The Fourth Clue.
The Fourth Clue. Sherlock leaves four clues for John. Guess what Sherlock is trying to tell him.
The dj was bloated and drained of color except for an ugly, deep purplish weal around his neck made by the murderer's ligature. Sherlock examined the ligature, a peacock blue strip of silk, with complete absorption, sniffing it, looking closely at its fibers, and stroking it through his latex gloves with his long, sensitive fingers. John looked away, casting for something else in the decadently furnished hotel suite to occupy his own attention. He pulled open the Vuitton suitcase at the foot of the bed and found a jumble of studded leather and bohemian feathered bits. In the bottom, a long man's silk pajama robe in the same color as the ligature. John held it up into the light, and Sherlock moved into his line of sight.
John had a momentary vision, ruthlessly suppressed, of Sherlock wearing the robe, how it would bring out the color in his ice blue eyes. John made a conspicuous show of examining the robe's pockets for evidence. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
"The killer knew the victim, quite well," Sherlock announced. "The robe was well hidden and several more suitable ligatures were in plain sight --". Sherlock indicated with a flourish a red silk robe crumpled at the end of the bed, its belt tie dangling over the side. The open closet also revealed numerous long scarves, leather belts, and other items quite suitable for a ligature.
"Couldn't the killer have been wearing the red robe?" John asked.
"He could, but he wasn't. The red robe has the same scent of men's cologne as is still detectable on the victim...Versace for Men...most noticeable at the neck. Also, the victim drank a single malt, Glenfidditch 30 year I'd say, in a large shot all at once immediately before retiring. The stain has completely dried but is visible down the front of the robe and it still smells distinctly of scotch. The victim threw off the robe because he had spilled drink down its front and it was quite wet. He left it there, went straight to bed. The killer was wearing either a leather jacket or leather gloves, or both, because there are minute leather fragments under the victim's fingernails."
Sherlock fell silent after his staccato summary and his pale gaze became unfocussed. John and Lestrade watched him, anticipating one of Sherlock's leaps of deduction that seemed like clairvoyance to John, even now. Sherlock began tossing the dj's wardrobe in random messy piles until it began to look much like the floor of his own room in Baker Street. The many leather pieces received minute attention from Sherlock's miniature magnifying lens.
"And here we are," Sherlock cried, thrusting a black leather jacket at Anderson, who looked repelled. "Two colors of leather. The brown gloves are in the pocket of the jacket. The killer took the jacket from the closet, and wore it and the gloves to protect himself from the victim clawing at him and to guard against fingerprints. The murderer also took the belt from the robe in the suitcase, he planned to use it as the ligature all along. The murderer was hiding in the closet, and returned the jacket and gloves to the closet before he left. The killer knew the victim well enough to be familiar with the victim's wardrobe items on this leg of the tour." Gerry Gilmore, the victim, aka DJ Gillette, was in the middle of a worldwide tour.
"An obsessed fan?" posited Lestrade.
"Possible, but this fan has intimate familiarity with the victim's wardrobe, including very personal items worn at night or in the morning at breakfast, such as his robe, and a fan for whom the blue robe had particular importance as it was chosen for the ligature."
"How do we know the killer didn't choose the blue robe tie because it was close at hand? Maybe the killer didn't see the red robe at all, maybe he waited till after the victim was asleep and the room was dark," John argued.
"Perhaps. But if it was dark, how did he find the blue robe? The bedside lamp was left on and was still on when the victim was found this morning. So, either the killer wanted to see the victim, maybe to talk to him, or maybe the killer wanted the victim to see him and more importantly, see the blue ligature, before he died. Did you see how the ligature was tied? In a careful bow around the victim's neck, after he was dead. No, that robe was special." He turned to John. "Find out who bought is particular robe within the past 3 months. It's no older than that, it was hardly worn at all but was brought on tour even though he already had the red robe. So, a recent gift."
"Is the killer a man or a woman?" Lestrade asked.
"Most likely a man, could be a very strong woman. The ligature almost severed the neck tissues, and was rather thick. Great upper arm strength. And if the killer gave the robe to the victim, it is more likely from a male lover given that particular shade of blue."
Anderson snorted. "Gerry Gilmore was one of the most notorious ladies' men in Europe. He had more supermodels than the Italian prime minister. He has a pack of kiddies between the assorted wives and baby mamas."
