The Vibe - Chapter Four
The Vibe: CHAPTER FOUR
As soon as he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door open, John quickly closed the lid to the laptop and stashed it under the coffee table. He picked up a copy of the paper on the table and pretended to read that while he finished his toast.
Sherlock wandered out looking pale and dishevelled, still in his pants and undershirt, not bothering to cinch his dressing gown around his waist. He collapsed onto the couch, head resting on John’s thigh, like the sheer effort it took to get out of bed was enough to send him back to sleep.
“What time is it?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and gravelly, and John felt a pang of sympathy.
“Just after 11:00,” he told him, giving his forehead a quick temperature check. Clammy, but still cool. “It’s been a good eight hours since your fever broke.”
“The store!” Sherlock suddenly sat up, but John used the hand on his chest to pull him back down and kept it there so he didn’t move. “Relax, I’ve got it covered.”
“But you and Sally have the day off today, I can’t let Anderson run it alone!”
“I told you, I have it covered. Just relax. He’s too intimidated by your brother to do anything untoward.”
“My brother?” Sherlock asked, and John waited for the tumblers to click into place. “Bloody hell, I’m actually dead, aren’t I?”
John chuckled. “You’re very much alive. I called Mycroft last night and he agreed that I needed to be here today to look after you. He can look after the place for a few days.”
“I can go back in tomorrow.”
“You will do no such thing. In fact, consider yourself having a doctor’s certificate for the rest of the week.”
“But the store-“
“The rest of the week,” John repeated. “You can go back on Friday if, and only if, you’re eating properly again.”
“Ugh, don’t mention food.”
“You don’t want to try some dry toast?”
“I’m surprised you managed to find anything edible in here.”
“I didn’t. Your housekeeper brought me up some tea and bread this morning.”
“I don’t have a housekeeper.”
John looked around at the piles of paper and books stacked haphazardly on every available smooth surface, clothes hanging off chairs, and dishes piled high in the sink.
“Obviously. Landlady then, Mrs Hudson? She stayed up here with you while I got my medical kit last night.”
“Oh right,” he said, like he was remembering. “Did you give me a shot of something in the middle of the night?”
“Maxalon. Figured your poor body needed a break.”
“Not just an excuse to see my arse?” Sherlock said, then closed his eyes. “Sorry, John. I know you don’t appreciate those comments. My brain is not fully back online again.”
“Surprisingly, I wasn’t too keen to get close to your bum last night.” John gave a soft smile. “And I never minded the comments, just the manipulative ones.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and John could feel his heartbeat increase under his palm. Interesting. “Good, because it’s likely to happen again.”
“I gathered as much. How are you actually feeling this morning, then?”
“How do you think I feel? Like my blood has been replaced by helium and my bones with ball bearings.”
“If you’re refusing to eat you will at least drink some electrolytes. Get your energy back up.”
“What are the chances of you nagging me until I consent?”
“Very high-to-certain.”
“Fine then.”
“You must be feeling unwell still,” John said, wriggling out from under his head to get to the kitchen where he’d put his late-night-dash-to-the-chemist stash. He was stirring the powder into the water when Sherlock piped up again.
“So, what did you think?”
“Huh?”
“My book, what did you think?”
No one had ever accused John Watson of being able to think on his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You shoved my computer under the table as soon as you heard me come out of the bedroom and then pretended to read a years old column in an obituary. And you’re avoiding eye contact which can only mean you’ve done something you feel guilty for. And really, if you’re going to feel guilty about anything it should be to do with the fact that you made me get food from that sodding cesspit at the convention.”
“I didn’t make you get a pork sandwich!”
“You made me purchase food from an unsanitary establishment which resulted in my incapacitation. Until you injected me with that miracle drug. Whoever invented that one deserves a Nobel Prize.”
“Some people would probably think that I deserve a Nobel Prize, looking after you.”
“Stop changing the subject. You read my book. What did you think of it?”
