Fic - Once Below a Time - John/Sherlock - R
Title: The Evenings, Mornings, Afternoons, chapter two: Out of the Sighs
Author: lotherington
’Verse: Once Below a Time
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Giles Gilchrist
Summary: Atonement Crossover. Afternoon descends into evening, and Sherlock has something he can no longer keep to himself.
Warnings: None this chapter
Word Count: ~3,200
‘Johnny, is that you?’ Mrs Watson called from the crowded living room at the front of the cottage.
‘Yes, mum,’ John replied, closing the butter yellow back door behind himself, stepping into the kitchen. A jar of dark red jam was open on the wooden table, a spoon sticking out of it. John spread the jam thickly on a slice of bread that was under a cloth on the kitchen side wit the back of the spoon and walked into the living room, where his mother lay on the chintz sofa, fanning herself. ‘Hello,’ John said around a mouthful of bread and jam.
‘Hello, love. How’s everyone up at the big house?’ She held out her hand and John took it, sitting down on the stool next to her.
‘I only saw Sherlock and Mycroft.’
A fly buzzed around the vase of daisies on the windowsill.
‘Well, how are they?’
‘Mycroft was his usual self. Sherlock...’ John looked out of the window, where a wing of the big house was just visible. ‘Sherlock was as... as brilliant and puzzling as ever.’
John thought back to what had transpired at the fountain, to Sherlock’s pale skin, the moles on his back, the way his underwear had clung to his body. His deep voice, his plump lips, his strange, beautiful eyes.
‘He is an odd one,’ Mrs Watson said, her eyes closed. ‘Even odder since he went up to Oxford. I’m surprised you don’t see more of each other there--’
‘We’re both very busy, mother. He has his chemistry and I’ve medicine to concentrate on--’
‘Time was you were inseparable.’ She squeezed John’s hand. ‘Still. You’re both very different, aren’t you?’
John ate another bite of bread and jam. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, chalk and cheese, practically.’ The fly continued to buzz around the daisies, the sound erratic. ‘They’ve got their cousins staying with them, haven’t they?’
Mrs Watson nodded. ‘Those poor boys don’t know whether they’re coming or going. And that sister of theirs can be ever so unkind to them, you know, but she’s upset, too, and...’
‘It is a shame,’ John agreed, rubbing his thumb over the back of his mother’s hands, along one of her veins.
‘Anyway, darling, what would you like for your tea?’
‘Oh, actually, Mycroft’s invited me to dinner.’ John finished his bread and wiped his hand on his trousers, scattering the breadcrumbs all over the floor. ‘He’s got a millionaire friend he wants to show off.’
‘Don’t be unkind,’ his mother scolded gently. ‘You know Mycroft values having friends.’
‘Yes, as long as they’ve got hundreds of thousands with the bank or if, like him, they’re chums with the prime minister.’
‘Oh, he’s not friends with the prime minister, Johnny--’
‘No, you’re right, he’s probably telling the prime minister what to do on the telephone every night, secretly running the country.’
‘Stop it, you horrible boy,’ John’s mother said, smiling as she tapped John’s arm. John laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Oh, you’re rotten. I’ll heat you some water for a bath, we can’t have you going to dinner looking as though you’ve been dragged through hedge backwards.’ She sat up and rested her hand on top of John’s head. ‘Go and find your suit and I’ll see if it needs ironing.’
***
After running upstairs, away from Mycroft and John and whatever had happened at the fountain and on the steps outside, Sherlock threw his sodden clothes into the wicker laundry hamper in his room, fighting with his shirt cuffs that seemed to tighten around his wrists as he tried to yank it off. Once he’d managed to get his shirt off, he pulled the door of his wardrobe open and stood naked in front of the mirror that hung inside it. He glared at his too-long neck, his boyish limbs, his recessive chin, his snub nose and his stupid, unruly hair. He was too thin by half and so ugly - still not grown into his odd features as his mother told him he would.
Irritable, Sherlock grabbed a towel from the stand against the wall and dried himself off more thoroughly, rubbing hard at his hair. He lolled on the chaise longue underneath his window and pulled his new packet of fancy French cigarettes towards himself, throwing his leg over the low back of the chaise. He split the paper seal with his thumb and pulled one of the cigarettes out, lighting it with a match from the box that atop the pages of a book about chemical reactions, lying open on the carpet. What had he been thinking, taking his clothes off and jumping in the fountain? In front of John? He was mad, utterly mad.