Sherlock curled a lip scornfully and he did not deign to respond. He met John's gaze steadily with what felt to John to be some attempt to communicate, but as usual, John was baffled as to what. John did not mention the gay porn mag stuffed in the bottom of the suitcase. He looked away, trying to ignore the undeniable fact that his heart was racing and definitely suppressing any thoughts whatsoever as to why.
John visited the very small, very exclusive shop in Bond Street that made bespoke men's pajamas, robes and smoking jackets for breathtaking fees, and learned that the robe had been ordered by a man named Joe Smith, cash, patterned after a robe that had been brought in to match.
"Red silk. Ours. Of course we had the measurements on file for that client, but this individual did't want it known that the robe was being bought for Mr. Gillmore. We were told it was needed urgently. Always happy to accommodate a special client."
Here the clerk, who was polished to a superhuman sheen, gave a brief, discreet but sly look to John that seemed to imply a certain particular meaning to the word "special."
John exited the shop hastily and texted Sherlock what he had learned. Then he texted him again that he would not be back tonight. He turned off the phone before Sherlock could make any contemptuous new observations about John's planned nocturnal activities with his date, Sharon.
* * *
Sharon was a nicely put together PR agent with sharply groomed blonde hair and abundant vanilla musk perfume that left John feeling like he was enveloped by a giant cupcake. But she was cheerful and willing. However, that night he found himself unceremoniously shaken awake at 4:00 am by Sharon, makeup mussed, looking very cross.
"You were talking in your sleep. Again," she accused. John muttered something about nightmares, but Sharon said, "All I heard was, 'Sherlock'," looking down at John's undeniable erection beneath his boxers.
Whereupon John instantly leaped upon her and did his manful best, silencing any further speculation by either of them pertaining to said condition and Sherlock Holmes. Nevertheless, Sharon claimed an early morning meeting and gave John the heave-ho, leaving John certain he was being crossed off Sharon's list.
Not that I wanted to be on her list, he muttered. It was so early that none of his usual haunts when avoiding Baker Street in general, and Sherlock specifically, were open and John's footsteps returned to 221B, apparently of their own volition.
John found Sherlock scraping aggressively on his violin. There was something different about the flat. A small path had been cleared through the detritus of Sherlock's books, papers, stuffed bats, assorted undefinable skeletal remains, vials of noxious substances, autopsy photographs, etc., terminating at a handsome mahogany breakfast table and chair shoved between the two double windows. A steaming pot of tea and a single cup sat at the otherwise uncluttered table with today's newspaper reassembled with unprecedented care. With huge surprise, he realized this offering was set for him.
"Where did we get this?" John asked casually as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the battered coatrack, which Sherlock had most recently used to hang human appendages over the radiator for the stated purpose of determining whether they would mummify. Unfortunately, the experiment was a rather spectacular failure.
Sherlock said something about a taking it in trade for solving "a small dilemma for Crispian's," and John felt him watching him keenly under lowered eyelashes while appearing to instead be concentrating on restringing his bow.
"Well done you, then," said John. "It's lovely. And clean," he added helpfully, hoping to call to Sherlock's attention the difference between the polished surface of the new table and the scarred, stained, cluttered and generally abused surfaces of nearly every other article of furniture in the flat.
"Hmmmm," Sherlock retorted, giving every indication that his violin was potentially explosive by his determined concentration upon it.
* * *
The next night, John claimed a date again with Sharon but in fact, took himself off to one of his semi-secret pubs that he expected Mycroft knew all about, but may not have revealed to Sherlock for reasons of competitive advantage.
Downing pint after pint, mechanically watching football, he thought about Sharon, interchangeable with any one of the past dozen women he had disappointed in rapid succession, without much caring if he saw her again, or anyone else either. Except Sherlock. Somehow, a tugging in the center of his chest like an invisible cord pulled him back to Baker Street time after time, despite Sherlock's frequent -- make that constant -- bouts of insensitivity, inaccessibility, childishness, churlishness, gorgeousness. -- the list was almost endless -- John closed his eyes. He was gone, far gone, too far gone. The thought bounced about his ale-addled brain: gone, gone, too far gone. He sighed. The telly flashed some nonsense about a fresh scandal involving the peripatetic Duchess of York. The pub emptied and last orders were called.