John hesitated. Sherlock’s book wasn’t so much a novel as a collection of short stories. Some were excellent, but some were... “Well-“
“Spit it out, I want to know.”
“It’s just. You don’t take constructive criticism very well.” John handed Sherlock his drink, and he winced at the taste before shooting the rest down his throat.
“I take criticism just fine, thank you.”
“I told you your last blog post on the company website was long winded and you threatened to set my computer on fire!”
“That was different, you have barely had any exposure to writing for the web. But this is a book and you almost fit my demographic. I need your opinion.”
John took his seat back on the couch and Sherlock rested his head against his thigh once again.
“It’s good. Well written. Definitely erotic. Very hot.”
“Don’t sugar coat it.”
“I’m telling the truth. I like it. It just lacks emotion.”
Sherlock scoffed. “When it comes to erotica, emotion is not required.”
“But it is. Sure, that story with the young man in the back room of the gay club, maybe not then. But the married couple? Where the husband compromises his comfort levels completely to fulfill his wife’s fantasy? I know that one is a bit of a red herring, but not even a thank you at the end? I’m not finished them all, but you’re ending up with a collection of stories that are technically well written, but characters the reader will have no attachment to. They’re not going to care about any of them.”
Sherlock was silent for a beat and John was thankful the man appeared too exhausted for his usual wander-off-for-a-sulk routine.
“You sound like my editor.”
“You wanted my opinion. And if your editor and I agree, maybe it is something you should consider rather than dismissing it as drivel.”
“I wasn’t going to dismiss anything.”
“Please. You’re not the only one who can make deductions.”
“Well, if you’re not going to let me work then I shall have time to think about it.”
John let the subject drop. It was about as close to getting Sherlock to take advice as he was going to get.
***
The bell above the door chimed as John walked into the store, a good half-hour late thanks to a certain best friend. It was like dealing with a petulant child, sitting opposite him at the table watching him eat dry toast and black tea before leaving him alone for the day.
“Good morning, Dr Watson,” Anderson said as he approached the counter.
John’s eyebrows furrowed at the formal greeting. Oh god, what had he gotten up to unsupervised?
“Good morning, everything okay?” John asked, trying, and likely failing, to keep the hint of skepticism from his voice.
“Dr Watson, there you are.” Mycroft stepped out of the office before Anderson could respond. Seeing Mycroft Holmes in his expensive bespoke suit never failed to sock John in the guts. The man exuded power and intelligence, which was something John had always responded to. As far as looks went, he wasn’t as striking as his brother, but he was nothing to scoff at either.
“What’s wrong with Anderson?” John asked as he joined Mycroft in the office.
“I thought it was time the man learned to respect his superiors.”
“He finds you terrifying, you know.”
“Maybe he’ll think twice before sampling the wares during his shift next time.”
“Was it the new Power Pump?”
“Indeed it was.”
“To be fair, he does need all the help he can get in that department.”
“So I noticed. He does realise how wide the CCTV coverage stretches, yes?”
John nodded. “All part of Sherlock’s little experiment.”
“Yes, of course. Tell me, how is my brother faring?”
“He’s much better, but still weak. A few days away from work won’t kill him.”
Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. “Perhaps you do not know my brother as well as you thought?”
“I put an antihistamine in his tea this morning. He’ll be fine. Probably napping on the couch as we speak.”
The smirk reached Mycroft’s eyes. “How devious. I’m almost impressed.”
“I figure if I can get him to rest until at least Thursday I’ve done well.”
“If my brother can last until Thursday without incurring further damage to Baker Street, I shall nominate you for a national award.” Mycroft stood and took his coat from the back of the chair. “Well, I believe you will be able to look after things from here. Tell Sherlock that the catering company are being fined a large amount as well as being thoroughly investigated by every government department they can be. Including the tax office.”
“He’ll be happy to know that.”
“He and the 327 other people who ended up in hospital. Do call me if you require further assistance.”
“Sure. And thanks for looking after things here for us.”
“You’ve implemented some good changes. It was a pleasure to see them in action.”