Sherlock inhaled from the cigarette resting in between his lips. John’s face when Sherlock had surfaced from the water - he’d looked horrified. It had been an altogether stupid stunt to pull, losing control like that, shouting at John and standing in front of him as good as naked, displaying himself. And making such a fuss about the flask, too. Sherlock frowned at where it sat on the edge of his desk, passion flower still resting in the lip. No harm had come to it and he’d seen fit to throw his clothes off in front of John; John who’d laughed at him, whose smile was warm and natural, John who was handsome and clever and kind, whom Sherlock wanted...
Groaning in frustration, Sherlock threw the box of matches at the wall, covering his face with his hands. It was all so very difficult.
jumped up from the chaise and wrapped himself up in his blue silk robe.
***
John sank down into the bath, dipping his head underneath the water and remaining submerged for nearly half a minute. He took a gasp as he resurfaced, his hands gripping the bath’s sides. He couldn’t get Sherlock out of his mind. Sighing, he took his crumpled box of cigarettes off the small wooden stool next to the bath and lit one with the lighter he’d bought himself last year in Oxford.
He closed his eyes as he smoked, the image of Sherlock at the fountain’s edge - soaking wet and stumbling - replaying in his mind’s eye. It had been nearly four years since he’d let himself think of Sherlock in that way, and the events of today and the artificial distance they’d crafted between themselves over the past year only seemed to exacerbate John’s desire.
Perhaps, though, perhaps it was the all-consuming heat of the day that was sending his blood up as he pictured Sherlock, plump lips parted and flushed, head thrown back, long limbs spread, cock hard and thick and leaking. Perhaps it had something to do with the heat.
John bit down on his cigarette and slipped his left hand beneath the surface of the water.
He really shouldn’t think like this. It couldn’t possibly come to any good.
***
The twins were making a terrible racket in the nursery, which was next to the bathroom which Sherlock liked to use best. He’d bathed and was currently shaving, nicking himself occasionally with every surprise bang or squeal from next door. After the third tiny patch of blood welled up on his jaw, Sherlock strode over to the common wall between the bathroom and the nursery and slammed his palm against it several times.
‘For God’s sake, find something to do that doesn’t have you squealing like pigs!’ he roared, waiting a few seconds for silence to descend before he went back to the sink, lathering shaving cream over the other side of his face with the brush that had been an eighteenth birthday gift from his father. He took more care with the blade against his skin this time, scratching the hairs on his top lip away with short little movements.
The door of the nursery slammed open and Sherlock heard two pairs of feet hammering against the floorboards as the twins, undoubtedly, ran past his room. Clenching his jaw and throwing the direction of their fading footsteps a filthy look through the bathroom door, Sherlock finished his shave with one final swipe to his cheek. He rinsed and dried his face before attempting to comb his hair into something resembling a tidy style, the beads of water running down the back of his neck before they caught in the towel that Sherlock had draped across his shoulders.
He parted his hair on the side as he always did, sighing as it curled and flicked out. It was utterly hopeless. He combed the rest of it quickly and left it to do whatever it would undoubtedly do anyway, with or without his input. Peering into the mirror, Sherlock growled in the back of his neck at the sight of a small cluster of white-headed pimples on his forehead, just slightly to the left of where his hair usually fell. He looked young, far too young, with his razor nicks and scattered spots and his awkward, overlarge limbs.
Sherlock heard a deep voice murmuring in the nursery. He heard his cousin Lola’s giggled reply. He closed his eyes, sighed, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and stalked back to his room, John’s hands and his smile and his warm, easy laugh still there at the forefront of his mind.
***
John dressed for dinner immediately after his bath, knotting his bow tie carefully around his neck. His cheeks coloured every time he thought of his bath, as he thought of what he’d imagined as he lay submerged in the water, as he thought of what he’d done with those images running through his head. He shouldn’t do things like that. It wasn’t decent, and it wasn’t fair to Sherlock. He wouldn’t mention what had happened at the fountain, what had almost happened on the steps. Sherlock had evidently been embarrassed and it wouldn’t do to open old wounds.
The heat of the day had eased off somewhat as late afternoon was slowly replaced by the approaching evening. It was no longer uncomfortable to move around and even putting his dinner jacket on wasn’t much of a hardship for John. He looked in the mirror, cracked in one corner from an accident two years ago, and smiled at his reflection after re-arranging his hair with his fingers. He looked presentable enough.