John climbed the stairs to 221B more than a little drunk. He shuffled past the lights in the kitchen where Sherlock was poking about in the freezer, and fell face first into his bed where he found it filled with a strange scent of tobacco, leather, something like bourbon and a dark, rich mere hint of ... vanilla. Nothing like the juvenile cologne Sharon wore, but John was too inebriated to do more than savor it for a brief moment before falling into a deep sleep wondering why the bedcovers felt faintly warm. His brain tried to form a theory (or was it a hypothesis?) as to why this should be so, but was overtaken by dreams. Tonight, probably because of the ale, the worst of the nightmares returned. Afghanistan.
* * *
A makeshift tent. Beaten, bound, one eye swollen shut. Four men, Taliban, a father and his three sons, smelling of the evil local moonshine. Cleaning their kalashnikovs, randomly kicking John. Finally, after what felt like hours of wagering with dice and drunken singing, a clutching at him. His trousers yanked, torn, down around his ankles. The men taking turns doing their worst. Egging each other on. So drunk, none lasted long. He felt almost a flutter of pity for the youngest, who did not want to partake and was slapped by the father. He, too, joining in as the last. John resolutely, absolutely silent, pretending to faint. Obscene chuckling of the men as they collapsed in a heap and commenced snoring. John slowly wriggling out of his bonds loosened by their debauch. Filching a loaded gun, his own.
When the men stirred at the noise of John trying to scramble down the hill, he shot them all dead in less than three seconds.
Reaching home camp and falling into the arms of the other surgeon, Barton, who gasped at his state. Darkness. John tossed and turned in his narrow bed in Baker Street and the nightmare continued.
Somewhere in the dark dreaming he was reaching out for comfort, for safety, but did not know what or where it might be.
* * *
The next day John was returning to the flat wearing a beautifully cut suit Mycroft had had specially made for him, saying, "if he was to represent Her Majesties' government in even the most attenuated capacity, he needed to just occasionally look the part," when he heard a high male voice pleading, "Just this once," and a tall dark man with a movie star's chiseled features rushed out down the stairs. He paused and looked John up and down with unconcealed jealousy.
"I've warmed him up for you, then, have I?" he mocked over his shoulder as he went out into the street. John bounded into the flat to the astonishing sight of Sherlock draped in an attitude both languid and awkward across the sofa, wearing the very peacock robe from the dj murder, and nothing else. It could only be described as a pose.
Several reddish pink, darkened spots on the marble flesh of his neck and chest were obviously new, very new, love bites, even glistening. A burning crept slowly up John's body and settled in his head which felt ready to explode. He wanted to jump downstairs and throttle the man on the stair, beat him to a pulp in fact, and finish him off with his pistol.
"...although I'm flattered by your interest I consider myself married to my work," John bit back the words, mentally throwing them back in Sherlock's face.
Sherlock made no effort at all to cover himself and although he absolutely had to be aware that John was staring at him, no, devouring him with his eyes, gave every appearance of attending only to complex invisible formulae on the ceiling. John turned away and stomped off to his own room.
He flung himself into his bed and was disturbed again by the strange perfume in his sheets. Also, his jumper was crumpled under his pillow, which was quite odd because he distinctly remembered putting it away in the bureau, he knew he had. He threw the fragrant sheets on the floor and closed his eyes, but sleep would not come tonight.
"Goodnight, John," drawled Sherlock after him through the closed door.
* * *
Sharon relented the next day and invited him to visit her parents in Bath for the weekend, apparently in need of a suitably employed date for a family affair. John readily agreed. Anything to put distance between him and Sherlock Holmes.
But they had another row in the car on the way out of London, with Sharon accusing him of being preoccupied and Not Paying Enough Attention To Sharon, a capital crime, evidently. John flung out of the car just as a torrential spring rain burst forth. Sharon sped away. John returned, soaking, to Baker Street.
This has to stop, he thought. I have to stop it. It can't go on. Not like this. I have to end it.
The door to the flat was slightly ajar and John saw that Mrs. Hudson had considerately deposited a bag of provisions just inside the door to feed Sherlock during his weekend absence. He was soaked and dripping rainwater everywhere, so he stripped down and draped his trousers and shirt over the radiator to dry. The rain was terrifically loud, like fistfuls of pebbles being dropped from the sky on Baker Street. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
He padded toward his own room and was startled to hear a very low sound, clearly Sherlock's voice, somehow thickened and husky with some strange emotion. What he heard was his own name, "John," very softly, nearly a sob, or maybe a curse. A sharp tingling rushed up the back of his neck.