John felt the blush crawl up his chest at the appraising look he was given.
“Thank you.”
“I have some ideas for this business. Maybe we should catch up for dinner one evening?”
He could only imagine Sherlock’s reaction to him socialising with his brother. “I’d like that.”
“I’ll have my assistant set something up for tomorrow night. There’s a French Restaurant not far from your apartment that has a most excellent wine list. Until then.” Mycroft nodded and left the room, leaving John feeling a bit gobsmacked.
French restaurant? Excellent wine? If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Mycroft Holmes, John would have thought he’d just been asked out on a date.
****
“Did you remember to get tea?”
John rolled his eyes as he opened the cupboard to put away the groceries he’d bought. Sherlock had managed three days at home on his own and was only just starting to show evidence of cabin fever.
“Good evening, John. How was work today? Oh it was great, thanks for asking, Sherlock. That’s good to hear, and thanks so much for buying food after working on the shop floor all day.” John threw a box of Twinings at Sherlock’s head. “Yes, I got your bloody tea.”
“No need for violence. I told you I was well enough to come in today.”
“And I told you if you manage to actually eat some dinner you can go in tomorrow.”
“It’s been four days, John!”
“So eat your dinner tonight!” he said as he ascended the stairs to the spare bedroom to change out of his work clothes. John could hear Sherlock’s scoff even behind the closed door.
Dinner was chicken that Molly had steamed for them, along with a bit of rice and some Asian greens. Sherlock made a show of shovelling the food into his mouth.
“I have to go in tomorrow, anyway,” he said between bites. “I’m meeting with The Woman’s agent at ten.”
“What for?”
“For her DVD launch, of course.”
John’s eyes widened in surprise and he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. “She agreed?”
“She did. I told you on Sunday. You probably couldn’t hear me over your excessive flirting.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“It was a business discussion!”
“Last time I had a business discussion that looked like that I ended up on my back on a bear skin rug.”
John tried not to let that description paint an image in his mind.
“You have a bear skin rug?”
“No, more’s the pity. They are surprisingly unscratchy.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, speaking of business discussions, we should receive Sarah’s shipment in three weeks. We’ll have to work out the visual merchandising and release schedule for it.”
“You’ll want to do this in conjunction with Dr Sawyer, I presume? On your own? Over candlelight?”
He tried not to get annoyed with Sherlock’s tone of voice. Despite his protests, his body was still recovering from such a violent attack of food poisoning. Also, he did like to be the centre of John’s attentions.
“Whatever happens between Sarah and I outside of work is completely different to any business happenings. As store manager it is your job to be involved in that side of things.”
“So there will be out of work happenings with her?”
“How is this any different to you going out for dinner with Irene as well as selling her DVDs?”
“She’s a friend.”
“As is Sarah, so drop it.”
“But-“
“Drop it,” he said a little more forcefully. If he was this difficult to talk about Sarah with, what would he be like when he found out he had been to dinner with his brother?
***
Sherlock returned to 221B after work that Saturday to a heavy chemical scent coming from his flat. He took the stairs two at a time, eager to ensure John was safe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had attempted to gas Sherlock out of his lodgings.
“John!” He flung open the door to the flat and could not believe what he was seeing.
“Oh, hello,” John said from the bathroom doorway, holding a scrubbing brush in his gloved hand. Sherlock suddenly recognised the smell; bleach. “You’re home early.”
“It’s after six.”
“Already? Can you turn the oven down to 100 degrees for me?”
“John? What is going on?”
“Trying to make your cesspit more livable. And I don’t have a working oven in my apartment and had a sudden craving for roasted vegetables.”
Sherlock looked around at his lounge room. All of his books were shelved, his papers in neat piles on the table, the floors vacuumed.
“Perhaps I liked the chaos?”
“Perhaps you are incredibly lazy. No wonder you’ve been unable to find a flatmate.”
“You’ve stuck around all week.”
“Because you’ve needed looking after.”
