Fic for yeomanrand: The Man to Whom Nothing Ever Happened
Title: The Man to Whom Nothing Ever Happened
Recipient: yeomanrand
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Anthea, Mummy
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, some sexual themes
Summary: He was telling the truth when he said that nothing happens to him. What he wasn't so clear about was what had happened to him. John Watson turns out to have an interesting secret, too bad nobody told him about it.
AN: These characters don't belong to me. Any references to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft, Anthea, Mummy, or James Bond are made in the spirit of fun and games (and nobody's been hurt). Special thanks go to the village that made it possible for this idiot to get the story down.
The Man to Whom Nothing Ever Happened
Ella Thompson's Office, London, January, 2010
"Nothing happens to me."
Well, it was true at the time. But what John couldn't figure out was why he was so unhappy about it. It was what he'd wanted, wasn't it?
Apparently not.
Somewhere in Afghanistan, October, 2007
"Watson, I have a job for you."
"Sir." Colonel Branch's office was freezing, as usual. Colonel Branch was bundled up to his ears, as usual. John stood at parade rest, an enquiring eyebrow raised at his superior officer.
"I'm sorry about this, but we're going to have to lose you. Terrible tragedy, of course, but for Queen and country and whatnot."
"Sir? I'm sorry, I don't…"
The door to Colonel Branch's study banged open and a short, stout woman in a business suit strode into the room. Her hair was brilliantly white, cut short. She radiated absolute power and confidence.
"Is that him?" she asked, giving John an appraising glance.
"Ah, yes, sir, madam, sir, ma'am...." John had never seen the Colonel this discomfited.
"Bit short, isn't he?" She walked around him. John, who had snapped to attention the moment that she'd made eye contact with him, stiffened even further under the scrutiny.
"But one of our best. A crack shot, too." Colonel Branch mopped his brow. John noticed that despite the arctic temperature of the office, he was sweating profusely.
"Has he been trained?" She walked around him, giving his thigh a good grope. John jumped. "Calm down," she said to him, giving him a stroke and a pat.
John began to feel more than a little bit like a Labrador retriever.
"Medically, hand to hand combat, and of course, he's completely loyal."
"Not quite good enough."
"He has a knack, also, ma'am for staying out of trouble."
"Ah, and is that why you're recommending him to me?"
"Ma'am, sir, erm… that is precisely the reason."
"Don't call me 'sir.' It's annoying."
"Yes, erm…"
"In fact, don't speak at all. I'll have him - but be warned, Nettleship…"
"Branch, ma'am," the Colonel said diffidently.
"Don't call me ma'am, either. It makes no difference to me! If this one turns out like the last one you palmed off on me…"
"Ma'am, I couldn't possibly have foreseen the circumstances that would have led Bond to…"
"What did I say about not speaking? Come, what is his name?"
"Watson," John volunteered.
"Very well, Watson. But don't talk. And don't argue with me. Are you likely to have your head turned by a woman with a pretty face?" the woman asked sharply.
"Erm… no, ma'… No."
"Good lad. We'll take you." She turned and opened the door. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you coming?"
"Pardon me, but who…"
"You'd better go with her, Watson," Colonel Branch said with a sigh, sinking down into his desk chair. "I'll never hear the end of it otherwise."
"But, sir, I don't know… You don't know…"
The woman gave an exasperated huff from the doorway.
"I know you're an army doctor who also happens to be a crack shot. You're bisexual, not that it matters, but it's more convenient for me: you're unlikely to get involved in lurid affairs that distract you from what you're supposed to be doing. I know you're loyal, well trained, and reasonably - although not enough to be troublesome - intelligent. And I know that you will walk through this door with me, because you joined the army for adventure, and with me, you think you'll get plenty. That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think?"
She paused and looked John over from head to toe.
"The name is M, and the assignment is MI-6. Come along. Afternoon, Nettleship."
An Undisclosed Location in Afghanistan, July 2008
"Watson, you're a berk."
"Thank you very much," John countered.
"You are a colossal berk. What on earth convinced you that it would be a good idea to go almost completely unarmed into that bunker?" M looked out of place in the camp, wearing a freshly pressed black suit and sour expression.
"People were dying, M; it was a command decision." John gave up trying to be polite and moved away from her, pulling off his shirt and turning on the tap in the little sink sandwiched into the corner of his room to splash water on his face. It was bloody hot, even this far up in the mountains. Water ran down his neck chest in rivulets, leaving trails of damp against the dust that seemed to be everywhere. Everywhere except on M, of course.
"Command decision, indeed. Listen to me very carefully, Watson: any command decisions will be made by me. Not you. Me."
"I rescued 007 for you," John wiped his face on a rough towel. In the mirror, he could see M standing behind him, stiff and angry.
"And so Bond lives to shag another day. Well done, you. In the meantime, I almost lost 009. Or have you forgotten that you're both my agents? You could have died! Both of you could have died! And I'm not losing you."
The silence in the small room settled around them. Outside, a donkey brayed disconsolately and in the distance a car refused to start. John let his head hang, hands braced against the bowl of the sink.
"I mean, it, John. I can't afford to lose you and Bond. I've lost too many already. You're reliable. You're the most reliable Double-Oh I have," M said softly.
221B Baker Street, London May, 2011
John started awake to the sound of the violin bow scraping angrily across the strings. He groaned and squinted at the clock.
06.45.
What the hell did Mycroft think he was playing at?
John rolled out of bed, managed not to fall as he miscalculated the movement and landed on his bad leg - never quite healed after the encounter at the pool - and grabbed for his dressing gown.
"You're being childish," Mycroft was saying as John slipped into the kitchen to begin searching for the kettle (a daily ritual, it seemed). "And you'll upset Mummy."
"It'll upset her more if I am there," Sherlock snapped.
"No, it will not. Talk some sense into him, John," Mycroft threw over his shoulder.
"About what?" John asked, unearthing the kettle from a pile of feathers and deciding that he didn't want tea quite as much as he'd originally imagined.
"It's Mummy's… well, not her birthday, more of her liberation day," Sherlock explained.
"Liberation day? You make her sound like a Communist dictator, Sherlock," Mycroft snorted. To John: "Mummy chooses not to celebrate her aging, so much as she chooses to celebrate the end of her marriage to our father."
