The Vibe - Chapter One
The Vibe: CHAPTER ONE
Of all of the professions John believed his skills as an army doctor could transfer to, Assistant Manager of one London’s most successful and well known sex shops was not one of them.
Yet, six months later, there he was. Stocking shelves, helping customers, learning about visual merchandising, point of sales systems and whatnot. A completely different world to what he was used to (the bullets people spoke of in the store were completely different to the ones in his old line of work) but it was definitely not boring. It was actually fun, in a way.
“John!”
He rolled his eyes at the summons and put down the box of lube he was restocking. Hobbling to the front counter, he saw Sherlock clicking on random buttons on the computer.
“There you are. This infernal point of sale system you made us install insists we have five more Butterfly models in stock but they are nowhere to be found.”
John gave an apologetic smile to the woman Sherlock was serving and walked around the counter to the computer. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn’t move an inch. Any personal boundaries that had existed between them evaporated the first time Sherlock heard John describe him as one of his best friends. He had to reach around him to get hold of the mouse, their sides brushing. John caught a whiff of his cologne and tried to subtly catch another.
“See here, they are on shelf G17 in the stock room.”
He looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him, smiling. Of course the smug bastard knew he’d been scenting him like a dog in heat. He cleared his throat. “I’ll just go out back and grab them then, shall I?”
Swiftly, he made his way out to the back room, a feat made so much easier since he ditched that bloody cane. The coolness of the stock room calmed the heat in his cheeks. By god, that man could smell good. He counted out the shelves; C, D, E, F, G-eesus Christ!
“For fucks sake, Anderson!”
Anderson hurriedly pulled up his jeans over his bare arse and turned to face the wall.
“Sherlock told me to try out the new Fleshlight and let him know what it was like!” he protested.
“How many times do we have to… at home, Anderson. He wants you to try it out at home.”
“I’m on my lunch break!”
“Molly hasn’t even come around with sandwiches yet.” John let out an exasperated breath and reached into the shelving unit to retrieve the five objects. “Clean up, sort yourself out, and for goodness sake wash your hands. I want to see you out there restocking the Hen’s Party section in five minutes.”
John shook his head as he walked back towards the counter, ringing through the sale for Sherlock who was suddenly occupied with the notebook he carried around with him everywhere.
“Do me a favour,” John said when she left. “Next time you tell Anderson he can try something out, tell him at the end of his shift.”
“Do you think getting the CCTV cameras in will encourage or deter him?” Sherlock asked, pen poised above the page.
“I really don’t want to think about his exhibitionist streak, thank you very much. What are you writing, anyway? Did that woman give you more fodder for your book?” One night at the pub, Sherlock had confided in him that he was writing a series of short stories, and had been since he and Mycroft had bought the shop. John had to admit, with the way Sherlock’s mind worked, he was curious about the content.
“Not really, her leanings are much too vanilla.” Sherlock dismissed. “I’ve been timing how long it takes between me telling Anderson he’s allowed to try out one of the new items and him actually using it. Seeing if it shortens over time. CCTV will have to be factored into later data, of course, but for now it appears he’s lost any workplace decency he once had.”
“If he had any at all,” John said as he walked to the display to stack the rest of the Butterflies. “Are you doing anything tonight? Fancy going to get a bite at Angelo’s?”
“You don’t have a date with that woman?”
“What woman?”
“The short one with the pixie cut that she thinks is cute but it actually ages her several years.”
John raised his eyebrows. “Emma? We broke up last week.”
Sherlock looked at him, contemplation narrowing his eyes. “I thought as much.”
John shrugged, not really wanting to hear about Sherlock’s brilliant deductions around his love life. He’d rather talk about it like a normal person. “I wasn’t that cut up about it. Bit clingy. Apparently every time she met up with us for a drink I would spend the night completely ignoring her and just talking to you or Sally or Mike, and when I went out with her friends, I was too quiet.”
“You found her friends insufferable.” It wasn’t a question.
“So boring.”
“I know, you texted me about them. Several times. While you were out with them.”
“That was something else I did wrong. Apparently if I liked you more than her so much, I should be going out with you.”
“That offer’s been on the table for a while, John.” Sherlock did his best attempt at a leer.
There would have been a time in John’s past where he would have jumped at the chance to sleep with someone like Sherlock. Tall, lithe, thick dark hair. But if war had taught him anything about himself, it was that he craved companionship, a partnership, an emotional connection. Someone to go home to, maybe have a cuddle on the couch with while watching tele. He had companionship with Sherlock, the unlikely friendship was one of the best John had, but Sherlock was not capable of the other stuff longer than one night, and John was not going to sacrifice their friendship over it.
“Ha-ha. You know, I don’t really fancy being another notch on your bedpost.”
“You would be the most handsome notch there.”
“I’m ignoring this conversation and getting back on the real topic. Do you want to get a bite to eat after work? We can talk about next month’s Sexpo convention.”