“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “I haven’t needed looking after since Monday. You’re here because you want to be.”
John pulled off his rubber gloves as he entered the lounge room.
“You’ve deduced that, have you?” He crossed his arms.
“You’re standing in your friend’s flat in nothing but your pants and undershirt, scrubbing soap scum from tile you did not create and making it a more attractive place to live. You are taking advantage of a fully functioning kitchen, have stocked the pantry with actual edible food, and haven’t stayed back at work even once this week, although you did have that business dinner with Mycroft, but that hardly counts. Most of your more favoured possessions have migrated over, you are obviously much happier here than your dark den of an apartment and the sooner you agree that this arrangement will work in both of our favours and move in, the happier both of us will be.”
John stood for a beat and looked out the window. Sherlock held his breath while he waited for John’s response. John had never walked out on him after one of his deductions, but there was a first time for everything.
After what felt like an age, John finally met his eyes. Sherlock was not one for patience.
“So.” He shrugged. “How much is rent?”
***
It only took an hour and one cab ride for John to transfer his belongings to Baker Street. Sherlock was generous and gave him the morning off work, leaving Sally in charge to no doubt throw her weight around until John went in after lunch.
“Oh, Dr Watson!” Mrs Hudson said as they carried boxes of John’s possessions up the stairs. “You’re moving in.”
“Yes, I am,” John said in a polite way that would only please a woman of her generation.
“Mrs Hudson, please.” Sherlock stopped behind John with a heavy box of books in his hands. “Either grab a box and help us upstairs, or refrain from continuing this conversation until it’s done.”
Mrs Hudson ignored him. “It’s lovely to see Sherlock settle down with someone.”
“Mrs Hudson!”
“Thought I was going to have to install a revolving door at one stage.”
“Not helping, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock said over John’s chuckle. “Move, John!”
“I would help you carry up your things, dear, but I’ve got this hip-“
“No worries, Sherlock and I have got it, don’t we?”
Sherlock grumbled in response. For someone with few possessions they sure weighed a ton.
“Sorry,” John said when they got upstairs. “You must have grabbed the box with my medical texts.”
“You still have medical books?” His curiosity was piqued. Sherlock had a few laying around the flat, but most were antiquated and only good as an historical source.
“Of course. I may not be practicing right now, but I’m still a doctor and I need to keep up with the latest research and happenings in the field.”
“So you’re intending to go back then? To the profession?”
“I’m not sure yet. It’s been nice having a break from it, but I can’t deny I’m still interested.”
Suddenly the tumblers all fell into place. “Of course. Your dinner with Mycroft.”
“What about my dinner with Mycroft?” John had been secretive about it, but it was all starting to make sense.
“He propositioned you,” he started, then at the look on John’s face, clarified, “not of a sexual nature, grow up. He’s been interested in expanding the business for a while, found a bargain the other side of London, no doubt, and wants to turn it into another version of The Vibe but with you heading it up instead of me. Oh, he is crafty.”
“What? How--?”
“You’ve started reading your medical magazines and journals in your lunch break, and your catching up with Sarah has once again piqued your interest. Mycroft’s proposal, completely against my wishes as I have told him several times you are vital to our store, has made you think about whether you would consider a complete career change permanently.”
“Vital?”
“You put up with Sally, control Anderson, and are able to work alongside me. I’d say you were vital.”
“So that’s what positive feedback feels like,” John muttered.
“I give you positive feedback.”
“How my arse looks on any given day is not related to my work.”
“On the contrary, wearing those jeans the other week ensured repeat custom from several new people.”
Redness swept across John’s cheeks. “Right then. Let’s go get the rest of my stuff from downstairs, yeah?”
As Sherlock followed behind John down the stairs and got a good look at the arse in the jeans in question. One thing he was certain of with John’s moving in; seeing this all day every day should definitely dampen the attraction. Definitely.
***
Sherlock thought that whoever suggested that familiarity breeds contempt had obviously never been enamoured of John Watson. Living with him was turning into some kind of self-inflicted torture.