"Erm…"
"Oh, don't fret about it. Mummy's quite liberal, actually." Sherlock sneered. "Father was a nasty piece of work, and we're all well shot of him, certainly. And every year, Mummy chooses to celebrate it by throwing a huge party and inviting all fifty thousand of her closest friends and forcing me and Mycroft and our significant others, if Fatso can dig up any, to attend."
"You didn't last year," John pointed out, coming into the sitting room to sit on the edge of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock set down the violin and leaned into him.
"Last year," Mycroft replied, "you were in a coma, and Sherlock was haunting your bedside. I had to make both of your excuses to Mummy, and she was very upset."
Sherlock nuzzled John's side, his hand creeping up John's knee.
"Your leg is hurting again, isn't it?" he murmured.
"And upsetting Mummy is…"
"Tantamount to treason," Mycroft finished.
"But wait," said John. "What do you mean, make both of our excuses?"
Mycroft's glance was pitying.
"Be nice, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Even I didn't realize it."
"So you'll come, then?" Mycroft said, uncrossing his legs and standing.
"Absolutely not," growled Sherlock, reaching for the violin.
"Of course we will," said John, elbowing Sherlock.
"Of course - silly of me. That wasn't a question, it was an order." Mycroft smiled thinly.
"When is it?" John asked hurriedly, attempting to forestall any arguments.
"Tomorrow night. An intimate affair, no more than one hundred guests. Black tie optional, of course." With that parting shot, Mycroft took his leave.
John didn't fret too much about the dinner jacket and tie. It was, after all, just another uniform.
And he'd had some experience with uniforms over the last decade or so.
M had even made him attend a gala or two - not that there'd been many in Afghanistan, but she had dragged him over to Pakistan once, and even to India. He'd been there mostly as muscle (or perceived muscle, since he'd never had to do anything), but still he knew how to stand, knew how to smile, and knew how to keep Bond off of the wait staff and out of the cheese tray.
So he figured that this little event would be not a huge ordeal.
He was… wrong.
An Undisclosed Location in Afghanistan, October 2008
John really hated Ramadan.
Not in principle, but in practice it was unnerving: locals were tetchy, military officials brusque, soldiers, especially the American ones - those with a memory long enough to recall a completely different holiday in Vietnam, in 1968 - were jumpy.
"I'm not asking you, Watson. I'm ordering you."
"I understand, but…"
"No buts. The Americans taught us a valuable lesson in their failures. We will apply those lessons."
Even M seemed irritable.
Or perhaps she was just afraid.
John certainly was.
Racing headlong into a bunker to rescue a fellow agent had been the act of a desperate madman. Or at least a desperate John Watson. Infiltrating an after-dusk meeting of top-level insurgents and taking out their leaders, was… suicide.
That wasn't the part that bothered John, though.
"M, there are going to be children there. All of our intelligence shows that… It's a family compound. They have their wives and children…"
M's lips thinned.
"I know," she said. "And that's why I'm not calling in an air strike. I'm calling in you."
And John, loyal to the last, had gone.
221B Baker Street, London, May, 2011
When John came out of their room in his dinner jacket, salvaged from an event that M had dragged him to, Sherlock looked as if he'd swallowed his tongue. Well, fair enough; John was experiencing a massive wave of lust himself.
Of course the bastard looked perfect in a dinner jacket and tie - slim white throat rising up from that stiff collar, tie just begging to be loosened; John indulged himself in the fantasy of pulling the jacket down, pinning Sherlock's arms and kissing the life out of him.
"That's… nice, John," Sherlock said. An obvious testament to the house-training John had been working on: unasked for compliments to one's lover usually resulted in blowjobs. Sherlock was especially fond of blowjobs.
John smiled.
"Thank you," he replied. In truth, it had taken a bit of fiddling to get the jacket just right. Until John remembered that it had been cut specifically for him to carry a weapon.
Part of him hoped that he wouldn't need the gun tonight.
The other part of him felt just a bit more secure, being armed in a room full of Holmeses. Not that he'd need to fire on them. Of course not. But they did tend to attract trouble. It had been one of the perks of his job as a Double-oh, and he missed it now - because really, right now he could use a keychain with plastic explosives, or even a magnetic watch.
After all, he'd never met Mummy before, and if he knew Sherlock, he could only surmise that Mummy would at least warrant some protection. Just to be on the safe side.
"Where is Mycroft?" Sherlock whinged.
"Settle down," John said. "He'll be here."
Sherlock grunted.
"I can't believe he doesn't trust us to drive out there," he said.
John shrugged, deciding that silence was the most diplomatic of responses. Besides, Mycroft had a very nice Bentley at his disposal - and John rather liked it, of all Mycroft's cars. They made him nostalgic.
An Undisclosed Location in the English Countryside May, 2011
John stood, not quite at parade rest, but close enough, as Mycroft and Sherlock moved as one into the already full reception room.
Mycroft had warned him not to expect a mansion, and then confessed that the exterior of the house had been used to film the Bennet's home in the Colin Firth production of Pride and Prejudice.
Anthea nudged him.
"Relax," she whispered. "They'll find their mum, bring her over to meet us, and she'll remark on how nice it is that Sherlock's found somebody stable, and ask me when I plan to give her grandchildren - call them both embarrassing names, and then we'll be expected to mingle politely and somebody - probably you, since he's your problem now - will be responsible for making sure he doesn't spike the drinks with hallucinogens or pick a fight with Major Cantwell."
John stared at her. Not only was this the longest speech he'd ever heard from Anthea, it was also the most… human.
Anthea winked at him.
"I'm off duty," she said. "In a sense."
Before John could wrap his mind around that, Sherlock and Mycroft came up, accompanied by a woman.
She was short, stout, with white hair and a no-nonsense face.
John's stomach dropped somewhere to the neighborhood of his left shoe.
Ramstein, Germany, November, 2009
The first things he remembered being conscious of were heat and pain.
And then her voice: "Watson, you're a berk."
A voice - his own, he realized later - mumbled, "Fuck off."
There was darkness after that for a while.
And then she was there. Watching him.
Of course she was impeccable. Neat black suit. Makeup. Every hair in place. Radiating fury.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded the moment he cracked open his eyes, gummy and sticky.
The room was hot.
"Where…"
"Germany, you wretched man. What the fuck is wrong with you? You disobeyed a direct order, you didn't shoot until the very last moment, and then you stopped. STOPPED!"