“I can’t, I’m interviewing a potential flat mate.”
“Oh?” Sherlock’s last four attempts at acquiring someone to share the rent were fruitless. John wondered what would be wrong with today’s candidate.
“Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about moving in.”
“Not this again.”
“We’re friends. I have it on good authority that friends occasionally live together.”
“If I wanted to hear my flat mate shagging someone different every other night, I’d go live with my sister.”
“It’s not every other night.”
“It’s often enough."
Sherlock ignored him. “You can barely afford your flat. And besides, you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You do. You stay late here doing inventory or visual merchandising. The evenings you’re not doing that you’re on a date or going out for a drink. You avoid going home because you don’t like it there.”
“Have you ever lived with someone you worked with? I did, with a whole battalion. Not as much fun as it sounds.”
“I’m not going to push, but I find you to be one of the few people in the world I can willingly tolerate.” John was trying to work out if that was a compliment or insult when Sherlock added, “and you are one of the few people who seem to take my personality as it is, and not as a personal affront.”
John took a breath. Sherlock was Sherlock, as far as he was concerned. Unique and brilliant and surprisingly caring, once you got past the bluster. But most people did not look beyond that, and it was their loss. It would, however, make finding a suitable flat mate difficult.
“Sherlock-“ John began before being interrupted by a customer enquiry.
“Yes, Sherlock.” The voice had an Irish sing-song lilt that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He didn’t need to face the man to know who he was.
“Jim,” Sherlock said. “What can I help you with today?”
“You said you were going to get more of those ankle restraints in this week.” The tone Jim used when he spoke of such things was enough to make the bile rise to John’s throat.
“You’re in luck, they came in yesterday but they’re still in the stockroom.”
“I’d say I’m in luck.” Jim licked his lips while he looked Sherlock up and down, assessing him, memorising him. “I do enjoy you in those trousers.”
And yes, those trousers were particularly flattering on his friend, but Jim, with his slicked back hair and creepy eyes, should not have been sweeping over him the way he did. John could practically see the cartoon tongue rolling out of his mouth.
He limped from the scene to get the item from the stockroom so Jim could get out of there sooner. And why was it that his limp got worse when his stress and discomfort levels went up? No surprises that it increased with Jim’s presence. It happened every week.
“Here you are,” John said, ringing them up on the register.
“You are a good puppy, aren’t you?” Jim said, the disdain detectable through the sweetness.
“One likes to keep in the good graces of their boss.”
Jim raised his eyebrows, a sure sign John was about to be the recipient of a particularly cutting remark. “That’s not all one would like to keep in their boss, am I right, Doctor?”
John tried his best not to flush while he handed Jim his bag, then stepped to the front of the store to hold the door open for him.
“See you soon, Sherlock,” he sing-songed on his way out.
John returned to the counter, hands on his hips. “He is obsessed with you.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Hardly.”
“He practically undresses you with his eyes every time he comes in.”
“Don’t be crass, John.”
“Me, crass? Did you hear what he said to me?”
“What Jim says to you is none of my business, just as what he says to me is none of yours.”
“I didn’t ask you what you spoke about.”
“No, but you were going to.”
John gave Sherlock the most annoyed glare in his repertoire. Sherlock may have the stronger power of observation, but John was not blind, especially when it came to his friends being hit on by creeps.
“Put away your soldier face, John. I know what I’m doing with Jim. I know how he operates and I know not to give him what he wants.”
“You know that from the ten minutes he spends in here every week, flirting with you?” John asked, but didn’t miss the way Sherlock turned his head away from him, suddenly fixated on customers Sally was helping in the costume section. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
There was a pause before he responded. “We may know each other in a biblical sense, yes.”
“And what, he’s not satisfied with only one night?”
“He knew at the start that was all that was on offer.”
“Unbelievable. You know how to pick them, don’t you.”
“Because you’ve never made mistakes in that regard? Need I remind you of that wretched woman with the dog who bit you?”
“Buster was territorial.”
“She accused you of biting him first!”
“Okay, so we’ve both made mistakes. At least mine aren’t lingering in the doorway every week.”
“I can deal with it. I am dealing with it. It’s been over a year now and he still doesn’t know my number or where I live, it’s fine.”
John sighed and ran a tired hand down his face. “I hope he was a good shag, at least.”
“Memorable. Don’t know I’d rate it as good.”
“You’ve got to be more careful, Sherlock.”
“I’ve spent 34 years looking after myself successfully.”
“That may be, but now you have someone in your every day life who gets concerned for your safety. I kind of like you, you know?”
Sherlock smirked. “And yet you won’t agree to live with me or sleep with me. You’re a study in contradictions, Doctor Watson.”
“Ugh, I give up.” John went back to his box of lube, grateful that Sherlock didn’t draw attention to the fact that his limp was suddenly worse.