‘I’m off now!’ John called as he walked downstairs. His mother leant against the kitchen doorway, folding her arms across her middle and smiling at him.
‘You’re not a bit like your father,’ she murmured. ‘Not one bit.’
John pulled her close and kissed her cheek. ‘That’s because I’m all yours,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back late. Don’t worry if I’m gone a while.’
‘I’ll try.’ She cupped his face in her hands. ‘Mind your manners.’
Grinning, John kissed her again and left their little cottage with a wave, closing the gate carefully behind him.
Bumblebees hovered around the wildflowers that grew at the edges of the path, their shadows growing long as the sun began to set.
***
Sherlock was half-dressed and smoking frantically as he paced around his room. He couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He’d spent the entire year, probably even more, trying to ignore the near-desperate longing he felt for John. It had been there for years, since he was sixteen at least, but the events of the day had brought everything rushing to a head and he couldn’t think for wanting.
Something had to be done.
Throwing his cigarette out of the window after one last inhale, Sherlock pulled his trousers on and tucked his shirt in, tying the emerald green bow tie that had been a present from John’s mother around his neck, fastening his cuffs with the mother of pearl cufflinks John himself had bought him for his last birthday. He breathed out and shrugged his dinner jacket on.
Before he could think better of it, before he could think at all, he scratched out a two-sentence letter to John on a thin piece of paper with his ink pen, folding it and shoving it inside his jacket pocket before it had had time to dry. He bent down to put on his shoes and socks and placed his lighter and cigarettes in his trouser pocket before making his way downstairs, towards where Mycroft’s drawling voice could be heard.
Giles Gilchrist was tall and slim with white blonde hair and watery blue eyes. Sherlock disliked him instantly just from peering at him from behind a pillar in the hallway, but Sherlock disliked most people instantly, especially if they had anything to do with Mycroft.
Both Mycroft and Gilchrist were standing next to the piano, chortling stupidly away over some hideous-looking cocktail. Sherlock frowned and quickly walked through the hallway to the door to the cellar, where Mummy allowed him to keep his chemistry equipment.
‘Sherlock!’
Hand on the cellar doorknob, Sherlock sighed, caught out. He turned to face Mycroft after a pause, his expression dark.
‘Sherlock, do come and meet Giles.’ Mycroft smiled his usual un-smile at Sherlock, who trudged into the drawing room. ‘Good God, boy, what’s that around your neck?’
‘It’s a bow tie, Mycroft, your fat cheeks obscuring your vision now?’
Mycroft’s jaw tightened and he ran his tongue over his top row of teeth. ‘It’s green.’
‘Yes, well done, top marks.’
‘We’re having dinner.’
‘Yes...’
‘Go and swap it for a black one,’ Mycroft said, stalking forwards, dropping his voice.
‘It was a gift from--’
‘I don’t care if it was a gift from President Roosevelt, it is not suitable for dinner.’
‘Why not?’
Mycroft leant in close to Sherlock. ‘Really, you are the most obstinate child I have ever known in my life--’
‘Let him be, Mycroft, old chap,’ Gilchrist said, sauntering forwards. ‘Holmes the younger!’ he exclaimed when he came face to face with Sherlock. ‘I’ve heard all about you. Your brother’s very proud of you, you know, despite appearances.’ He grinned, his teeth pearly white, and offered his hand. ‘Giles Gilchrist. Pleasure.’
‘Charmed,’ Sherlock muttered, sounding anything but, engaging in a perfunctory handshake.
‘Love the bow tie.’ Gilchrist winked at Mycroft, who shook his head and sipped his cocktail, staring out of the window. Sherlock stood awkwardly for a moment before Gilchrist gestured him over to the drinks cabinet, looking far more at home than Sherlock had ever felt in their house before. ‘Let me make you something frightfully decadent, Sherlock old boy, you’ll love it.’
‘You’ve no evidence to suggest I will,’ Sherlock said, ignoring the glare from Mycroft, his own frown deepening when Gilchrist burst out laughing.
‘Oh, you’re exactly like your brother described, it’s utterly hilarious. He talks about you so much I feel as if I’ve known you all my life and heard sullenness like that from you thousands of times already. You’re a real character.’
Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and fiddled with the cufflinks from John as he moved to sit in the window seat, watching the path where John would soon appear, the note he’d scribbled out frantically seeming to weigh a ton in his jacket pocket. He rested his hand over where he knew it to be, his heart racing as he blocked out the sound of Mycroft and Gilchrist talking whilst Gilchrist did something no doubt abominable to crushed ice.
The bees that bumbled around the wildflowers at the edge of the path caught Sherlock’s eye. He tilted his head as he watched them buzz from flower to flower, quite drawn in by their clumsy movements. He nearly jumped when Gilchrist appeared at his side, offering a mint-garnished drink with his left hand.
‘Here you are, old boy. Gilchrist’s Gin Fizz, tell me what you think.’
Sherlock sipped the cocktail, which had been poured into one of their cut crystal glasses. ‘Gin, lemon, caster sugar and soda water, hardly decadent, is it?’ Sherlock gave Gilchrist a withering look and placed the glass back in his hands, returning to staring out of the window.
‘Suit yourself,’ Gilchrist said, looking at Sherlock with contempt and knocking some of the drink back himself, his bravado and over-friendliness of earlier gone.
‘He’s only amusing for so long, Giles, as I see you’ve learnt,’ Mycroft said, staring fiercely at Sherlock, who ignored him. ‘He does so insist on being childish.’
‘I’m not a child,’ Sherlock muttered, his arms folded across his chest, legs spread out along the window seat.
‘No, the picture of maturity,’ Mycroft hissed into Sherlock’s ear as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, the thunderous footfalls of the twins signalling their arrival.
‘Jackson, Pierrot, calm down,’ Mycroft ordered, looming over the seven-year-olds. They stopped and stomped down the last few steps, deliberately scuffing their shoes. ‘Where is your sister?’
‘Don’t care,’ Jackson muttered, glaring down at the floor and kicking his heel against the first step. ‘Where’s Sherlock? We want him to do his trick.’
Sherlock smirked as he imagined the look on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft had been the one to teach him how to deduce things - ‘the trick’ - when he was five years old, and would positively loathe the idea of Sherlock laying claim to the skill over himself.
‘He’s sitting in the window,’ came Mycroft’s reply, through gritted teeth if Sherlock was right.
The twins bounded in and jumped up next to Sherlock, ignoring Gilchrist entirely.
‘Go away,’ Sherlock said, staring out at the path still.
‘No,’ Pierrot said, playing with the hem of Sherlock’s trousers.
‘I’ll give you a shilling if you go away.’
‘A shilling and a trick.’
‘It’s not a trick,’ Sherlock said slowly.
‘Lola says it’s a trick.’
‘Lola’s an idiot.’
The twins laughed gleefully at Sherlock calling their sister an idiot.
‘Do that man,’ Jackson said, pointing over to where Gilchrist was talking to Mycroft.
‘Him?’ Sherlock turned away from the window. ‘Easy.’
‘Go on, then!’
At that moment, Mrs Holmes and Lola walked into the room, both dressed for dinner. Lola was wearing a blue dress and had somehow managed to sneak some coral lipstick and pearl earrings past Mrs Holmes’s keen eye. Gilchrist bounded over to them whilst Mycroft did introductions and kissed both Mrs Holmes and Lola’s hands.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and began his deductions. ‘He’s very rich, keeps his cash in a roll in his jacket pocket, do you see that bulge, there?’ he murmured, pointing at where Gilchrist’s jacket stuck out from his chest. ‘You must split your winnings with me should he leave his jacket unattended.’
The boys giggled. ‘Go on, what else?’
‘His figure is athletic and I can tell from his ears and the way he holds his drink that he plays rugby and cricket. He’s also a good hurdler and not too bad at the long jump. He went to Oxford, his father was a rotten gambler who’s now dead and his underwear’s a size too small and twisted up into his bum.’
The twins began to howl with laughter. Sherlock dug in his pocket and pressed a small coin into each of their palms. ‘There. One trick, a shilling each, now bugger off.’ They ran out of the drawing room, whispering together, giggling again when they cast a backward look at Gilchrist’s nether regions.
Sherlock turned back to the window just in time to see John reach the end of the path. His easy mood vanished and nerves knotted in his chest as he and John looked at each other through the window. John smiled. Sherlock didn’t.
He ran and wrenched the door open before John could ring the bell and shoved his note into John’s hands before striding off in the direction of the library.
John blinked and unfolded the letter, scanning the two lines of Sherlock’s quick, untidy handwriting, ink spots scattered across the paper.