John squeezed his eyes shut against the tirade, but whatever it was that they had him on was wearing off. M continued: "And then, as if that wasn't bad enough - stopping in the middle of your mission, you manage to get shot by a twelve year old!"
"Mmmf. Water."
"No. They said nothing by mouth until you're more stable."
It occurred to John that things were about to get exceptionally less stable.
"M, I didn't… I wasn't going to…"
"Oh, but you did. Didn't you? And while you're at it, would you mind explaining to me how your life is less important than the life of a junior jihadist? The Americans are furious, of course, and I have had to hear about it for weeks now, and let me tell you something, Watson, this is the last time you're going to pull a stunt like that. Bond can whore himself out all over the east for all I care, but when I give you an order you are going to obey it, do I make myself clear?"
"Even if it means that I shoot a twelve year old?" John demanded. "Absolutely not."
"I don't think you understand, Watson. I am not giving you a choice in the matter."
John's head hurt. His shoulder hurt. The room was still too hot. His eyes were gritty and his head was spinning.
He made a decision.
"No, M, you don't understand. I'm not doing this. I quit. I'm done. You order me to kill children, and I walk."
"You don't have a choice, Watson."
"I rather think I do," John insisted quietly.
The room went very still.
An Undisclosed Location in the English Countryside, May, 2011
"Mother, this is my friend, John Watson."
M, Mummy, Mrs Holmes - John struggled for something - raised her eyebrows. John knew that look.
"Friend?" she asked.
"Lover," John supplied helpfully.
Mrs Holmes (yes, that was safest) gave him a long look.
To her left, Mycroft gave a gentle cough.
"Perhaps we should…" he began.
"Erm…" John had no idea what he was going to say - something, anything to break the tension that engulfed the small group. Beside him, Sherlock was darting glances between him, his mother and Mycroft. Anthea, who had moved to Mycroft's side, was biting back a grin.
"Wait…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mycroft, what do you…"
"Sherlock…" John began.
"You did something. What did you do? How did you engineer this? He already knows her. Look at the way his jaw is tight. He's angry, look at the tops of his ears - they're all red. He's standing more stiffly, too. What did you DO, Mycroft?"
"Sherlock, your brother hasn't done anything. And stop talking about Dr Watson as if he's a Labrador retriever. He's right here."
Around them, the party continued merrily.
Within the group, the tension mounted. Sherlock's head snapped back and forth between Mycroft and Mrs Holmes before he took a step back with a startled cry.
"YOU… Mummy, how could you do this to me? The one thing…"
"Sherlock," John started again.
"And you! I trusted you! I thought… You were my…"
With a frustrated howl, Sherlock flung himself away from the group and flounced to the buffet. Mycroft, Anthea, and M all turned to look at John, expressions ranging from amused (Anthea), to constipated (Mycroft), to placid (M).
John spent the rest of the party outside in the cool, early-summer night, sitting on a balustrade, nursing a glass of whisky, seething and pitching pebbles at a moss-covered statue of a nymph fastening her sandal.
"I suppose… I should apologize." M's voice floated out of the darkness, the crunch of gravel heralding her arrival. "I did not intend for Sherlock to… the boy is unpredictable."
"You sound like Mycroft," John muttered. Ninety minutes of pebble pitching had gone a long way to softening his anger, but not his irritation.
"He is my son," M pointed out, coming to stand behind him. "As is Sherlock, and you really must understand this, Wat- John: we all want the best for him."
"So my being introduced to him…"
"No, not an accident. Well, not entirely. The suggestion that Sherlock move to Baker Street, and the suggestion that Mike go for a walk in the park that you used to circulate through like some determined ghost that spring, weren't coincidental."
"God, you organized everything, didn't you?"
"It's Sherlock. Did you really think I'd let my son get into that much trouble again?"
"Again?"
"Mycroft does his best, and between the two of us, we're able to keep him fairly under control, but Sherlock… poor lad, before you, W- John, he was so … lost. Leading on that pathologist, harassing that nice Detective Inspector…"
"But Mycroft kidnapped me! He…"
"Did that on my orders."
"You order your son?"
"Of course. He's one of the most valued members of my team. He'll eventually become M, you know. Just as soon as I'm ready to retire. Or he gets bored. One of the two," M remarked with relish. "Either way, it will be an interesting handover of power."
John felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck. It usually happened when M was plotting things - mostly things that would involve him getting hurt.
"But we're straying from the point," M said. "I didn't set you up to find Sherlock, inasmuch as I set Sherlock up to find you."
"Why?"
"Because, John… Mother thinks I need a keeper." Sherlock appeared suddenly from the gloaming. "As does Mycroft."
"You do," muttered John.
"Mother."
"Sherlock."
"It might interest you to know that Mycroft and Anthea are befouling the billiards room by having sexual congress in it. Again," Sherlock said to her.
"Don't snitch on your brother," John replied automatically.
"Oh, so you are my keeper?" Sherlock snarled. "When were you planning on telling me, John? That you were in league with Mum- Mother and Mycroft? Because poor lad Sherlock can't look out for himself, oh no. He'll get into trouble with the law, or with drugs, or with sex, and so he needs a big, bad, Double-oh to look after him."
"Sherlock, I didn't know!" John jumped to his feet and strode up to Sherlock. "I had no idea that your mother set us up! That your brother was in on this whole charade! I didn't even know she was anybody's mother until tonight!"
They were squared off, nearly touching - John could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock, smell the cigarettes on him, and a whiff of something else… vodka, perhaps?
"Sherlock…"
They were close enough to kiss. In the dim light, Sherlock's skin looked ethereally pale, angry bursts of color barely visible across his cheekbones.
"How long were you… No… eighteen to twenty months. Recruited because of your record of service… your loyalty." The word was spat out. "You were useful, ruthless; Mummy wouldn't use you otherwise. Until… something happened - something that resulted in you being shot and invalided home. You… you disobeyed an order." The words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth. "You disobeyed Mummy, and she let you go, let you sink, because that's what she does. And then… what was it, Mother, a fit of conscience? Throw your washed-up Double-oh over to your youngest, most troublesome offspring for babysitting? Is that how it went? What did you do to end up with me?"
