Fic: Into the Closet
Title: Into the Closet
Writer: fanbot
Warnings: graphic slash oral sex
Summary: Sherlock chooses a closet to hide in, John takes action.
John/Sherlock. No spoilers
Words: 2617 complete
Rated: R -Adult
I just wanted to dress the boys in tuxedos and get them dirty.
Betaed by the gracious lygtemanden.
“This is the kind of undercover work I could get used to!” John Watson adjusted the cuffs on his tailored tuxedo and admired himself in a mirror.
“Don’t,” Sherlock Holmes said from behind the dressing curtain. “If Mycroft’s case had not coincided with my own, we would not be here.”
“Pity. Now that we have these lovely suits, we’ll have to find somewhere to wear them.”
“I have asked you if you wished to accompany me to the opera and symphony any number of times. Perhaps now you will.” Sherlock stepped out of the dressing alcove and John almost had to bite back a gasp.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh yes, you’ve never seen me in a proper monkey suit.” Sherlock moved with the comfortable ease of an aristocrat. The cut of his black tails accentuated his lean frame.
“Monkey suit! Sherlock, you’re gorgeous!”
“Really, John.” Sherlock preened in front of a mirror. “Handsome, possibly striking, not gorgeous.”
John chuckled at him. “What about me then?”
Sherlock turned a critical eye to his companion. “Humm.” Sherlock tweaked John’s tie and turned him about. “Michael does impeccable work. Don’t hold yourself quite so stiff.”
“I feel like I’m at full dress review.”
“If this mutual admiration society meeting is over, we will be on our way,” Mycroft stood in the doorway, just as comfortably at ease as Sherlock in formal dress.
“Do you have your suits taken in and out or do you have one for each size?” Sherlock cruelly asked as he passed by him. “Humm. One of every size.”
“Thank you, Sherlock. Doctor Watson, come along.”
In the back of the long black car Mycroft briefed them on the case. Or, rather, the two brothers briefed each other. John tried to keep up for a number of minutes, then just entertained himself by seeing what was in the food and drink compartments. He found a small television built into the seat back in front of them, but his triumphant smile just earned him twin glares from the Holmes brothers.
Five blocks later the discussion had died down. John looked up from the jar of mixed nuts and paused in picking out all the cashews. “What’s my role in this again?”
“You’re my assistant.” “You’re his date,” the brothers answered at the same time.
John looked from one to the other. “If I’m the date, and I’m not the one paying, then I expect you to take no liberties,” he mock scowled at Sherlock. “If I’m the associate, then what am I looking for? Three pieces of a bomb site or something?”
“That was the dreadful black and white movie you were watching.”
“It was my turn to pick. I think Basil Rathbone makes a charming detective.” John liked to watch detective films once in a while. Sherlock almost always shouted at the solution fifteen minutes in, but it was fun to listen to him point out all the mistakes.
“Perhaps, but his companion was a bumbler. Reminded me of Anderson. Information is being passed in some way through the blind bid auction. At least one valuable stolen gem is being transferred tonight. I want you to look out for one particular person.” Sherlock took Watson’s left hand and slipped a silver band onto his pinky finger.
“Sherlock! This is so sudden!”
The detective smirked and leaned back in his seat. “You are looking for someone wearing a band much like that on that particular finger. I need you to get a good look at it and determine what words or figures are on it. The best witness we’ve had can only say that it looked ‘speckled.’ If you are wearing a ring in the same fashion, it will give you an opening to examine theirs.”
“Oh, clever. What’s the story of my ring then?”
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Lost love, lost bet, you’re the writer.”
John turned the ring on his finger.
“Don’t play with it,” Mycroft put in. “That gives it away as new.”
“I’m not wearing a gun, so my part in this adventure is just a speckled band.”
Sherlock grunted and stared past his steepled fingers out the window.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock and took some pity on John. “Beyond that, do what you do best and keep your eyes open.”
“Am I not allowed to enjoy the party?”
“Of course! It is to benefit wounded and disabled veterans after all. Chat up the charity and in that suit you will be the belle of the ball.”
As it turned out, it only took John a hour to find the gentleman and get a good look at his ring. It had snowflakes on it and the number 42 in roman numerals. It took a little longer to find Sherlock and relay the information. After that, John was free to enjoy his evening. He could see no pattern to the charity bids or objects, so he had a few drinks and enjoyed watching (and trying to chat up) all the beautiful women.