***
“Late one last night, Boss?” Sally asked Sherlock as soon as he walked in. By god that woman’s voice was grating at the best of times, let alone when he’d only managed three hours sleep.
“Your powers of deduction are improving,” Sherlock noted, propping his sunglasses up on top of his head. “What gave it away? The sunglasses, the shuffling of my feet, or the giant coffee in my hand?”
“Hey, it’s not Sally’s fault you’re a grumpy bastard,” John’s voice came at him from the other side of the shop. “Leave her be before she trips you up while you’re still holding that coffee?”
Sherlock stormed off toward the office to dump his things and maybe hide out for the morning processing the stack of invoices in his in-tray. Stupid John and his stupid intriguing face. This was all his fault, after all. If only he’d finally succumb to moving in with him he would never have to meet with random people all the time in order to halve his rent.
“So, how did potential flat mate number eight go?” John asked, leaning against the doorjamb to the office. Sherlock shrugged his coat off and pulled the scarf from his neck. John’s eyes went wide. “Pretty well, from the looks of it.”
Sherlock’s hand flew to his neck. Damn, he’d forgotten the previous night’s potential tenant was a biter.
“Actually, not very well at all.”
“Your lack of sleep and evidence on your neck would indicate otherwise.”
Sherlock sighed as he took a seat and started shuffling through papers, stapling the right ones to each other. “It would never have worked. He asked if Speedy’s did a decent expresso.”
“So?”
“Expresso, John. I cannot tolerate living with somebody so incompetent with the English language.”
“Not to mention the awkwardness with all the sex.” John’s voice contained a hint of bitterness, and really, it was uncalled for. John had been given opportunity on various occasions to be the one marking up Sherlock’s neck, and refused each time. Although maybe he was bitter at the way he’d treated Sally when he’d walked in. Yes, that was much more likely. The best way to rectify that would be to left alone until the haze passed and he felt more human. Surely John knew that?
“Quite. Now if you’ll just let me get to the paperwork in peace, I won’t inflict my grumpy bastard on you or any other-ouch! Jesus Christ!”
Sherlock looked down to his bleeding finger at the same time as John rushed over to take a look.
“Careful,” John said, gripping his wrist. The staple had imbedded itself into his pointer finger, and it would likely cause some damage getting it out.
“Come on, you.” John dragged him out of the chair and toward the employee bathroom, red droplets running down Sherlock’s wrist onto the concrete below. “Anyone would think I’d finally murdered you.”
“Quick, call Lestrade!” Sherlock mocked. John seemed to have a thing for the pornographic fake inspector.
“Not enough blood loss to affect your arsehole streak, I see. Get your finger under the warm water while I get the first aid kit.”
Sherlock grit his teeth as the water hit, stinging at the initial contact until it became a dull throb. Eventually, John’s gloved hand pulled Sherlock’s out of the water, and he used his thumb and some tweezers to work at the staple.
“Careful!” Sherlock hissed as the staple began to pull at his skin.
John looked up at him, exasperation written all over his face. “I pulled bullets out of soldiers, I think I’m capable of getting a staple out of your finger without you dying as a result.”
Sherlock just huffed and grit his teeth as John carefully worked at the staple, eventually prising it out from its hold.
“How did you get it to curl closed under your skin? Nevermind, get it back under the water, wash it out,” John instructed while he cut up a bit of gauze. He turned the tap off, patted down Sherlock’s hand, and started applying ointment to the wound.
“What’s the verdict?”
“You’ll live. Might just bleed and throb for a while.”
He applied the gauze and tape with expert precision, not too tight, then dropped a kiss to his fingertip.
“All better?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What am I? An eight year old getting his scrapes bandaged by Mummy?”
“You act like it sometimes,” John said as he packed up the first aid kit. “Seriously, Sherlock, this is what sleep deprivation does to you. Get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll need it before Sexpo next week.”
“Yes, Doctor Watson.”
John cuffed him over the back of the head. “I’ll Doctor Watson you.”
It was an inauspicious start to the day, but on the upside, it could hardly get much worse. Right?
***
“Food alert!” Sally called out a little after noon.
Like vultures on a rotting carcass, the team gathered around the basket of goodies Molly was providing that day. Actually, they were worse than vultures. At least vultures had the sense to hover before feasting. It was Sherlock’s own fault, really, but he’d deduced long ago that it was more cost effective to provide lunch himself than have his staff wonder off for hours on end in search of their own.
Unlike the others who appeared to be breaking land-speed records, Sherlock strolled to the counter to collect his. He wasn’t going to hurry. The only reason he ate lunch most days was because of Sally’s not-so-gentle nagging and John’s disapproving look if he didn’t.
“I heard about your little accident this morning,” Molly called out as Sherlock approached, pointing at his finger. “So I put in a little treat; strawberry and lemon curd muffins.”