He wasn’t one to endure the constant company of others, yet John was in his life practically every waking moment and Sherlock had yet to tire of him. If anything, he felt himself drawn closer. It was most disturbing, especially with how much delight Irene took in his infatuation. Vile woman.
So when John wasn’t around to cook him dinner or yell at him for playing the violin so late at night, Sherlock found himself craving his company. It was strange. When he was first looking for a flatmate, he was hoping it would be someone who was never around to bother him. Now, John was out taking Sarah to dinner and he was watching the clock waiting for his return.
It was just after eleven when he finally came back, footsteps slow but steady on the stairs. They’d shared a bottle of wine then, maybe two, so John would be loose lipped and possibly loose limbed. He had a great tolerance with lager, but start the man on wine and he would be half drunk without realising how he got there.
“You’re still up? What am I saying, of course you are,” John said as he walked into the lounge. He fell heavily next to Sherlock on the couch, practically falling on top of him and causing the medical journal he was reading to fall to the floor. Sherlock could smell a hint of red wine as well as the floral of a perfume on his jumper and tamped down the hot feeling that suddenly rose from his stomach.
“Good night, then?”
“Enjoyable. We went to this lovely restaurant only a few blocks from here. I should take you there some time.”
That was promising. John was sentimental and if his first date with Sarah went spectacularly well he’d hardly want to share the venue with another. And while he smelt of her perfume, there was not a smudge of lipstick or gloss anywhere but his cheek.
“So you’ll be going out with her again?”
John burrowed the back of his head into Sherlock’s shoulder, seemingly trying to get comfortable against the bony joint. He looked up at him with tired eyes. “You haven’t deduced it already?”
Well, yes, he had, obviously, but he’d learned that John was less amenable to his deductions when he was fatigued.
“You had a rather pleasant evening, meeting at the restaurant before going for a stroll through the park to Sarah’s house where she left you with a kiss on the cheek. She would have invited you in but she has an early appointment tomorrow, and you were somewhat relieved as while you like her, you aren’t exactly sure where this will lead. Although you were disappointed to not get anything other than a goodnight peck on the cheek.”
John continued to gaze up at Sherlock. “Brilliant. All of it. How--?”
“You met late for dinner and are home after three hours, not enough time for anything other than dinner and another quick activity, such as walking through the park, which is obvious due to the bottom of your trouser leg being damp and the soil stuck to the soles of your shoes. You have lip gloss on the side of your face, so a quick kiss goodbye and the promise of more to come, but you’re affectionate when it comes to people you like and wished to see how compatible you are in that capacity.”
Sherlock looked down to see John staring at his mouth and running his tongue across his own lips. His breath caught in his throat.
“You’re brilliant. And you’re right. I do like seeing if there’s any compatibility with kissing someone I like,” he said in an almost-whisper, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “See if that chemistry is going to lead somewhere.”
Loose lipped and loose limbed indeed, Sherlock could see John’s neck straining up at the same time he felt his own bending down of its own free will, ready to meet those lips at last. To finally satiate the curiosity and attraction to this man.
Sherlock’s lips were almost upon John’s when he took a breath and smelled nothing but red wine and a hint of garlic. Disappointment ran cold in his chest.
“You’re drunk.”
“Just a little,” he replied, inching even closer. Sherlock turned his head away and John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought-“
“You’re tired and slightly inebriated. We don’t want to do anything we might regret,” he said, sending a message to every part of his body that was telling him to continue the embrace, to see where it would lead, to shut the hell up.
“Oh.” John sat up and ran a hand down his face. “You’re right, of course. And I should be going to bed. Big day tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, picking up the fallen journal from the floor. “Good night, then.”
John waved him off and headed up the stairs to his room while Sherlock sat quietly on the couch and mentally kicked himself in the head. But John’s friendship was too rare to lose over an encounter such as that. Sherlock could not take advantage of his more amorous mood.