Once he thought he saw Sherlock run past a window, but the red headed woman listening to his tales of heroism and danger at war held his attention. He’d was just getting somewhere when Sherlock came up to him.
“John, we must go. Now.
“Sherlock Holmes, this is…”
Sherlock took John’s arm and dragged him off. “Sorry, later. My friend is a little drunk.”
Rather than make a scene, John followed along. “I’m not drunk,” he muttered, following Sherlock down a back hall in the grand old home.
“I know. You are what you like to call ‘warm.’ Now get in here.”
“Get in where?”
In answer, Sherlock pushed John into a closet and closed the door.
The back of John’s knees hit something and he sat down hard. From the sound and texture he figured it was a couple of big plastic storage bins. He automatically grabbed Sherlock’s hips as he went down.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Don’t move,” he hissed.
John stilled and heard the foot steps of a man swiftly walking down the hall outside then past. Sherlock waited another minute then spoke softly yet clearly. “We have to hide here for twenty-one minutes. Do not lose this.” He slipped a small package into John’s inside jacket picket and took his phone in the same smooth move. He swiftly pushed buttons on it. “At that time, I will leave. You will follow in exactly three minutes. You will leave this closet, go left, through the kitchens and out the back. Get in the white car you will find waiting.” He slipped the phone back in John’s pocket. “I’ve set the alarms for vibrate.”
John only half heard. He’d realized his hands were still on Sherlock’s hips and he didn’t want to move them.
“Do you hear me?”
“Don’t lose package. Twenty-one minutes, three minutes, to the left, out back, white car,” John murmured.
He could smell Sherlock. He could smell the crispness of the new suit, and beneath it a muskiness. Apparently he had seen Sherlock running.
“What are you doing, John?”
John paused. What was he doing? Oh yes, he had been rubbing his thumb against Sherlock’s hipbone. Mentally, he shrugged and continued. Not only that, he leaned forward and rested the side of his head against Sherlock’s lean belly. “I’m doing what I want, Sherlock.”
He breathed in Sherlock’s scent. “John?”
“I always do what you want without question. For the next fifteen minutes, I want to do what I want. If there is a single fiber of you that does not want this, stop me with a word.” He turned his head and nuzzled the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers.
Sherlock froze. This was new. Everything about it was new. And, most shocking to him, it was arousing. Few things truly aroused him, and when they did he most often dismissed and repressed the reaction. That this was John shocked him even more. When they’d had a conversation about relationships during their first case Sherlock had calculated all the possibilities of sharing a relationship and then dismissed them at John’s tone.
Now he made fresh calculations in the matter of seconds and made no move to stop John. He felt the man smile against him.
In the darkness John made short work of the fastenings on Sherlock’s trousers. He was well practiced at removing people’s clothes. He’d learned the skill as bullets whistled past and his patients writhed and screamed while covered in blood.
None of that crossed his mind now. Deftly, he worked Sherlock’s semi-hard cock from the confines of his clothing. He wished he could see the feast before him, but his other senses made up for it. He lifted the heft of Sherlock’s cock and learned the girth of it.
“I was getting somewhere with that lovely lady, you know,” John said quietly. “And I wanted to. So badly.” He ran his hand up and down, thumbing the moistened tip. “Do you know why, oh great brain?”
“No,” Sherlock said hoarsely.
“Because of you. Seeing you so neat and elegant in this tuxedo. Damn you. And then you bring me in here.”
John abruptly took as much of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth as he could. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and gently placed a hand on the back of John’s head. His own movement surprised Sherlock. He wasn’t guiding or restricting. He wasn’t even encouraging. His light touch simply said “yes” and perhaps “thank you.”
John’s technique was far from skilled or practiced, but that was not the point for either one of them. John wrapped one hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock while he opened his own fly. After a minute of fumbling, John fell into a rhythm sucking on Sherlock and working his own cock. It was not long before John came. He had to take his mouth from Sherlock so he could breathe.
Sherlock moved his hand slightly, hoping John got the message of “yes, good, five more minutes and I must run.”
He heard John chuckle softly before taking Sherlock back in his mouth. John closed his eyes and focused on the taller man. He savored the act he’d only done perhaps three times before. He cataloged and memorized the taste and texture. He listened to Sherlock’s heavy breathing. He enjoyed the long-fingered hand on the back of his head as it just rested there approvingly.