“Mine!” Sherlock exclaimed, running the remaining ten metres and pouncing on the basket. “Lemon curd and strawberry is my favourite combination.”
“I know.” Molly grinned, blush staining her cheeks. She was an odd girl. Been delivering their food for almost two years and still had the shyness of a kindergartener leaving mummy’s side for the first time.
“My day is suddenly a lot brighter. Thank you, Molly.”
The door to the store opened.
“Hello, everybody. Have I made it in time for lunch?”
“And suddenly it’s dull and grey again. Seriously, could today be any more tedious?” Sherlock turned to his brother who had just walked through the door. “If we let you eat our lunch there wouldn’t be anything left for the rest of us.”
“Yes, weight jokes, very amusing.”
“What are you doing here? You do know that it’s polite to announce when you’re coming to visit.”
“I’ll conform to the politeness imposed by society when you do. Besides, I was invited.”
“By whom?”
John cleared his throat from behind him. Oh, of course it was John. He shot a glare his way.
“I, uh, told him he should come over when he’s free. Check out the new security cameras.”
“Do you have time now, John?” Mycroft propped his umbrella against the counter.
“Of course,” he said, wrapping the remainder of his sandwich and tucking it behind the desk.
Sherlock followed them with his eyes as John showed Mycroft the new fittings, all of the visible and hidden cameras throughout the store, a light pink dusting his cheeks as he nodded at what Mycroft was saying.
“It know it’s hard,” Molly said. Judging by the expression on John’s face Sherlock could only surmise that it was, indeed, well on the way to getting hard. Bloody Mycroft. “I mean, to see the guy you like fancy someone else.”
Sherlock ripped his gaze from them to look at Molly, considering.
“Oh, he doesn’t fancy Mycroft.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No. John is attracted to those in authority, those with power, but they are not the sort of people he would pursue a relationship with.”
“No?”
“John likes to be an equal in his partnerships. And I have it on good authority that he is not after a one night stand.”
“He told you that?”
“In so many words, yes.” Sherlock attempted to mask the disappointment in his voice.
“You, uh-“
“Yes, and have been rebuked about it. I don’t know why. He’s obviously missing male company, I could provide that.”
“Is it because of your friendship?” Molly’s tone seemed to indicate that would be a forgone conclusion, which was ridiculous.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Of course it’s relevant,” Molly said, lowering her voice. “Sex changes things. And John is someone who forms emotional attachments. He probably would only sleep with a friend he would pursue a relationship with.”
Sherlock stole another look at John, considering Molly’s words. “Go on.”
“He likes you, obviously. He probably doesn’t want to risk ruining your friendship.”
“But it wouldn’t be ruined, it would be exactly the same as before.”
“Maybe for him it wouldn’t.”
Sherlock didn’t reply to that, just replayed that conversation in his mind, turning over Molly’s words and John’s actions where that topic was concerned.
Not long after Molly left, Mycroft followed suit, mentioning something about a conference call with a member of royalty, no doubt for John’s benefit. Something else to remind him of the power he holds.
“The staff toilets are the only place the CCTV cameras don’t go, remember.” Sherlock told John when he came back for his sandwich, shooting a glance down at his crotch.
“Ha ha. You’re a comedian. Why is it so hard for you to realise that some people may find your brother attractive?”
“Because it’s absurd. Anyway, you aren’t attracted to him.”
“Oh, I’m not now, am I? Please, tell me all about how you deduced this.”
“You’re attracted to power, positions of authority, obviously. Your favouring of DI Lestrade in pornography shows that. Mycroft has some element of power that you respond to, but this is heightened by the fact that you are currently craving the company of another male.”
“Which is why I’ve dated two different girls over the past three weeks.”
“That may be so, but somebody used their staff discount to purchase a vibrating colt and DI Lestrade: Spread ‘Em, which isn’t Sally’s scene and Anderson would rather be caught with his pants down in Molly’s café than watching gay pornography.”
“Oh.” That delightful blush was back staining John’s cheeks.
“I can offer a solution to your current craving,” Sherlock started. “In fact, I’d be more than happy to indulge you.”
“Sherlock-“
He held his hand up. “However, Molly shed some light on how sex can potentially ruin friendships, and although I’d like to think ours would survive, I’m flattered by your desire to preserve it.”
“I’ve told you, Sherlock, you’re my best friend. If you were just some guy I met in a pub, you would have been in my bed months ago.”
“I appreciate the flattery, but there’s no need. I understand, John. I may not entirely agree with it, but I respect your viewpoint.”
John had a confused look on his face. “Right. Uh, thanks. I guess.”
“You’re welcome.” Sherlock had no idea how to tell his libido of this recent development. He’d long since learned that his superior intellect does not trump his more base desires. Time to change the subject. “Now, I believe you wanted to finalise the stock we’ll be taking to Sexpo?”