"I didn't do anything, Sherlock," John said, holding his gaze. "Look… it was… what I did, who I was - that John Watson's long gone. That John Watson died in a nighttime raid against insurgents. The John Watson that came back from Afghanistan is not 009. The John Watson who is your blogger, your lover, your friend - that's who I am, Sherlock. Please… believe me."
"How did it happen?" Sherlock's voice was a whisper.
"You can't deduce it?"
"John… I don't… I don't want to."
John took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's cigarettes, the vodka, and the night. He barely heard the crunch of gravel as M moved away.
"It was a raid. During Ramadan. After sunset. There was intelligence suggesting that a group of high-level insurgents were meeting in a compound. M sent me in to gather information, but mostly to take out their leaders. All of them in one place? It was too good an opportunity to miss." John kept his gaze on Sherlock's face. If he could just… he took a breath and continued.
"It was a family compound. Wives and children were there. They knew we… I was coming. Somehow, they knew. They posted their sons as guards at the gates. Boys, Sherlock, twelve and thirteen. They're not old enough to shave, but they're old enough to kill, to hate. One of them came at me, yelling 'God is great,' and… I hesitated. Froze. And he fired first. Instinct took over, and I fired, too. It was almost simultaneous. But he fired first, and missed my center mass, hitting me in the shoulder."
"But… you didn't miss."
"No. I didn't." John said it in a flat voice.
Around them, the sounds of the party beginning to wind down floated. Guests laughed and bade M goodnight. From somewhere, John could hear cars starting. Crickets, the first of the season, began to sing. In the brush, a twig snapped. There were tears on his face.
"John," Sherlock whispered.
"And when I woke up in hospital, I remembered everything. M was there. And we… we quarreled. And I quit. Gave up the rank, the money, the toys, the flat in London that I'd never seen, the car, the job of babysitting Bond, even Moneypenny was off limits. I didn't recognize Anthea when Mycroft picked me up - some of them change out faster than you can blink, and I definitely didn't recognize your brother. When I found out who he was… well, I'm not you, Sherlock. I can't put the pieces together as fast as you can. I thought you were exaggerating. Even his office - well, okay, the one I went to - you know, isn't near… it isn't where the others are. I swear to you, Sherlock, I had no idea…"
He stopped and laughed shortly. A brief huff in the darkness.
"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I was just thinking… deus ex Mummy. She did go out of her way to make sure we ended up together, didn't she? And of course, she couldn't tell us, could she? I mean… I quit in disgrace, and when was the last time you did anything your mother ordered you to?"
Sherlock smiled. And then began to chuckle. John laughed.
"I bet," he continued, "I bet Mycroft and Anthea are standing at the window, taking bets on what's going to happen to us. And if we split over this, how your mother is going to get us back together again without us realizing it."
"Oh really?" Sherlock said, laughter bubbling up.
"And do you know what?" John asked, grinning widely, reaching out for Sherlock, and pulling him close.
"Yes," whispered Sherlock. "I know exactly what."
They pressed together in the darkness; heat and skin and scratchy wool and starched cotton of dinner jackets; cologne and cigarettes and whisky and vodka and the sweet summer air.
"Do you trust me?" John whispered.
Sherlock's answer was not in words.
It was needy and hungry and desperate and, at its heart, tentative. Sherlock's tongue moved against John's lips, and John obliged, opening his mouth, clutching Sherlock to him, welcoming the invasion of his tongue, the bitter taste of the cigarettes, the overtones of vodka, the underlying taste of Sherlock. He must have moaned, because he dimly heard Sherlock's murmured, "Oh, John."
And there were Sherlock's hands in his hair, on his neck, on his back, snaking around to the front to remove the dinner jacket, finding the gun, and pulling away.
John shrugged the off the coat with a grin, letting it fall to the grass.
"It never hurts to be prepared around a Holmes family gathering," he said wryly. "And anyway, it's not loaded."
Sherlock took his hand, pressing it to his groin, and John bit back a moan at the feel of Sherlock's hardening cock.
"Just how prepared are you, 009?" he asked.
John began to laugh, peppering Sherlock's face with kisses, pressing against him, holding him close.
"Not prepared to shag you in your mum's flower garden," he said between giggles. "But I believe that Mycroft and Anthea might be finished with the billiards room."
"I suppose," John said contemplatively, "I could blame the PTSD for this lapse. There were, after all, a million different signs. You're just like your mother, you know. Both you and Mycroft. And really, I should have had it spotted from the start." The dim light of the room bathed them with a pale yellow glow. At Mycroft's insistence, all four of them were spending the night so that Mummy could take them on a brisk country walk the next morning, before they returned to London. John suspected, knowing what he now knew, that M had engineered the whole thing, mostly to have her boys with her. What John was hoping she hadn't engineered was the presence of lubricant and condoms in the bedside table of their assigned room - Sherlock's childhood bedroom, redone in soothing tones to hide the scars of years of experimentation gone awry.
"Hmm? Oh…" Sherlock raised himself up on an elbow, looked at him pityingly and said, "No, you're an idiot. It's all right, though. Not exactly something the normal human being would expect to encounter. What, in particular, though, should have tipped you off?"
"I suppose when I heard you rattle off your conclusions about me, and fire that address at me, twenty-seven months after your mother said it, I should have been suspicious," John remarked, stretching lazily against Sherlock. I mean, you even used exactly the same phrase - 'should be enough to be getting on with.' Scary, really." John shifted so that he was more comfortable against his pillows as Sherlock cuddled into him. "Oof, you're a great bloody boa constrictor, you are," he grumbled.
"Hmmm, but really, John. I'm impressed. Few men are brave enough to do what you did, and even fewer manage to survive."
"True," John agreed. "But I did have some help. I know I'll never look at your brother's umbrella quite the same way. I do miss the cars, though."
"But really," Sherlock nuzzled his neck and John gasped. "You are the most colossal idiot."
"Sherlock!"
"Oh, John… don't be that way," sighed Sherlock. "Nearly everyone is."
"So you've told me," John grumbled. But the grumbles turned to giggles as Sherlock's lips moved along the column of John's neck. "But you didn't realize it either!" he protested.
Sherlock raised his head and licked a long stripe from John's neck to his ear and then rolled on top of him, pressing his erection into John's thigh.
"No," he conceded. "But then… this whole scenario, me meeting you, us falling in love, to say the least, is improbable."