It was not long before Sherlock tightened his touch a bit, warning John of his pending orgasm. John felt Sherlock’s cock thicken, drew his lips back to just keep the tip in his mouth and with his hand drew out his finish and drank it down.
Aware of Sherlock’s wobbly knees and the fast approaching deadline, John took the neat handkerchief from his pocket, wiped Sherlock’s still-twitching cock clean and tucked him away. Being mindful of the fine material of the tuxedo, he let Sherlock tuck and fasten. He felt a vibration in his pocket.
“It’s time. Thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock silently touched his head again and said “three minutes,” and he was gone.
John closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths before cleaning himself up. The second alarm went off and John followed his instructions.
He climbed in the back of the white car waiting and barely had a chance to fasten his seatbelt before it took off. He’d been expecting to see Sherlock waiting, but was admittedly relieved to be alone in the car. The driver paid him no attention.
His phone chimed.
You are being taken to Lestrade. Give him the package and take the reward. -SH
Reward? John remembered the little package and opened it in the light of passing streetlamps. The small velvet pouch held a single surprisingly large blue gem. John recalled a news story some months back about a blue carbuncle. John noted it because he always thought of a carbuncle as an abscess.
His phone chimed again.
Apartment 637. Your driver will wait. -SH
Some ten minutes later the car stopped at a high-end apartment building. “Thank you,” John said to his silent driver, and received a nod in return.
Upon reaching the apartment, Lestrade answered the door and immediately handed John a bottle of water. “Holmes texted you would want this. I didn’t ask why.”
John felt the tips of his ears burn and gratefully drank the water. He followed DI Lestrade into the lush apartment and a room full of people.
After John returned the gem to its tearful owner and her husband, it took an hour of having the gem verified and signing paperwork (on Sherlock’s behalf) before John was handed a substantial check. By this time John was uncomfortable in the tuxedo, more than a little hungry and thoroughly ready to go home.
The flat was dark when he reaches it, so he assumed Sherlock is still out. He went upstairs and changed out of the tuxedo. He carefully hung it up and checked to see if it needed cleaning. Thankfully, it did not. He made a mental note to buy a garment bag the next day.
When he turned on the light in the kitchen he jumped to find Sherlock revealed sitting at the table, still wearing his tuxedo.
“God, Sherlock. You scared me. You should wear a bell or something.”
“It would not matter as I am sitting completely still.”
John turned the kettle on and opened the refrigerator. “The case is over, will you eat now? Or have you already?”
“Sandwich. Ham. Swiss. No mayonnaise.”
John made them their late meal and they ate in companionable silence. Sherlock was the first to speak.
“Some people may infer that I am asexual. I am not. I merely categorize sex as a function of the transport like food and sleep. Occasionally it is a way to fend off the boredom for a brief time. I also abhor the messy emotional circumstances which people insist on linking with the act.”
“What you did was completely unexpected,” Sherlock held up a hand when John started to apologize. “It was not, however, unappreciated. While I am not suggesting we engage in sexual activities on a regular basis, I will tell you I am not adverse to it.”
John studied the clock on the stove without seeing it. “Nor am I,” he said after a while. “I’m not completely sure what came over me this evening.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m not even sure why we were in the closet to start with.”
Sherlock stood up and started telling John the convoluted details of his case and how it ended up twining with Mycroft’s. As he talked, he went into his bedroom and changed clothes with casual familiarity while John leaned in the doorway, not watching exactly.
When Sherlock’s tale was over they were sitting in the living room.
“Any questions?” Sherlock asked.
“Does Mycroft know?”
“Know? Oh. Between us. He knows what happened but not who, oddly enough. Next time he sees you he will.”
John twisted the ring, took off and set it on the table. “Here. It worked perfectly.”
Sherlock frowned. “I thought you liked it.”
“I do, but it was just a prop, wasn’t it?”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “You may keep it if you wish. It is just a street-vender trinket. What story did you use?”
“I told him it was given to me by a dear friend and left it at that.”
“Clever.”
John went to bed marveling at how their relationship had changed, and yet not. In the years to come, John continued to wear the simple silver band on his right hand and Sherlock occasionally plotted to secret them away into a closet.