Continue on to the next part
Of all of the professions John believed his skills as an army doctor could transfer to, Assistant Manager of one London’s most successful and well known sex shops was not one of them.
Yet, six months later, there he was. Stocking shelves, helping customers, learning about visual merchandising, point of sales systems and whatnot. A completely different world to what he was used to (the bullets people spoke of in the store were completely different to the ones in his old line of work) but it was definitely not boring. It was actually fun, in a way.
“John!”
He rolled his eyes at the summons and put down the box of lube he was restocking. Hobbling to the front counter, he saw Sherlock clicking on random buttons on the computer.
“There you are. This infernal point of sale system you made us install insists we have five more Butterfly models in stock but they are nowhere to be found.”
John gave an apologetic smile to the woman Sherlock was serving and walked around the counter to the computer. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn’t move an inch. Any personal boundaries that had existed between them evaporated the first time Sherlock heard John describe him as one of his best friends. He had to reach around him to get hold of the mouse, their sides brushing. John caught a whiff of his cologne and tried to subtly catch another.
“See here, they are on shelf G17 in the stock room.”
He looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him, smiling. Of course the smug bastard knew he’d been scenting him like a dog in heat. He cleared his throat. “I’ll just go out back and grab them then, shall I?”
Swiftly, he made his way out to the back room, a feat made so much easier since he ditched that bloody cane. The coolness of the stock room calmed the heat in his cheeks. By god, that man could smell good. He counted out the shelves; C, D, E, F, G-eesus Christ!
“For fucks sake, Anderson!”
Anderson hurriedly pulled up his jeans over his bare arse and turned to face the wall.
“Sherlock told me to try out the new Fleshlight and let him know what it was like!” he protested.
“How many times do we have to… at home, Anderson. He wants you to try it out at home.”
“I’m on my lunch break!”
“Molly hasn’t even come around with sandwiches yet.” John let out an exasperated breath and reached into the shelving unit to retrieve the five objects. “Clean up, sort yourself out, and for goodness sake wash your hands. I want to see you out there restocking the Hen’s Party section in five minutes.”
John shook his head as he walked back towards the counter, ringing through the sale for Sherlock who was suddenly occupied with the notebook he carried around with him everywhere.
“Do me a favour,” John said when she left. “Next time you tell Anderson he can try something out, tell him at the end of his shift.”
“Do you think getting the CCTV cameras in will encourage or deter him?” Sherlock asked, pen poised above the page.
“I really don’t want to think about his exhibitionist streak, thank you very much. What are you writing, anyway? Did that woman give you more fodder for your book?” One night at the pub, Sherlock had confided in him that he was writing a series of short stories, and had been since he and Mycroft had bought the shop. John had to admit, with the way Sherlock’s mind worked, he was curious about the content.
“Not really, her leanings are much too vanilla.” Sherlock dismissed. “I’ve been timing how long it takes between me telling Anderson he’s allowed to try out one of the new items and him actually using it. Seeing if it shortens over time. CCTV will have to be factored into later data, of course, but for now it appears he’s lost any workplace decency he once had.”
“If he had any at all,” John said as he walked to the display to stack the rest of the Butterflies. “Are you doing anything tonight? Fancy going to get a bite at Angelo’s?”
“You don’t have a date with that woman?”
“What woman?”
“The short one with the pixie cut that she thinks is cute but it actually ages her several years.”
John raised his eyebrows. “Emma? We broke up last week.”
Sherlock looked at him, contemplation narrowing his eyes. “I thought as much.”
John shrugged, not really wanting to hear about Sherlock’s brilliant deductions around his love life. He’d rather talk about it like a normal person. “I wasn’t that cut up about it. Bit clingy. Apparently every time she met up with us for a drink I would spend the night completely ignoring her and just talking to you or Sally or Mike, and when I went out with her friends, I was too quiet.”
“You found her friends insufferable.” It wasn’t a question.
“So boring.”
“I know, you texted me about them. Several times. While you were out with them.”
“That was something else I did wrong. Apparently if I liked you more than her so much, I should be going out with you.”
“That offer’s been on the table for a while, John.” Sherlock did his best attempt at a leer.
There would have been a time in John’s past where he would have jumped at the chance to sleep with someone like Sherlock. Tall, lithe, thick dark hair. But if war had taught him anything about himself, it was that he craved companionship, a partnership, an emotional connection. Someone to go home to, maybe have a cuddle on the couch with while watching tele. He had companionship with Sherlock, the unlikely friendship was one of the best John had, but Sherlock was not capable of the other stuff longer than one night, and John was not going to sacrifice their friendship over it.
“Ha-ha. You know, I don’t really fancy being another notch on your bedpost.”
“You would be the most handsome notch there.”
“I’m ignoring this conversation and getting back on the real topic. Do you want to get a bite to eat after work? We can talk about next month’s Sexpo convention.”