John smiled. "Love is improbable," he said. "But, as you've said, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
Recipient: yeomanrand
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Anthea, Mummy
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, some sexual themes
Summary: He was telling the truth when he said that nothing happens to him. What he wasn't so clear about was what had happened to him. John Watson turns out to have an interesting secret, too bad nobody told him about it.
AN: These characters don't belong to me. Any references to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft, Anthea, Mummy, or James Bond are made in the spirit of fun and games (and nobody's been hurt). Special thanks go to the village that made it possible for this idiot to get the story down.
The Man to Whom Nothing Ever Happened
Ella Thompson's Office, London, January, 2010
"Nothing happens to me."
Well, it was true at the time. But what John couldn't figure out was why he was so unhappy about it. It was what he'd wanted, wasn't it?
Apparently not.
Somewhere in Afghanistan, October, 2007
"Watson, I have a job for you."
"Sir." Colonel Branch's office was freezing, as usual. Colonel Branch was bundled up to his ears, as usual. John stood at parade rest, an enquiring eyebrow raised at his superior officer.
"I'm sorry about this, but we're going to have to lose you. Terrible tragedy, of course, but for Queen and country and whatnot."
"Sir? I'm sorry, I don't…"
The door to Colonel Branch's study banged open and a short, stout woman in a business suit strode into the room. Her hair was brilliantly white, cut short. She radiated absolute power and confidence.
"Is that him?" she asked, giving John an appraising glance.
"Ah, yes, sir, madam, sir, ma'am...." John had never seen the Colonel this discomfited.
"Bit short, isn't he?" She walked around him. John, who had snapped to attention the moment that she'd made eye contact with him, stiffened even further under the scrutiny.
"But one of our best. A crack shot, too." Colonel Branch mopped his brow. John noticed that despite the arctic temperature of the office, he was sweating profusely.
"Has he been trained?" She walked around him, giving his thigh a good grope. John jumped. "Calm down," she said to him, giving him a stroke and a pat.
John began to feel more than a little bit like a Labrador retriever.
"Medically, hand to hand combat, and of course, he's completely loyal."
"Not quite good enough."
"He has a knack, also, ma'am for staying out of trouble."
"Ah, and is that why you're recommending him to me?"
"Ma'am, sir, erm… that is precisely the reason."
"Don't call me 'sir.' It's annoying."
"Yes, erm…"
"In fact, don't speak at all. I'll have him - but be warned, Nettleship…"
"Branch, ma'am," the Colonel said diffidently.
"Don't call me ma'am, either. It makes no difference to me! If this one turns out like the last one you palmed off on me…"
"Ma'am, I couldn't possibly have foreseen the circumstances that would have led Bond to…"
"What did I say about not speaking? Come, what is his name?"
"Watson," John volunteered.
"Very well, Watson. But don't talk. And don't argue with me. Are you likely to have your head turned by a woman with a pretty face?" the woman asked sharply.
"Erm… no, ma'… No."
"Good lad. We'll take you." She turned and opened the door. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you coming?"
"Pardon me, but who…"
"You'd better go with her, Watson," Colonel Branch said with a sigh, sinking down into his desk chair. "I'll never hear the end of it otherwise."
"But, sir, I don't know… You don't know…"
The woman gave an exasperated huff from the doorway.
"I know you're an army doctor who also happens to be a crack shot. You're bisexual, not that it matters, but it's more convenient for me: you're unlikely to get involved in lurid affairs that distract you from what you're supposed to be doing. I know you're loyal, well trained, and reasonably - although not enough to be troublesome - intelligent. And I know that you will walk through this door with me, because you joined the army for adventure, and with me, you think you'll get plenty. That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think?"
She paused and looked John over from head to toe.
"The name is M, and the assignment is MI-6. Come along. Afternoon, Nettleship."
An Undisclosed Location in Afghanistan, July 2008
"Watson, you're a berk."
"Thank you very much," John countered.
"You are a colossal berk. What on earth convinced you that it would be a good idea to go almost completely unarmed into that bunker?" M looked out of place in the camp, wearing a freshly pressed black suit and sour expression.
"People were dying, M; it was a command decision." John gave up trying to be polite and moved away from her, pulling off his shirt and turning on the tap in the little sink sandwiched into the corner of his room to splash water on his face. It was bloody hot, even this far up in the mountains. Water ran down his neck chest in rivulets, leaving trails of damp against the dust that seemed to be everywhere. Everywhere except on M, of course.
"Command decision, indeed. Listen to me very carefully, Watson: any command decisions will be made by me. Not you. Me."
"I rescued 007 for you," John wiped his face on a rough towel. In the mirror, he could see M standing behind him, stiff and angry.
"And so Bond lives to shag another day. Well done, you. In the meantime, I almost lost 009. Or have you forgotten that you're both my agents? You could have died! Both of you could have died! And I'm not losing you."
The silence in the small room settled around them. Outside, a donkey brayed disconsolately and in the distance a car refused to start. John let his head hang, hands braced against the bowl of the sink.
"I mean, it, John. I can't afford to lose you and Bond. I've lost too many already. You're reliable. You're the most reliable Double-Oh I have," M said softly.
221B Baker Street, London May, 2011
John started awake to the sound of the violin bow scraping angrily across the strings. He groaned and squinted at the clock.
06.45.
What the hell did Mycroft think he was playing at?
John rolled out of bed, managed not to fall as he miscalculated the movement and landed on his bad leg - never quite healed after the encounter at the pool - and grabbed for his dressing gown.
"You're being childish," Mycroft was saying as John slipped into the kitchen to begin searching for the kettle (a daily ritual, it seemed). "And you'll upset Mummy."
"It'll upset her more if I am there," Sherlock snapped.
"No, it will not. Talk some sense into him, John," Mycroft threw over his shoulder.
"About what?" John asked, unearthing the kettle from a pile of feathers and deciding that he didn't want tea quite as much as he'd originally imagined.
"It's Mummy's… well, not her birthday, more of her liberation day," Sherlock explained.
"Liberation day? You make her sound like a Communist dictator, Sherlock," Mycroft snorted. To John: "Mummy chooses not to celebrate her aging, so much as she chooses to celebrate the end of her marriage to our father."