Writer: fanbot
Warnings: graphic slash oral sex
Summary: Sherlock chooses a closet to hide in, John takes action.
John/Sherlock. No spoilers
Words: 2617 complete
Rated: R -Adult
I just wanted to dress the boys in tuxedos and get them dirty.
Betaed by the gracious lygtemanden.
“This is the kind of undercover work I could get used to!” John Watson adjusted the cuffs on his tailored tuxedo and admired himself in a mirror.
“Don’t,” Sherlock Holmes said from behind the dressing curtain. “If Mycroft’s case had not coincided with my own, we would not be here.”
“Pity. Now that we have these lovely suits, we’ll have to find somewhere to wear them.”
“I have asked you if you wished to accompany me to the opera and symphony any number of times. Perhaps now you will.” Sherlock stepped out of the dressing alcove and John almost had to bite back a gasp.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh yes, you’ve never seen me in a proper monkey suit.” Sherlock moved with the comfortable ease of an aristocrat. The cut of his black tails accentuated his lean frame.
“Monkey suit! Sherlock, you’re gorgeous!”
“Really, John.” Sherlock preened in front of a mirror. “Handsome, possibly striking, not gorgeous.”
John chuckled at him. “What about me then?”
Sherlock turned a critical eye to his companion. “Humm.” Sherlock tweaked John’s tie and turned him about. “Michael does impeccable work. Don’t hold yourself quite so stiff.”
“I feel like I’m at full dress review.”
“If this mutual admiration society meeting is over, we will be on our way,” Mycroft stood in the doorway, just as comfortably at ease as Sherlock in formal dress.
“Do you have your suits taken in and out or do you have one for each size?” Sherlock cruelly asked as he passed by him. “Humm. One of every size.”
“Thank you, Sherlock. Doctor Watson, come along.”
In the back of the long black car Mycroft briefed them on the case. Or, rather, the two brothers briefed each other. John tried to keep up for a number of minutes, then just entertained himself by seeing what was in the food and drink compartments. He found a small television built into the seat back in front of them, but his triumphant smile just earned him twin glares from the Holmes brothers.
Five blocks later the discussion had died down. John looked up from the jar of mixed nuts and paused in picking out all the cashews. “What’s my role in this again?”
“You’re my assistant.” “You’re his date,” the brothers answered at the same time.
John looked from one to the other. “If I’m the date, and I’m not the one paying, then I expect you to take no liberties,” he mock scowled at Sherlock. “If I’m the associate, then what am I looking for? Three pieces of a bomb site or something?”
“That was the dreadful black and white movie you were watching.”
“It was my turn to pick. I think Basil Rathbone makes a charming detective.” John liked to watch detective films once in a while. Sherlock almost always shouted at the solution fifteen minutes in, but it was fun to listen to him point out all the mistakes.
“Perhaps, but his companion was a bumbler. Reminded me of Anderson. Information is being passed in some way through the blind bid auction. At least one valuable stolen gem is being transferred tonight. I want you to look out for one particular person.” Sherlock took Watson’s left hand and slipped a silver band onto his pinky finger.
“Sherlock! This is so sudden!”
The detective smirked and leaned back in his seat. “You are looking for someone wearing a band much like that on that particular finger. I need you to get a good look at it and determine what words or figures are on it. The best witness we’ve had can only say that it looked ‘speckled.’ If you are wearing a ring in the same fashion, it will give you an opening to examine theirs.”
“Oh, clever. What’s the story of my ring then?”
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Lost love, lost bet, you’re the writer.”
John turned the ring on his finger.
“Don’t play with it,” Mycroft put in. “That gives it away as new.”
“I’m not wearing a gun, so my part in this adventure is just a speckled band.”
Sherlock grunted and stared past his steepled fingers out the window.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock and took some pity on John. “Beyond that, do what you do best and keep your eyes open.”
“Am I not allowed to enjoy the party?”
“Of course! It is to benefit wounded and disabled veterans after all. Chat up the charity and in that suit you will be the belle of the ball.”
As it turned out, it only took John a hour to find the gentleman and get a good look at his ring. It had snowflakes on it and the number 42 in roman numerals. It took a little longer to find Sherlock and relay the information. After that, John was free to enjoy his evening. He could see no pattern to the charity bids or objects, so he had a few drinks and enjoyed watching (and trying to chat up) all the beautiful women.