I can’t stop thinking about the last time you kissed me. In my thoughts you make love to me all day long.
Author: lotherington
’Verse: Once Below a Time
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Giles Gilchrist
Summary: Atonement Crossover. Afternoon descends into evening, and Sherlock has something he can no longer keep to himself.
Warnings: None this chapter
Word Count: ~3,200
‘Johnny, is that you?’ Mrs Watson called from the crowded living room at the front of the cottage.
‘Yes, mum,’ John replied, closing the butter yellow back door behind himself, stepping into the kitchen. A jar of dark red jam was open on the wooden table, a spoon sticking out of it. John spread the jam thickly on a slice of bread that was under a cloth on the kitchen side wit the back of the spoon and walked into the living room, where his mother lay on the chintz sofa, fanning herself. ‘Hello,’ John said around a mouthful of bread and jam.
‘Hello, love. How’s everyone up at the big house?’ She held out her hand and John took it, sitting down on the stool next to her.
‘I only saw Sherlock and Mycroft.’
A fly buzzed around the vase of daisies on the windowsill.
‘Well, how are they?’
‘Mycroft was his usual self. Sherlock...’ John looked out of the window, where a wing of the big house was just visible. ‘Sherlock was as... as brilliant and puzzling as ever.’
John thought back to what had transpired at the fountain, to Sherlock’s pale skin, the moles on his back, the way his underwear had clung to his body. His deep voice, his plump lips, his strange, beautiful eyes.
‘He is an odd one,’ Mrs Watson said, her eyes closed. ‘Even odder since he went up to Oxford. I’m surprised you don’t see more of each other there--’
‘We’re both very busy, mother. He has his chemistry and I’ve medicine to concentrate on--’
‘Time was you were inseparable.’ She squeezed John’s hand. ‘Still. You’re both very different, aren’t you?’
John ate another bite of bread and jam. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, chalk and cheese, practically.’ The fly continued to buzz around the daisies, the sound erratic. ‘They’ve got their cousins staying with them, haven’t they?’
Mrs Watson nodded. ‘Those poor boys don’t know whether they’re coming or going. And that sister of theirs can be ever so unkind to them, you know, but she’s upset, too, and...’
‘It is a shame,’ John agreed, rubbing his thumb over the back of his mother’s hands, along one of her veins.
‘Anyway, darling, what would you like for your tea?’
‘Oh, actually, Mycroft’s invited me to dinner.’ John finished his bread and wiped his hand on his trousers, scattering the breadcrumbs all over the floor. ‘He’s got a millionaire friend he wants to show off.’
‘Don’t be unkind,’ his mother scolded gently. ‘You know Mycroft values having friends.’
‘Yes, as long as they’ve got hundreds of thousands with the bank or if, like him, they’re chums with the prime minister.’
‘Oh, he’s not friends with the prime minister, Johnny--’
‘No, you’re right, he’s probably telling the prime minister what to do on the telephone every night, secretly running the country.’
‘Stop it, you horrible boy,’ John’s mother said, smiling as she tapped John’s arm. John laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Oh, you’re rotten. I’ll heat you some water for a bath, we can’t have you going to dinner looking as though you’ve been dragged through hedge backwards.’ She sat up and rested her hand on top of John’s head. ‘Go and find your suit and I’ll see if it needs ironing.’
***
After running upstairs, away from Mycroft and John and whatever had happened at the fountain and on the steps outside, Sherlock threw his sodden clothes into the wicker laundry hamper in his room, fighting with his shirt cuffs that seemed to tighten around his wrists as he tried to yank it off. Once he’d managed to get his shirt off, he pulled the door of his wardrobe open and stood naked in front of the mirror that hung inside it. He glared at his too-long neck, his boyish limbs, his recessive chin, his snub nose and his stupid, unruly hair. He was too thin by half and so ugly - still not grown into his odd features as his mother told him he would.
Irritable, Sherlock grabbed a towel from the stand against the wall and dried himself off more thoroughly, rubbing hard at his hair. He lolled on the chaise longue underneath his window and pulled his new packet of fancy French cigarettes towards himself, throwing his leg over the low back of the chaise. He split the paper seal with his thumb and pulled one of the cigarettes out, lighting it with a match from the box that atop the pages of a book about chemical reactions, lying open on the carpet. What had he been thinking, taking his clothes off and jumping in the fountain? In front of John? He was mad, utterly mad.