"Erm…"
"Oh, don't fret about it. Mummy's quite liberal, actually." Sherlock sneered. "Father was a nasty piece of work, and we're all well shot of him, certainly. And every year, Mummy chooses to celebrate it by throwing a huge party and inviting all fifty thousand of her closest friends and forcing me and Mycroft and our significant others, if Fatso can dig up any, to attend."
"You didn't last year," John pointed out, coming into the sitting room to sit on the edge of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock set down the violin and leaned into him.
"Last year," Mycroft replied, "you were in a coma, and Sherlock was haunting your bedside. I had to make both of your excuses to Mummy, and she was very upset."
Sherlock nuzzled John's side, his hand creeping up John's knee.
"Your leg is hurting again, isn't it?" he murmured.
"And upsetting Mummy is…"
"Tantamount to treason," Mycroft finished.
"But wait," said John. "What do you mean, make both of our excuses?"
Mycroft's glance was pitying.
"Be nice, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Even I didn't realize it."
"So you'll come, then?" Mycroft said, uncrossing his legs and standing.
"Absolutely not," growled Sherlock, reaching for the violin.
"Of course we will," said John, elbowing Sherlock.
"Of course - silly of me. That wasn't a question, it was an order." Mycroft smiled thinly.
"When is it?" John asked hurriedly, attempting to forestall any arguments.
"Tomorrow night. An intimate affair, no more than one hundred guests. Black tie optional, of course." With that parting shot, Mycroft took his leave.
John didn't fret too much about the dinner jacket and tie. It was, after all, just another uniform.
And he'd had some experience with uniforms over the last decade or so.
M had even made him attend a gala or two - not that there'd been many in Afghanistan, but she had dragged him over to Pakistan once, and even to India. He'd been there mostly as muscle (or perceived muscle, since he'd never had to do anything), but still he knew how to stand, knew how to smile, and knew how to keep Bond off of the wait staff and out of the cheese tray.
So he figured that this little event would be not a huge ordeal.
He was… wrong.
An Undisclosed Location in Afghanistan, October 2008
John really hated Ramadan.
Not in principle, but in practice it was unnerving: locals were tetchy, military officials brusque, soldiers, especially the American ones - those with a memory long enough to recall a completely different holiday in Vietnam, in 1968 - were jumpy.
"I'm not asking you, Watson. I'm ordering you."
"I understand, but…"
"No buts. The Americans taught us a valuable lesson in their failures. We will apply those lessons."
Even M seemed irritable.
Or perhaps she was just afraid.
John certainly was.
Racing headlong into a bunker to rescue a fellow agent had been the act of a desperate madman. Or at least a desperate John Watson. Infiltrating an after-dusk meeting of top-level insurgents and taking out their leaders, was… suicide.
That wasn't the part that bothered John, though.
"M, there are going to be children there. All of our intelligence shows that… It's a family compound. They have their wives and children…"
M's lips thinned.
"I know," she said. "And that's why I'm not calling in an air strike. I'm calling in you."
And John, loyal to the last, had gone.
221B Baker Street, London, May, 2011
When John came out of their room in his dinner jacket, salvaged from an event that M had dragged him to, Sherlock looked as if he'd swallowed his tongue. Well, fair enough; John was experiencing a massive wave of lust himself.
Of course the bastard looked perfect in a dinner jacket and tie - slim white throat rising up from that stiff collar, tie just begging to be loosened; John indulged himself in the fantasy of pulling the jacket down, pinning Sherlock's arms and kissing the life out of him.
"That's… nice, John," Sherlock said. An obvious testament to the house-training John had been working on: unasked for compliments to one's lover usually resulted in blowjobs. Sherlock was especially fond of blowjobs.
John smiled.
"Thank you," he replied. In truth, it had taken a bit of fiddling to get the jacket just right. Until John remembered that it had been cut specifically for him to carry a weapon.
Part of him hoped that he wouldn't need the gun tonight.
The other part of him felt just a bit more secure, being armed in a room full of Holmeses. Not that he'd need to fire on them. Of course not. But they did tend to attract trouble. It had been one of the perks of his job as a Double-oh, and he missed it now - because really, right now he could use a keychain with plastic explosives, or even a magnetic watch.
After all, he'd never met Mummy before, and if he knew Sherlock, he could only surmise that Mummy would at least warrant some protection. Just to be on the safe side.
"Where is Mycroft?" Sherlock whinged.
"Settle down," John said. "He'll be here."
Sherlock grunted.
"I can't believe he doesn't trust us to drive out there," he said.
John shrugged, deciding that silence was the most diplomatic of responses. Besides, Mycroft had a very nice Bentley at his disposal - and John rather liked it, of all Mycroft's cars. They made him nostalgic.
An Undisclosed Location in the English Countryside May, 2011
John stood, not quite at parade rest, but close enough, as Mycroft and Sherlock moved as one into the already full reception room.
Mycroft had warned him not to expect a mansion, and then confessed that the exterior of the house had been used to film the Bennet's home in the Colin Firth production of Pride and Prejudice.
Anthea nudged him.
"Relax," she whispered. "They'll find their mum, bring her over to meet us, and she'll remark on how nice it is that Sherlock's found somebody stable, and ask me when I plan to give her grandchildren - call them both embarrassing names, and then we'll be expected to mingle politely and somebody - probably you, since he's your problem now - will be responsible for making sure he doesn't spike the drinks with hallucinogens or pick a fight with Major Cantwell."
John stared at her. Not only was this the longest speech he'd ever heard from Anthea, it was also the most… human.
Anthea winked at him.
"I'm off duty," she said. "In a sense."
Before John could wrap his mind around that, Sherlock and Mycroft came up, accompanied by a woman.
She was short, stout, with white hair and a no-nonsense face.
John's stomach dropped somewhere to the neighborhood of his left shoe.
Ramstein, Germany, November, 2009
The first things he remembered being conscious of were heat and pain.
And then her voice: "Watson, you're a berk."
A voice - his own, he realized later - mumbled, "Fuck off."
There was darkness after that for a while.
And then she was there. Watching him.
Of course she was impeccable. Neat black suit. Makeup. Every hair in place. Radiating fury.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded the moment he cracked open his eyes, gummy and sticky.
The room was hot.
"Where…"
"Germany, you wretched man. What the fuck is wrong with you? You disobeyed a direct order, you didn't shoot until the very last moment, and then you stopped. STOPPED!"