Once he thought he saw Sherlock run past a window, but the red headed woman listening to his tales of heroism and danger at war held his attention. He’d was just getting somewhere when Sherlock came up to him.
“John, we must go. Now.
“Sherlock Holmes, this is…”
Sherlock took John’s arm and dragged him off. “Sorry, later. My friend is a little drunk.”
Rather than make a scene, John followed along. “I’m not drunk,” he muttered, following Sherlock down a back hall in the grand old home.
“I know. You are what you like to call ‘warm.’ Now get in here.”
“Get in where?”
In answer, Sherlock pushed John into a closet and closed the door.
The back of John’s knees hit something and he sat down hard. From the sound and texture he figured it was a couple of big plastic storage bins. He automatically grabbed Sherlock’s hips as he went down.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Don’t move,” he hissed.
John stilled and heard the foot steps of a man swiftly walking down the hall outside then past. Sherlock waited another minute then spoke softly yet clearly. “We have to hide here for twenty-one minutes. Do not lose this.” He slipped a small package into John’s inside jacket picket and took his phone in the same smooth move. He swiftly pushed buttons on it. “At that time, I will leave. You will follow in exactly three minutes. You will leave this closet, go left, through the kitchens and out the back. Get in the white car you will find waiting.” He slipped the phone back in John’s pocket. “I’ve set the alarms for vibrate.”
John only half heard. He’d realized his hands were still on Sherlock’s hips and he didn’t want to move them.
“Do you hear me?”
“Don’t lose package. Twenty-one minutes, three minutes, to the left, out back, white car,” John murmured.
He could smell Sherlock. He could smell the crispness of the new suit, and beneath it a muskiness. Apparently he had seen Sherlock running.
“What are you doing, John?”
John paused. What was he doing? Oh yes, he had been rubbing his thumb against Sherlock’s hipbone. Mentally, he shrugged and continued. Not only that, he leaned forward and rested the side of his head against Sherlock’s lean belly. “I’m doing what I want, Sherlock.”
He breathed in Sherlock’s scent. “John?”
“I always do what you want without question. For the next fifteen minutes, I want to do what I want. If there is a single fiber of you that does not want this, stop me with a word.” He turned his head and nuzzled the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers.
Sherlock froze. This was new. Everything about it was new. And, most shocking to him, it was arousing. Few things truly aroused him, and when they did he most often dismissed and repressed the reaction. That this was John shocked him even more. When they’d had a conversation about relationships during their first case Sherlock had calculated all the possibilities of sharing a relationship and then dismissed them at John’s tone.
Now he made fresh calculations in the matter of seconds and made no move to stop John. He felt the man smile against him.
In the darkness John made short work of the fastenings on Sherlock’s trousers. He was well practiced at removing people’s clothes. He’d learned the skill as bullets whistled past and his patients writhed and screamed while covered in blood.
None of that crossed his mind now. Deftly, he worked Sherlock’s semi-hard cock from the confines of his clothing. He wished he could see the feast before him, but his other senses made up for it. He lifted the heft of Sherlock’s cock and learned the girth of it.
“I was getting somewhere with that lovely lady, you know,” John said quietly. “And I wanted to. So badly.” He ran his hand up and down, thumbing the moistened tip. “Do you know why, oh great brain?”
“No,” Sherlock said hoarsely.
“Because of you. Seeing you so neat and elegant in this tuxedo. Damn you. And then you bring me in here.”
John abruptly took as much of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth as he could. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and gently placed a hand on the back of John’s head. His own movement surprised Sherlock. He wasn’t guiding or restricting. He wasn’t even encouraging. His light touch simply said “yes” and perhaps “thank you.”
John’s technique was far from skilled or practiced, but that was not the point for either one of them. John wrapped one hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock while he opened his own fly. After a minute of fumbling, John fell into a rhythm sucking on Sherlock and working his own cock. It was not long before John came. He had to take his mouth from Sherlock so he could breathe.
Sherlock moved his hand slightly, hoping John got the message of “yes, good, five more minutes and I must run.”
He heard John chuckle softly before taking Sherlock back in his mouth. John closed his eyes and focused on the taller man. He savored the act he’d only done perhaps three times before. He cataloged and memorized the taste and texture. He listened to Sherlock’s heavy breathing. He enjoyed the long-fingered hand on the back of his head as it just rested there approvingly.