Sherlock inhaled from the cigarette resting in between his lips. John’s face when Sherlock had surfaced from the water - he’d looked horrified. It had been an altogether stupid stunt to pull, losing control like that, shouting at John and standing in front of him as good as naked, displaying himself. And making such a fuss about the flask, too. Sherlock frowned at where it sat on the edge of his desk, passion flower still resting in the lip. No harm had come to it and he’d seen fit to throw his clothes off in front of John; John who’d laughed at him, whose smile was warm and natural, John who was handsome and clever and kind, whom Sherlock wanted...
Groaning in frustration, Sherlock threw the box of matches at the wall, covering his face with his hands. It was all so very difficult.
jumped up from the chaise and wrapped himself up in his blue silk robe.
***
John sank down into the bath, dipping his head underneath the water and remaining submerged for nearly half a minute. He took a gasp as he resurfaced, his hands gripping the bath’s sides. He couldn’t get Sherlock out of his mind. Sighing, he took his crumpled box of cigarettes off the small wooden stool next to the bath and lit one with the lighter he’d bought himself last year in Oxford.
He closed his eyes as he smoked, the image of Sherlock at the fountain’s edge - soaking wet and stumbling - replaying in his mind’s eye. It had been nearly four years since he’d let himself think of Sherlock in that way, and the events of today and the artificial distance they’d crafted between themselves over the past year only seemed to exacerbate John’s desire.
Perhaps, though, perhaps it was the all-consuming heat of the day that was sending his blood up as he pictured Sherlock, plump lips parted and flushed, head thrown back, long limbs spread, cock hard and thick and leaking. Perhaps it had something to do with the heat.
John bit down on his cigarette and slipped his left hand beneath the surface of the water.
He really shouldn’t think like this. It couldn’t possibly come to any good.
***
The twins were making a terrible racket in the nursery, which was next to the bathroom which Sherlock liked to use best. He’d bathed and was currently shaving, nicking himself occasionally with every surprise bang or squeal from next door. After the third tiny patch of blood welled up on his jaw, Sherlock strode over to the common wall between the bathroom and the nursery and slammed his palm against it several times.
‘For God’s sake, find something to do that doesn’t have you squealing like pigs!’ he roared, waiting a few seconds for silence to descend before he went back to the sink, lathering shaving cream over the other side of his face with the brush that had been an eighteenth birthday gift from his father. He took more care with the blade against his skin this time, scratching the hairs on his top lip away with short little movements.
The door of the nursery slammed open and Sherlock heard two pairs of feet hammering against the floorboards as the twins, undoubtedly, ran past his room. Clenching his jaw and throwing the direction of their fading footsteps a filthy look through the bathroom door, Sherlock finished his shave with one final swipe to his cheek. He rinsed and dried his face before attempting to comb his hair into something resembling a tidy style, the beads of water running down the back of his neck before they caught in the towel that Sherlock had draped across his shoulders.
He parted his hair on the side as he always did, sighing as it curled and flicked out. It was utterly hopeless. He combed the rest of it quickly and left it to do whatever it would undoubtedly do anyway, with or without his input. Peering into the mirror, Sherlock growled in the back of his neck at the sight of a small cluster of white-headed pimples on his forehead, just slightly to the left of where his hair usually fell. He looked young, far too young, with his razor nicks and scattered spots and his awkward, overlarge limbs.
Sherlock heard a deep voice murmuring in the nursery. He heard his cousin Lola’s giggled reply. He closed his eyes, sighed, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and stalked back to his room, John’s hands and his smile and his warm, easy laugh still there at the forefront of his mind.
***
John dressed for dinner immediately after his bath, knotting his bow tie carefully around his neck. His cheeks coloured every time he thought of his bath, as he thought of what he’d imagined as he lay submerged in the water, as he thought of what he’d done with those images running through his head. He shouldn’t do things like that. It wasn’t decent, and it wasn’t fair to Sherlock. He wouldn’t mention what had happened at the fountain, what had almost happened on the steps. Sherlock had evidently been embarrassed and it wouldn’t do to open old wounds.
The heat of the day had eased off somewhat as late afternoon was slowly replaced by the approaching evening. It was no longer uncomfortable to move around and even putting his dinner jacket on wasn’t much of a hardship for John. He looked in the mirror, cracked in one corner from an accident two years ago, and smiled at his reflection after re-arranging his hair with his fingers. He looked presentable enough.