John squeezed his eyes shut against the tirade, but whatever it was that they had him on was wearing off. M continued: "And then, as if that wasn't bad enough - stopping in the middle of your mission, you manage to get shot by a twelve year old!"
"Mmmf. Water."
"No. They said nothing by mouth until you're more stable."
It occurred to John that things were about to get exceptionally less stable.
"M, I didn't… I wasn't going to…"
"Oh, but you did. Didn't you? And while you're at it, would you mind explaining to me how your life is less important than the life of a junior jihadist? The Americans are furious, of course, and I have had to hear about it for weeks now, and let me tell you something, Watson, this is the last time you're going to pull a stunt like that. Bond can whore himself out all over the east for all I care, but when I give you an order you are going to obey it, do I make myself clear?"
"Even if it means that I shoot a twelve year old?" John demanded. "Absolutely not."
"I don't think you understand, Watson. I am not giving you a choice in the matter."
John's head hurt. His shoulder hurt. The room was still too hot. His eyes were gritty and his head was spinning.
He made a decision.
"No, M, you don't understand. I'm not doing this. I quit. I'm done. You order me to kill children, and I walk."
"You don't have a choice, Watson."
"I rather think I do," John insisted quietly.
The room went very still.
An Undisclosed Location in the English Countryside, May, 2011
"Mother, this is my friend, John Watson."
M, Mummy, Mrs Holmes - John struggled for something - raised her eyebrows. John knew that look.
"Friend?" she asked.
"Lover," John supplied helpfully.
Mrs Holmes (yes, that was safest) gave him a long look.
To her left, Mycroft gave a gentle cough.
"Perhaps we should…" he began.
"Erm…" John had no idea what he was going to say - something, anything to break the tension that engulfed the small group. Beside him, Sherlock was darting glances between him, his mother and Mycroft. Anthea, who had moved to Mycroft's side, was biting back a grin.
"Wait…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mycroft, what do you…"
"Sherlock…" John began.
"You did something. What did you do? How did you engineer this? He already knows her. Look at the way his jaw is tight. He's angry, look at the tops of his ears - they're all red. He's standing more stiffly, too. What did you DO, Mycroft?"
"Sherlock, your brother hasn't done anything. And stop talking about Dr Watson as if he's a Labrador retriever. He's right here."
Around them, the party continued merrily.
Within the group, the tension mounted. Sherlock's head snapped back and forth between Mycroft and Mrs Holmes before he took a step back with a startled cry.
"YOU… Mummy, how could you do this to me? The one thing…"
"Sherlock," John started again.
"And you! I trusted you! I thought… You were my…"
With a frustrated howl, Sherlock flung himself away from the group and flounced to the buffet. Mycroft, Anthea, and M all turned to look at John, expressions ranging from amused (Anthea), to constipated (Mycroft), to placid (M).
John spent the rest of the party outside in the cool, early-summer night, sitting on a balustrade, nursing a glass of whisky, seething and pitching pebbles at a moss-covered statue of a nymph fastening her sandal.
"I suppose… I should apologize." M's voice floated out of the darkness, the crunch of gravel heralding her arrival. "I did not intend for Sherlock to… the boy is unpredictable."
"You sound like Mycroft," John muttered. Ninety minutes of pebble pitching had gone a long way to softening his anger, but not his irritation.
"He is my son," M pointed out, coming to stand behind him. "As is Sherlock, and you really must understand this, Wat- John: we all want the best for him."
"So my being introduced to him…"
"No, not an accident. Well, not entirely. The suggestion that Sherlock move to Baker Street, and the suggestion that Mike go for a walk in the park that you used to circulate through like some determined ghost that spring, weren't coincidental."
"God, you organized everything, didn't you?"
"It's Sherlock. Did you really think I'd let my son get into that much trouble again?"
"Again?"
"Mycroft does his best, and between the two of us, we're able to keep him fairly under control, but Sherlock… poor lad, before you, W- John, he was so … lost. Leading on that pathologist, harassing that nice Detective Inspector…"
"But Mycroft kidnapped me! He…"
"Did that on my orders."
"You order your son?"
"Of course. He's one of the most valued members of my team. He'll eventually become M, you know. Just as soon as I'm ready to retire. Or he gets bored. One of the two," M remarked with relish. "Either way, it will be an interesting handover of power."
John felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck. It usually happened when M was plotting things - mostly things that would involve him getting hurt.
"But we're straying from the point," M said. "I didn't set you up to find Sherlock, inasmuch as I set Sherlock up to find you."
"Why?"
"Because, John… Mother thinks I need a keeper." Sherlock appeared suddenly from the gloaming. "As does Mycroft."
"You do," muttered John.
"Mother."
"Sherlock."
"It might interest you to know that Mycroft and Anthea are befouling the billiards room by having sexual congress in it. Again," Sherlock said to her.
"Don't snitch on your brother," John replied automatically.
"Oh, so you are my keeper?" Sherlock snarled. "When were you planning on telling me, John? That you were in league with Mum- Mother and Mycroft? Because poor lad Sherlock can't look out for himself, oh no. He'll get into trouble with the law, or with drugs, or with sex, and so he needs a big, bad, Double-oh to look after him."
"Sherlock, I didn't know!" John jumped to his feet and strode up to Sherlock. "I had no idea that your mother set us up! That your brother was in on this whole charade! I didn't even know she was anybody's mother until tonight!"
They were squared off, nearly touching - John could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock, smell the cigarettes on him, and a whiff of something else… vodka, perhaps?
"Sherlock…"
They were close enough to kiss. In the dim light, Sherlock's skin looked ethereally pale, angry bursts of color barely visible across his cheekbones.
"How long were you… No… eighteen to twenty months. Recruited because of your record of service… your loyalty." The word was spat out. "You were useful, ruthless; Mummy wouldn't use you otherwise. Until… something happened - something that resulted in you being shot and invalided home. You… you disobeyed an order." The words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth. "You disobeyed Mummy, and she let you go, let you sink, because that's what she does. And then… what was it, Mother, a fit of conscience? Throw your washed-up Double-oh over to your youngest, most troublesome offspring for babysitting? Is that how it went? What did you do to end up with me?"