“I can’t, I’m interviewing a potential flat mate.”
“Oh?” Sherlock’s last four attempts at acquiring someone to share the rent were fruitless. John wondered what would be wrong with today’s candidate.
“Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about moving in.”
“Not this again.”
“We’re friends. I have it on good authority that friends occasionally live together.”
“If I wanted to hear my flat mate shagging someone different every other night, I’d go live with my sister.”
“It’s not every other night.”
“It’s often enough."
Sherlock ignored him. “You can barely afford your flat. And besides, you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You do. You stay late here doing inventory or visual merchandising. The evenings you’re not doing that you’re on a date or going out for a drink. You avoid going home because you don’t like it there.”
“Have you ever lived with someone you worked with? I did, with a whole battalion. Not as much fun as it sounds.”
“I’m not going to push, but I find you to be one of the few people in the world I can willingly tolerate.” John was trying to work out if that was a compliment or insult when Sherlock added, “and you are one of the few people who seem to take my personality as it is, and not as a personal affront.”
John took a breath. Sherlock was Sherlock, as far as he was concerned. Unique and brilliant and surprisingly caring, once you got past the bluster. But most people did not look beyond that, and it was their loss. It would, however, make finding a suitable flat mate difficult.
“Sherlock-“ John began before being interrupted by a customer enquiry.
“Yes, Sherlock.” The voice had an Irish sing-song lilt that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He didn’t need to face the man to know who he was.
“Jim,” Sherlock said. “What can I help you with today?”
“You said you were going to get more of those ankle restraints in this week.” The tone Jim used when he spoke of such things was enough to make the bile rise to John’s throat.
“You’re in luck, they came in yesterday but they’re still in the stockroom.”
“I’d say I’m in luck.” Jim licked his lips while he looked Sherlock up and down, assessing him, memorising him. “I do enjoy you in those trousers.”
And yes, those trousers were particularly flattering on his friend, but Jim, with his slicked back hair and creepy eyes, should not have been sweeping over him the way he did. John could practically see the cartoon tongue rolling out of his mouth.
He limped from the scene to get the item from the stockroom so Jim could get out of there sooner. And why was it that his limp got worse when his stress and discomfort levels went up? No surprises that it increased with Jim’s presence. It happened every week.
“Here you are,” John said, ringing them up on the register.
“You are a good puppy, aren’t you?” Jim said, the disdain detectable through the sweetness.
“One likes to keep in the good graces of their boss.”
Jim raised his eyebrows, a sure sign John was about to be the recipient of a particularly cutting remark. “That’s not all one would like to keep in their boss, am I right, Doctor?”
John tried his best not to flush while he handed Jim his bag, then stepped to the front of the store to hold the door open for him.
“See you soon, Sherlock,” he sing-songed on his way out.
John returned to the counter, hands on his hips. “He is obsessed with you.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Hardly.”
“He practically undresses you with his eyes every time he comes in.”
“Don’t be crass, John.”
“Me, crass? Did you hear what he said to me?”
“What Jim says to you is none of my business, just as what he says to me is none of yours.”
“I didn’t ask you what you spoke about.”
“No, but you were going to.”
John gave Sherlock the most annoyed glare in his repertoire. Sherlock may have the stronger power of observation, but John was not blind, especially when it came to his friends being hit on by creeps.
“Put away your soldier face, John. I know what I’m doing with Jim. I know how he operates and I know not to give him what he wants.”
“You know that from the ten minutes he spends in here every week, flirting with you?” John asked, but didn’t miss the way Sherlock turned his head away from him, suddenly fixated on customers Sally was helping in the costume section. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
There was a pause before he responded. “We may know each other in a biblical sense, yes.”
“And what, he’s not satisfied with only one night?”
“He knew at the start that was all that was on offer.”
“Unbelievable. You know how to pick them, don’t you.”
“Because you’ve never made mistakes in that regard? Need I remind you of that wretched woman with the dog who bit you?”
“Buster was territorial.”
“She accused you of biting him first!”
“Okay, so we’ve both made mistakes. At least mine aren’t lingering in the doorway every week.”
“I can deal with it. I am dealing with it. It’s been over a year now and he still doesn’t know my number or where I live, it’s fine.”
John sighed and ran a tired hand down his face. “I hope he was a good shag, at least.”
“Memorable. Don’t know I’d rate it as good.”
“You’ve got to be more careful, Sherlock.”
“I’ve spent 34 years looking after myself successfully.”
“That may be, but now you have someone in your every day life who gets concerned for your safety. I kind of like you, you know?”
Sherlock smirked. “And yet you won’t agree to live with me or sleep with me. You’re a study in contradictions, Doctor Watson.”
“Ugh, I give up.” John went back to his box of lube, grateful that Sherlock didn’t draw attention to the fact that his limp was suddenly worse.