‘I’m off now!’ John called as he walked downstairs. His mother leant against the kitchen doorway, folding her arms across her middle and smiling at him.
‘You’re not a bit like your father,’ she murmured. ‘Not one bit.’
John pulled her close and kissed her cheek. ‘That’s because I’m all yours,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back late. Don’t worry if I’m gone a while.’
‘I’ll try.’ She cupped his face in her hands. ‘Mind your manners.’
Grinning, John kissed her again and left their little cottage with a wave, closing the gate carefully behind him.
Bumblebees hovered around the wildflowers that grew at the edges of the path, their shadows growing long as the sun began to set.
***
Sherlock was half-dressed and smoking frantically as he paced around his room. He couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He’d spent the entire year, probably even more, trying to ignore the near-desperate longing he felt for John. It had been there for years, since he was sixteen at least, but the events of the day had brought everything rushing to a head and he couldn’t think for wanting.
Something had to be done.
Throwing his cigarette out of the window after one last inhale, Sherlock pulled his trousers on and tucked his shirt in, tying the emerald green bow tie that had been a present from John’s mother around his neck, fastening his cuffs with the mother of pearl cufflinks John himself had bought him for his last birthday. He breathed out and shrugged his dinner jacket on.
Before he could think better of it, before he could think at all, he scratched out a two-sentence letter to John on a thin piece of paper with his ink pen, folding it and shoving it inside his jacket pocket before it had had time to dry. He bent down to put on his shoes and socks and placed his lighter and cigarettes in his trouser pocket before making his way downstairs, towards where Mycroft’s drawling voice could be heard.
Giles Gilchrist was tall and slim with white blonde hair and watery blue eyes. Sherlock disliked him instantly just from peering at him from behind a pillar in the hallway, but Sherlock disliked most people instantly, especially if they had anything to do with Mycroft.
Both Mycroft and Gilchrist were standing next to the piano, chortling stupidly away over some hideous-looking cocktail. Sherlock frowned and quickly walked through the hallway to the door to the cellar, where Mummy allowed him to keep his chemistry equipment.
‘Sherlock!’
Hand on the cellar doorknob, Sherlock sighed, caught out. He turned to face Mycroft after a pause, his expression dark.
‘Sherlock, do come and meet Giles.’ Mycroft smiled his usual un-smile at Sherlock, who trudged into the drawing room. ‘Good God, boy, what’s that around your neck?’
‘It’s a bow tie, Mycroft, your fat cheeks obscuring your vision now?’
Mycroft’s jaw tightened and he ran his tongue over his top row of teeth. ‘It’s green.’
‘Yes, well done, top marks.’
‘We’re having dinner.’
‘Yes...’
‘Go and swap it for a black one,’ Mycroft said, stalking forwards, dropping his voice.
‘It was a gift from--’
‘I don’t care if it was a gift from President Roosevelt, it is not suitable for dinner.’
‘Why not?’
Mycroft leant in close to Sherlock. ‘Really, you are the most obstinate child I have ever known in my life--’
‘Let him be, Mycroft, old chap,’ Gilchrist said, sauntering forwards. ‘Holmes the younger!’ he exclaimed when he came face to face with Sherlock. ‘I’ve heard all about you. Your brother’s very proud of you, you know, despite appearances.’ He grinned, his teeth pearly white, and offered his hand. ‘Giles Gilchrist. Pleasure.’
‘Charmed,’ Sherlock muttered, sounding anything but, engaging in a perfunctory handshake.
‘Love the bow tie.’ Gilchrist winked at Mycroft, who shook his head and sipped his cocktail, staring out of the window. Sherlock stood awkwardly for a moment before Gilchrist gestured him over to the drinks cabinet, looking far more at home than Sherlock had ever felt in their house before. ‘Let me make you something frightfully decadent, Sherlock old boy, you’ll love it.’
‘You’ve no evidence to suggest I will,’ Sherlock said, ignoring the glare from Mycroft, his own frown deepening when Gilchrist burst out laughing.
‘Oh, you’re exactly like your brother described, it’s utterly hilarious. He talks about you so much I feel as if I’ve known you all my life and heard sullenness like that from you thousands of times already. You’re a real character.’
Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and fiddled with the cufflinks from John as he moved to sit in the window seat, watching the path where John would soon appear, the note he’d scribbled out frantically seeming to weigh a ton in his jacket pocket. He rested his hand over where he knew it to be, his heart racing as he blocked out the sound of Mycroft and Gilchrist talking whilst Gilchrist did something no doubt abominable to crushed ice.