Time stopped. He held his breath. He knew that if he touched that door, there would be no more hiding, no more secrets from Sherlock, or even from himself. His fingers tightened and he swayed a little, stepping back. John Watson, he said to himself, time to show what you're made of, and he squared his shoulders and pushed the bedroom door open.
Sherlock lay angularly in John's bed, his eyes flashing in the dim light from the hall. He was wrapped in John's most hideous jumper like a blanket, and wearing nothing but pajama pants through which John saw his hardness straining against the silk.
He took the two steps to the bed and fell to his knees.
Sherlock looked astounded, and John remembered he was supposed to be in Bath; Sherlock drew back against the wall, his fierce expression like nothing so much as a snow leopard at bay, glowing blue eyes in a white face. Carefully, as one might try to touch such a great cat, John stretched out his hand, his left hand which was rock steady as he stroked Sherlock's cheek, just to be certain he was real, this was real, not a dream. Sherlock's eyes widened but he did not pull away, either.
They stared at each other like that for a long minute, then John muttered, "Well, I invaded Afghanistan," as he pushed Sherlock back against the pillows and crushed him with a hard kiss, strong and demanding, but not half of what he wanted. "Yes," Sherlock murmured against his lips, trying his best to crush him back with John on top of him. John felt a surge of desire so overwhelming that he had to make fists in the sheets to stop himself from ravishing Sherlock without restraint. Restraint. He pushed aside the visions the word conjured, for now he wanted only to show Sherlock what he felt. Games could wait.
So long, so long to wait to touch that hair, feel those lips part for him, only for him, to feel his hands on his back, hardness against his thigh, hot breath against his neck. Sherlock was quiet, but his urgent exploration with his elegant, impatient fingers and the runaway pulse under John's lips told him enough. Suddenly Sherlock gasped in genuine pain as John sucked on the fading purple love bite remaining on his neck.
"You bastard, how could you," John gasped as he sucked even harder, deliberately right on the wounded flesh, causing Sherlock to thrash beneath him and the hot skin of Sherlock's neck to throb beneath his lips, "How dare you."
"Had to show you," Sherlock murmured against his ear. The last thing John Watson wanted to do right now was talk, now that he was finally touching Sherlock, kissing him, chest to chest, thighs entangled. But this would not do.
"Show me what, exactly? That you would give yourself to that -- ponce -- before you would condescend to give yourself to me!" John growled in fury, grinding against Sherlock a good deal harder than he meant to. Now he was starting to tremble, whether from desire or anger he could not have said.
Sherlock stared into his eyes as though willing him to understand. When it was clear at telepathy was not going to to work, Sherlock grabbed John's face between his own hands. "Show you. Touch. That I could be touched. By another. That I would -- permit -- it."
"Do you mean to tell me you let that boy suck on your neck, just to -- make me jealous?"
"Certainly not," Sherlock huffed, "I asked him to do it to leave you a clue. It was one of several." He smiled crookedly. "But you were jealous, weren't you?"
"Let me show you," John said, and he kissed Sherlock with all of the long, lonely longing and suppressed storm of feeling that he had kept locked deep in his heart. At last Sherlock moaned beneath his lips, and pressed against him with an urgency that made John harder than he had ever been, so impossibly hard that he had to stop, or he was going to come all over Sherlock, far too soon, but now Sherlock was begging him please, please.
John fumbled for the lube he kept in his bedside dresser, ever the optimistic bachelor, and pressed it between the palms of his hands to warm it, whispering what he planned to do into Sherlock's ear. Then he was, unbelievably, smoothing the lube into Sherlock and infinitely slowly, inserting his finger a knuckle at a time. Sherlock tensed, straining against him, but did not draw away. John grappled him even closer as his finger slowly stroked, feeling Sherlock soften, widen. He added a second finger, pausing sometimes then pushing the fingers as deep as they would go, until Sherlock was thrusting back against his hand.
"John, God, please, I want you so," he gasped, looking into his eyes, blazing with craving and even more amazing, with something like adoration. John kissed him deeply, lapping him with his tongue, as he pulled Sherlock's legs up and apart, and lodged his cock against the warm wet opening, and pushed just his head inside, and waited. Sherlock growled with frustration, his hardness straining between their now slick bellies, as John held him down.