It was not long before Sherlock tightened his touch a bit, warning John of his pending orgasm. John felt Sherlock’s cock thicken, drew his lips back to just keep the tip in his mouth and with his hand drew out his finish and drank it down.
Aware of Sherlock’s wobbly knees and the fast approaching deadline, John took the neat handkerchief from his pocket, wiped Sherlock’s still-twitching cock clean and tucked him away. Being mindful of the fine material of the tuxedo, he let Sherlock tuck and fasten. He felt a vibration in his pocket.
“It’s time. Thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock silently touched his head again and said “three minutes,” and he was gone.
John closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths before cleaning himself up. The second alarm went off and John followed his instructions.
He climbed in the back of the white car waiting and barely had a chance to fasten his seatbelt before it took off. He’d been expecting to see Sherlock waiting, but was admittedly relieved to be alone in the car. The driver paid him no attention.
His phone chimed.
You are being taken to Lestrade. Give him the package and take the reward. -SH
Reward? John remembered the little package and opened it in the light of passing streetlamps. The small velvet pouch held a single surprisingly large blue gem. John recalled a news story some months back about a blue carbuncle. John noted it because he always thought of a carbuncle as an abscess.
His phone chimed again.
Apartment 637. Your driver will wait. -SH
Some ten minutes later the car stopped at a high-end apartment building. “Thank you,” John said to his silent driver, and received a nod in return.
Upon reaching the apartment, Lestrade answered the door and immediately handed John a bottle of water. “Holmes texted you would want this. I didn’t ask why.”
John felt the tips of his ears burn and gratefully drank the water. He followed DI Lestrade into the lush apartment and a room full of people.
After John returned the gem to its tearful owner and her husband, it took an hour of having the gem verified and signing paperwork (on Sherlock’s behalf) before John was handed a substantial check. By this time John was uncomfortable in the tuxedo, more than a little hungry and thoroughly ready to go home.
The flat was dark when he reaches it, so he assumed Sherlock is still out. He went upstairs and changed out of the tuxedo. He carefully hung it up and checked to see if it needed cleaning. Thankfully, it did not. He made a mental note to buy a garment bag the next day.
When he turned on the light in the kitchen he jumped to find Sherlock revealed sitting at the table, still wearing his tuxedo.
“God, Sherlock. You scared me. You should wear a bell or something.”
“It would not matter as I am sitting completely still.”
John turned the kettle on and opened the refrigerator. “The case is over, will you eat now? Or have you already?”
“Sandwich. Ham. Swiss. No mayonnaise.”
John made them their late meal and they ate in companionable silence. Sherlock was the first to speak.
“Some people may infer that I am asexual. I am not. I merely categorize sex as a function of the transport like food and sleep. Occasionally it is a way to fend off the boredom for a brief time. I also abhor the messy emotional circumstances which people insist on linking with the act.”
“What you did was completely unexpected,” Sherlock held up a hand when John started to apologize. “It was not, however, unappreciated. While I am not suggesting we engage in sexual activities on a regular basis, I will tell you I am not adverse to it.”
John studied the clock on the stove without seeing it. “Nor am I,” he said after a while. “I’m not completely sure what came over me this evening.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m not even sure why we were in the closet to start with.”
Sherlock stood up and started telling John the convoluted details of his case and how it ended up twining with Mycroft’s. As he talked, he went into his bedroom and changed clothes with casual familiarity while John leaned in the doorway, not watching exactly.
When Sherlock’s tale was over they were sitting in the living room.
“Any questions?” Sherlock asked.
“Does Mycroft know?”
“Know? Oh. Between us. He knows what happened but not who, oddly enough. Next time he sees you he will.”
John twisted the ring, took off and set it on the table. “Here. It worked perfectly.”
Sherlock frowned. “I thought you liked it.”
“I do, but it was just a prop, wasn’t it?”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “You may keep it if you wish. It is just a street-vender trinket. What story did you use?”
“I told him it was given to me by a dear friend and left it at that.”
“Clever.”
John went to bed marveling at how their relationship had changed, and yet not. In the years to come, John continued to wear the simple silver band on his right hand and Sherlock occasionally plotted to secret them away into a closet.