"I didn't do anything, Sherlock," John said, holding his gaze. "Look… it was… what I did, who I was - that John Watson's long gone. That John Watson died in a nighttime raid against insurgents. The John Watson that came back from Afghanistan is not 009. The John Watson who is your blogger, your lover, your friend - that's who I am, Sherlock. Please… believe me."
"How did it happen?" Sherlock's voice was a whisper.
"You can't deduce it?"
"John… I don't… I don't want to."
John took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's cigarettes, the vodka, and the night. He barely heard the crunch of gravel as M moved away.
"It was a raid. During Ramadan. After sunset. There was intelligence suggesting that a group of high-level insurgents were meeting in a compound. M sent me in to gather information, but mostly to take out their leaders. All of them in one place? It was too good an opportunity to miss." John kept his gaze on Sherlock's face. If he could just… he took a breath and continued.
"It was a family compound. Wives and children were there. They knew we… I was coming. Somehow, they knew. They posted their sons as guards at the gates. Boys, Sherlock, twelve and thirteen. They're not old enough to shave, but they're old enough to kill, to hate. One of them came at me, yelling 'God is great,' and… I hesitated. Froze. And he fired first. Instinct took over, and I fired, too. It was almost simultaneous. But he fired first, and missed my center mass, hitting me in the shoulder."
"But… you didn't miss."
"No. I didn't." John said it in a flat voice.
Around them, the sounds of the party beginning to wind down floated. Guests laughed and bade M goodnight. From somewhere, John could hear cars starting. Crickets, the first of the season, began to sing. In the brush, a twig snapped. There were tears on his face.
"John," Sherlock whispered.
"And when I woke up in hospital, I remembered everything. M was there. And we… we quarreled. And I quit. Gave up the rank, the money, the toys, the flat in London that I'd never seen, the car, the job of babysitting Bond, even Moneypenny was off limits. I didn't recognize Anthea when Mycroft picked me up - some of them change out faster than you can blink, and I definitely didn't recognize your brother. When I found out who he was… well, I'm not you, Sherlock. I can't put the pieces together as fast as you can. I thought you were exaggerating. Even his office - well, okay, the one I went to - you know, isn't near… it isn't where the others are. I swear to you, Sherlock, I had no idea…"
He stopped and laughed shortly. A brief huff in the darkness.
"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I was just thinking… deus ex Mummy. She did go out of her way to make sure we ended up together, didn't she? And of course, she couldn't tell us, could she? I mean… I quit in disgrace, and when was the last time you did anything your mother ordered you to?"
Sherlock smiled. And then began to chuckle. John laughed.
"I bet," he continued, "I bet Mycroft and Anthea are standing at the window, taking bets on what's going to happen to us. And if we split over this, how your mother is going to get us back together again without us realizing it."
"Oh really?" Sherlock said, laughter bubbling up.
"And do you know what?" John asked, grinning widely, reaching out for Sherlock, and pulling him close.
"Yes," whispered Sherlock. "I know exactly what."
They pressed together in the darkness; heat and skin and scratchy wool and starched cotton of dinner jackets; cologne and cigarettes and whisky and vodka and the sweet summer air.
"Do you trust me?" John whispered.
Sherlock's answer was not in words.
It was needy and hungry and desperate and, at its heart, tentative. Sherlock's tongue moved against John's lips, and John obliged, opening his mouth, clutching Sherlock to him, welcoming the invasion of his tongue, the bitter taste of the cigarettes, the overtones of vodka, the underlying taste of Sherlock. He must have moaned, because he dimly heard Sherlock's murmured, "Oh, John."
And there were Sherlock's hands in his hair, on his neck, on his back, snaking around to the front to remove the dinner jacket, finding the gun, and pulling away.
John shrugged the off the coat with a grin, letting it fall to the grass.
"It never hurts to be prepared around a Holmes family gathering," he said wryly. "And anyway, it's not loaded."
Sherlock took his hand, pressing it to his groin, and John bit back a moan at the feel of Sherlock's hardening cock.
"Just how prepared are you, 009?" he asked.
John began to laugh, peppering Sherlock's face with kisses, pressing against him, holding him close.
"Not prepared to shag you in your mum's flower garden," he said between giggles. "But I believe that Mycroft and Anthea might be finished with the billiards room."
"I suppose," John said contemplatively, "I could blame the PTSD for this lapse. There were, after all, a million different signs. You're just like your mother, you know. Both you and Mycroft. And really, I should have had it spotted from the start." The dim light of the room bathed them with a pale yellow glow. At Mycroft's insistence, all four of them were spending the night so that Mummy could take them on a brisk country walk the next morning, before they returned to London. John suspected, knowing what he now knew, that M had engineered the whole thing, mostly to have her boys with her. What John was hoping she hadn't engineered was the presence of lubricant and condoms in the bedside table of their assigned room - Sherlock's childhood bedroom, redone in soothing tones to hide the scars of years of experimentation gone awry.
"Hmm? Oh…" Sherlock raised himself up on an elbow, looked at him pityingly and said, "No, you're an idiot. It's all right, though. Not exactly something the normal human being would expect to encounter. What, in particular, though, should have tipped you off?"
"I suppose when I heard you rattle off your conclusions about me, and fire that address at me, twenty-seven months after your mother said it, I should have been suspicious," John remarked, stretching lazily against Sherlock. I mean, you even used exactly the same phrase - 'should be enough to be getting on with.' Scary, really." John shifted so that he was more comfortable against his pillows as Sherlock cuddled into him. "Oof, you're a great bloody boa constrictor, you are," he grumbled.
"Hmmm, but really, John. I'm impressed. Few men are brave enough to do what you did, and even fewer manage to survive."
"True," John agreed. "But I did have some help. I know I'll never look at your brother's umbrella quite the same way. I do miss the cars, though."
"But really," Sherlock nuzzled his neck and John gasped. "You are the most colossal idiot."
"Sherlock!"
"Oh, John… don't be that way," sighed Sherlock. "Nearly everyone is."
"So you've told me," John grumbled. But the grumbles turned to giggles as Sherlock's lips moved along the column of John's neck. "But you didn't realize it either!" he protested.
Sherlock raised his head and licked a long stripe from John's neck to his ear and then rolled on top of him, pressing his erection into John's thigh.
"No," he conceded. "But then… this whole scenario, me meeting you, us falling in love, to say the least, is improbable."
John smiled. "Love is improbable," he said. "But, as you've said, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."