The bees that bumbled around the wildflowers at the edge of the path caught Sherlock’s eye. He tilted his head as he watched them buzz from flower to flower, quite drawn in by their clumsy movements. He nearly jumped when Gilchrist appeared at his side, offering a mint-garnished drink with his left hand.
‘Here you are, old boy. Gilchrist’s Gin Fizz, tell me what you think.’
Sherlock sipped the cocktail, which had been poured into one of their cut crystal glasses. ‘Gin, lemon, caster sugar and soda water, hardly decadent, is it?’ Sherlock gave Gilchrist a withering look and placed the glass back in his hands, returning to staring out of the window.
‘Suit yourself,’ Gilchrist said, looking at Sherlock with contempt and knocking some of the drink back himself, his bravado and over-friendliness of earlier gone.
‘He’s only amusing for so long, Giles, as I see you’ve learnt,’ Mycroft said, staring fiercely at Sherlock, who ignored him. ‘He does so insist on being childish.’
‘I’m not a child,’ Sherlock muttered, his arms folded across his chest, legs spread out along the window seat.
‘No, the picture of maturity,’ Mycroft hissed into Sherlock’s ear as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, the thunderous footfalls of the twins signalling their arrival.
‘Jackson, Pierrot, calm down,’ Mycroft ordered, looming over the seven-year-olds. They stopped and stomped down the last few steps, deliberately scuffing their shoes. ‘Where is your sister?’
‘Don’t care,’ Jackson muttered, glaring down at the floor and kicking his heel against the first step. ‘Where’s Sherlock? We want him to do his trick.’
Sherlock smirked as he imagined the look on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft had been the one to teach him how to deduce things - ‘the trick’ - when he was five years old, and would positively loathe the idea of Sherlock laying claim to the skill over himself.
‘He’s sitting in the window,’ came Mycroft’s reply, through gritted teeth if Sherlock was right.
The twins bounded in and jumped up next to Sherlock, ignoring Gilchrist entirely.
‘Go away,’ Sherlock said, staring out at the path still.
‘No,’ Pierrot said, playing with the hem of Sherlock’s trousers.
‘I’ll give you a shilling if you go away.’
‘A shilling and a trick.’
‘It’s not a trick,’ Sherlock said slowly.
‘Lola says it’s a trick.’
‘Lola’s an idiot.’
The twins laughed gleefully at Sherlock calling their sister an idiot.
‘Do that man,’ Jackson said, pointing over to where Gilchrist was talking to Mycroft.
‘Him?’ Sherlock turned away from the window. ‘Easy.’
‘Go on, then!’
At that moment, Mrs Holmes and Lola walked into the room, both dressed for dinner. Lola was wearing a blue dress and had somehow managed to sneak some coral lipstick and pearl earrings past Mrs Holmes’s keen eye. Gilchrist bounded over to them whilst Mycroft did introductions and kissed both Mrs Holmes and Lola’s hands.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and began his deductions. ‘He’s very rich, keeps his cash in a roll in his jacket pocket, do you see that bulge, there?’ he murmured, pointing at where Gilchrist’s jacket stuck out from his chest. ‘You must split your winnings with me should he leave his jacket unattended.’
The boys giggled. ‘Go on, what else?’
‘His figure is athletic and I can tell from his ears and the way he holds his drink that he plays rugby and cricket. He’s also a good hurdler and not too bad at the long jump. He went to Oxford, his father was a rotten gambler who’s now dead and his underwear’s a size too small and twisted up into his bum.’
The twins began to howl with laughter. Sherlock dug in his pocket and pressed a small coin into each of their palms. ‘There. One trick, a shilling each, now bugger off.’ They ran out of the drawing room, whispering together, giggling again when they cast a backward look at Gilchrist’s nether regions.
Sherlock turned back to the window just in time to see John reach the end of the path. His easy mood vanished and nerves knotted in his chest as he and John looked at each other through the window. John smiled. Sherlock didn’t.
He ran and wrenched the door open before John could ring the bell and shoved his note into John’s hands before striding off in the direction of the library.
John blinked and unfolded the letter, scanning the two lines of Sherlock’s quick, untidy handwriting, ink spots scattered across the paper.
I can’t stop thinking about the last time you kissed me. In my thoughts you make love to me all day long.