they ended up falling, with Sherlock sprawled over John. The doctor gave him one of those looks.
“Listen, Sherlock, the couch will be here when you get back. I am hungry. We’re getting dinner. Get dressed.”
Sherlock stood quickly, if only so John didn’t notice how…intriguing Sherlock found his blogger when he started barking orders. Usually, John submitted wholeheartedly to Sherlock’s commands, which Sherlock also enjoyed, but this other, oft unseen side of his friend held potential.
“I’ll be ready in a moment,” was all he said.
………………..