"Good things --" he entered a bit farther, feeling the delicious tightness stretching around his hardness, "--come --" he thrust a little harder, Sherlock breaking out in beads of sweat as John pinioned him, "--to those --" he pushed himself to the hilt, "--who-- wait." John paused there, gasping, savoring the feeling of being fully embraced by Sherlock, opening to him. In his wildest dreams he had never dreamed of this. He rocked there, controlling the rhythm. He did not intend to come, not yet, maybe not for hours. He kissed Sherlock everywhere he could reach as he thrust, ignoring his own need, grinding his teeth, and Sherlock's moans became an uncontrolled cry as he finally came, spurting forcefully into John's hand. "Yes yes, come for me, Sherlock," John whispered into Sherlock's hair, stroking his back to calm him.
Then it was Sherlock who was exploring, touching, reaching behind John with his long arms to massage him with lube, and John flinched away, causing a look of utter horror to flicker across Sherlock's face. "What's wrong?" he stammered. "John, tell me, you must tell me, what is it? Did I hurt you?"
John hung his head, inarticulate.
"Don't you want me?" Sherlock whispered brokenly, as though something had just died.
John realized that if he didn't help Sherlock with this, everything would be ruined, forever. He grabbed Sherlock's hand, and kissed it, and hugged him tight. Without looking at his face, he whispered into Sherlock's ear, haltingly, "It isn't you. God, Sherlock, you must believe me, it could never be you." He swallowed. "You know I was -- injured, in the war. . ."
Suddenly Sherlock pulled away, a look of pity and self-disgust on his face. Sherlock instantly understood what John was trying to say. John could not bear it, that pity.
He took hold of Sherlock's hand, and sucked the fingers hard, then pressing his forehead to Sherlock's own, he guided Sherlock's hand between his buttocks, to the place where he had been stitched back together, the scars red and prominent. His breath was coming now in ragged pants that filled the room. Sherlock's clever fingers gently felt, exploring, rubbing, understanding everything, until John felt himself melting. Patiently Sherlock teased, and finally pushed John back on the bed where he parted his legs and licked John with his tongue, softening the scarred flesh, lapping and stroking without demand until John trembled against him in ecstasy. All hurt was forgotten. When Sherlock took him lavishly into his mouth, still stroking his scars, John came in a blinding hot white flash while Sherlock whispered words of comfort in the afterglow as John lay still.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John demanded after they both were warmly wrapped in blankets in John's bed, the electric fire blazing. The rain was still falling. John remembered again Sherlock alone, in his bed, hard and longing for John, too proud to ask.
"It had to be your doing, you had to be the one," Sherlock declared primly, as though explaining some elementary principle of forensics.
"Whatever do you mean by that? Why?"
"I knew you didn't like to be touched, but not why," he said seriously, looking quietly at John, and John knew that he would never be afraid to be touched by Sherlock, ever again. "I thought, if only I could get you to touch me first, you would --" he seemed to struggle for the words, "feel right about it."
"So, what were the other clues?"
Sherlock looked affronted that John could have failed to understand signs that he intended to be unmistakably clear.
"First. I kept smelling that awful perfume worn by that female you were seeing, and thought you must be fond of vanilla as you so often reeked of it, sorry but there's no denying it." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "I concocted my own formula, with vanilla, thinking you might find it--- appealing."
"Oh, I do. Very much. Where did you learn to mix perfume? Wait, tell me later," John said hastily when it seemed Sherlock was prepared to launch into a detailed explanation.
"Second. I could see that you fancied that blue robe from the DJ case --I had one made up for me, don't try to deny it, you were thinking of me wearing it, weren't you? That day." Sherlock looked smug.
"You bloody well know that I was, so I won't deny it," John grinned happily.
"Third. I realized I probably needed to give you some evidence that I was able to be civilized in sharing our home. I noticed you were being forced to take your tea standing because of my general shabbiness."
"Too right!"
"Hence the new table and chair from Crispian's. Fourth, --"
"We can skip the fourth clue, I never want to hear another word about that ponce so long as I live. If I I see him, I will kill him," John said passionately. Sherlock knew he could actually be perfectly serious. John was very prone to killing when it came down to it, so he distracted him with a lingering kiss.
This was definitely going to be addictive, he decided. This was -- Sherlock struggled with identifying the correct feeling, but could only form the word "good" as applying. He had an addictive personality. This could turn out to work after all, better than he expected. He had never really allowed himself to hope that it would.
John was suddenly asleep, his face relaxed as a boy's. Sherlock pulled the covers up over him before sliding gently out of bed to work on his latest experiment regarding the rate of shrinkage of the vitreous fluid of the eye after death.
John would have no nightmares tonight.
The End.