***
“Late one last night, Boss?” Sally asked Sherlock as soon as he walked in. By god that woman’s voice was grating at the best of times, let alone when he’d only managed three hours sleep.
“Your powers of deduction are improving,” Sherlock noted, propping his sunglasses up on top of his head. “What gave it away? The sunglasses, the shuffling of my feet, or the giant coffee in my hand?”
“Hey, it’s not Sally’s fault you’re a grumpy bastard,” John’s voice came at him from the other side of the shop. “Leave her be before she trips you up while you’re still holding that coffee?”
Sherlock stormed off toward the office to dump his things and maybe hide out for the morning processing the stack of invoices in his in-tray. Stupid John and his stupid intriguing face. This was all his fault, after all. If only he’d finally succumb to moving in with him he would never have to meet with random people all the time in order to halve his rent.
“So, how did potential flat mate number eight go?” John asked, leaning against the doorjamb to the office. Sherlock shrugged his coat off and pulled the scarf from his neck. John’s eyes went wide. “Pretty well, from the looks of it.”
Sherlock’s hand flew to his neck. Damn, he’d forgotten the previous night’s potential tenant was a biter.
“Actually, not very well at all.”
“Your lack of sleep and evidence on your neck would indicate otherwise.”
Sherlock sighed as he took a seat and started shuffling through papers, stapling the right ones to each other. “It would never have worked. He asked if Speedy’s did a decent expresso.”
“So?”
“Expresso, John. I cannot tolerate living with somebody so incompetent with the English language.”
“Not to mention the awkwardness with all the sex.” John’s voice contained a hint of bitterness, and really, it was uncalled for. John had been given opportunity on various occasions to be the one marking up Sherlock’s neck, and refused each time. Although maybe he was bitter at the way he’d treated Sally when he’d walked in. Yes, that was much more likely. The best way to rectify that would be to left alone until the haze passed and he felt more human. Surely John knew that?
“Quite. Now if you’ll just let me get to the paperwork in peace, I won’t inflict my grumpy bastard on you or any other-ouch! Jesus Christ!”
Sherlock looked down to his bleeding finger at the same time as John rushed over to take a look.
“Careful,” John said, gripping his wrist. The staple had imbedded itself into his pointer finger, and it would likely cause some damage getting it out.
“Come on, you.” John dragged him out of the chair and toward the employee bathroom, red droplets running down Sherlock’s wrist onto the concrete below. “Anyone would think I’d finally murdered you.”
“Quick, call Lestrade!” Sherlock mocked. John seemed to have a thing for the pornographic fake inspector.
“Not enough blood loss to affect your arsehole streak, I see. Get your finger under the warm water while I get the first aid kit.”
Sherlock grit his teeth as the water hit, stinging at the initial contact until it became a dull throb. Eventually, John’s gloved hand pulled Sherlock’s out of the water, and he used his thumb and some tweezers to work at the staple.
“Careful!” Sherlock hissed as the staple began to pull at his skin.
John looked up at him, exasperation written all over his face. “I pulled bullets out of soldiers, I think I’m capable of getting a staple out of your finger without you dying as a result.”
Sherlock just huffed and grit his teeth as John carefully worked at the staple, eventually prising it out from its hold.
“How did you get it to curl closed under your skin? Nevermind, get it back under the water, wash it out,” John instructed while he cut up a bit of gauze. He turned the tap off, patted down Sherlock’s hand, and started applying ointment to the wound.
“What’s the verdict?”
“You’ll live. Might just bleed and throb for a while.”
He applied the gauze and tape with expert precision, not too tight, then dropped a kiss to his fingertip.
“All better?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What am I? An eight year old getting his scrapes bandaged by Mummy?”
“You act like it sometimes,” John said as he packed up the first aid kit. “Seriously, Sherlock, this is what sleep deprivation does to you. Get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll need it before Sexpo next week.”
“Yes, Doctor Watson.”
John cuffed him over the back of the head. “I’ll Doctor Watson you.”
It was an inauspicious start to the day, but on the upside, it could hardly get much worse. Right?
***
“Food alert!” Sally called out a little after noon.
Like vultures on a rotting carcass, the team gathered around the basket of goodies Molly was providing that day. Actually, they were worse than vultures. At least vultures had the sense to hover before feasting. It was Sherlock’s own fault, really, but he’d deduced long ago that it was more cost effective to provide lunch himself than have his staff wonder off for hours on end in search of their own.
Unlike the others who appeared to be breaking land-speed records, Sherlock strolled to the counter to collect his. He wasn’t going to hurry. The only reason he ate lunch most days was because of Sally’s not-so-gentle nagging and John’s disapproving look if he didn’t.
“I heard about your little accident this morning,” Molly called out as Sherlock approached, pointing at his finger. “So I put in a little treat; strawberry and lemon curd muffins.”
“Mine!” Sherlock exclaimed, running the remaining ten metres and pouncing on the basket. “Lemon curd and strawberry is my favourite combination.”
“I know.” Molly grinned, blush staining her cheeks. She was an odd girl. Been delivering their food for almost two years and still had the shyness of a kindergartener leaving mummy’s side for the first time.
“My day is suddenly a lot brighter. Thank you, Molly.”
The door to the store opened.
“Hello, everybody. Have I made it in time for lunch?”
“And suddenly it’s dull and grey again. Seriously, could today be any more tedious?” Sherlock turned to his brother who had just walked through the door. “If we let you eat our lunch there wouldn’t be anything left for the rest of us.”
“Yes, weight jokes, very amusing.”
“What are you doing here? You do know that it’s polite to announce when you’re coming to visit.”
“I’ll conform to the politeness imposed by society when you do. Besides, I was invited.”
“By whom?”
John cleared his throat from behind him. Oh, of course it was John. He shot a glare his way.
“I, uh, told him he should come over when he’s free. Check out the new security cameras.”
“Do you have time now, John?” Mycroft propped his umbrella against the counter.
“Of course,” he said, wrapping the remainder of his sandwich and tucking it behind the desk.
Sherlock followed them with his eyes as John showed Mycroft the new fittings, all of the visible and hidden cameras throughout the store, a light pink dusting his cheeks as he nodded at what Mycroft was saying.
“It know it’s hard,” Molly said. Judging by the expression on John’s face Sherlock could only surmise that it was, indeed, well on the way to getting hard. Bloody Mycroft. “I mean, to see the guy you like fancy someone else.”
Sherlock ripped his gaze from them to look at Molly, considering.
“Oh, he doesn’t fancy Mycroft.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No. John is attracted to those in authority, those with power, but they are not the sort of people he would pursue a relationship with.”
“No?”
“John likes to be an equal in his partnerships. And I have it on good authority that he is not after a one night stand.”
“He told you that?”
“In so many words, yes.” Sherlock attempted to mask the disappointment in his voice.
“You, uh-“
“Yes, and have been rebuked about it. I don’t know why. He’s obviously missing male company, I could provide that.”
“Is it because of your friendship?” Molly’s tone seemed to indicate that would be a forgone conclusion, which was ridiculous.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Of course it’s relevant,” Molly said, lowering her voice. “Sex changes things. And John is someone who forms emotional attachments. He probably would only sleep with a friend he would pursue a relationship with.”
Sherlock stole another look at John, considering Molly’s words. “Go on.”
“He likes you, obviously. He probably doesn’t want to risk ruining your friendship.”
“But it wouldn’t be ruined, it would be exactly the same as before.”
“Maybe for him it wouldn’t.”
Sherlock didn’t reply to that, just replayed that conversation in his mind, turning over Molly’s words and John’s actions where that topic was concerned.
Not long after Molly left, Mycroft followed suit, mentioning something about a conference call with a member of royalty, no doubt for John’s benefit. Something else to remind him of the power he holds.
“The staff toilets are the only place the CCTV cameras don’t go, remember.” Sherlock told John when he came back for his sandwich, shooting a glance down at his crotch.
“Ha ha. You’re a comedian. Why is it so hard for you to realise that some people may find your brother attractive?”
“Because it’s absurd. Anyway, you aren’t attracted to him.”
“Oh, I’m not now, am I? Please, tell me all about how you deduced this.”
“You’re attracted to power, positions of authority, obviously. Your favouring of DI Lestrade in pornography shows that. Mycroft has some element of power that you respond to, but this is heightened by the fact that you are currently craving the company of another male.”
“Which is why I’ve dated two different girls over the past three weeks.”
“That may be so, but somebody used their staff discount to purchase a vibrating colt and DI Lestrade: Spread ‘Em, which isn’t Sally’s scene and Anderson would rather be caught with his pants down in Molly’s café than watching gay pornography.”
“Oh.” That delightful blush was back staining John’s cheeks.
“I can offer a solution to your current craving,” Sherlock started. “In fact, I’d be more than happy to indulge you.”
“Sherlock-“
He held his hand up. “However, Molly shed some light on how sex can potentially ruin friendships, and although I’d like to think ours would survive, I’m flattered by your desire to preserve it.”
“I’ve told you, Sherlock, you’re my best friend. If you were just some guy I met in a pub, you would have been in my bed months ago.”
“I appreciate the flattery, but there’s no need. I understand, John. I may not entirely agree with it, but I respect your viewpoint.”
John had a confused look on his face. “Right. Uh, thanks. I guess.”
“You’re welcome.” Sherlock had no idea how to tell his libido of this recent development. He’d long since learned that his superior intellect does not trump his more base desires. Time to change the subject. “Now, I believe you wanted to finalise the stock we’ll be taking to Sexpo?”
Continue on to the next part