And later in bed that evening, if Sherlock shoved a hand down his pants and thought of the possibilities of where the night could have lead had he been less chivalrous, well, he was only human.
***
To say Irene Adler had a loyal fanbase would be like saying that the Antarctic could be a little nippy. Her DVD was to be launched at 11:00AM, followed by an hour and a half of signing, and finishing with the drawing of the winner for a session with The Woman herself. They had advertised in store, on their website, twitter, facebook, and email, and it had appeared that half of London had received the memo.
Sherlock had never seen the place so busy. John had snaked the queue through the store but the line still managed to run out the door. All hands were on deck for the day; John was in charge of the logistics and first aid, Sally and two of their part-time staff were manning the tills, Anderson was at the front door to direct people, a few of their other part-timers were busy restocking shelves and helping with enquiries. Which left Sherlock at the signing table with Irene.
“With your powers of observation you will be able to tell who will want to cause trouble before they even get to her,” John had said. “Besides, I know how much the two of you enjoy each other’s company.”
Sherlock had raised his eyebrow at the tone. “Normally I’d say that jealousy was not an attractive quality, but you manage to make even that look good. Shouldn’t surprise me really, you even looked alright in that ghastly jumper you wore last night.”
Sherlock probably deserved the finger that John had flicked up at him.
The morning was interminable, not only because of the clientele that such an appearance brought out, but also due to a certain woman who believed she could read his mind.
“If I wasn’t a lesbian before this signing, I certainly am now,” Irene said once a particularly gushing fan left. “How did I let you talk me into this?”
“Because you’re a greedy fame whore.”
“And you wanted to see the pleased smile on John’s face when you told him his idea would work.” Sherlock tried not to scowl at that comment. “Sherlock relationships-are-pointless Holmes is smitten. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You have ten minutes left, hurry through the last of your followers, so we can find out which of these people get an hour with your wares.”
It felt like an age before the last person was finally through, but it was only probably thirty minutes. Regardless, it was longer than planned as lunch had just arrived and it wasn’t due until an hour after the signing was scheduled to finish.
“What is that?” Irene practically purred.
Sherlock followed her eyes to Molly standing by the counter, joking with Sally. She had her hair down, falling across her shoulders, and a pink twin set which matched a rather pretty skirt.
“Lunch,” Sherlock said.
“More like dessert.” And with that, Irene was up off her chair and heading toward the counter, black cat-suit accentuating her figure. God, she was going to eat poor Molly alive.
“The draw!” Sherlock called after her but she dismissed him.
“We’ll do it in five minutes.” She came to a stop in front of Molly and held out her hand. “Irene Adler.”
“Uh, Molly Hooper.” She blushed and shook her hand. “Oh, you’re the lady from the videos.”
“You know my work?”
Molly’s blush got impossibly darker. “No, I mean, I see your face on those posters,” she pointed around the shop, “but I haven’t seen your, ah, work.”
“Oh, but you must.” Irene grabbed a DVD from the counter. “Here. It’s my latest. On the house.”
“Hang on!” Sherlock called out but was once again ignored.
“I’ll even sign it for you.” She took a marker and started writing. “Dear Molly, we should do dinner sometime. Always, Irene Adler.”
“Oh, thanks,” Molly said, too polite not to take it.
“And don’t forget to fill out your details on this card for the door prize. Free entry with every copy sold.”
“But I didn’t buy it.”
“Yes you did.” Irene practically stood over Molly while she filled it in.
Sherlock was growing impatient of all the pointless flirting. Honestly, if it wasn’t his brother with John, then it was Irene with any pretty lady. “Can we get on with the draw yet? I’d like to go home sometime this evening.”
John got the microphone out and gathered those who were waiting around for the draw. Irene stuck her hand in the tub and pulled out one of the folded pieces of paper. She smiled as she opened it and turned on her most predatory look.
“And the winner of the complementary session with yours truly is,” she held up the piece of paper and looked toward the counter. “Molly Hooper.”
Poor Molly looked as if she were about to faint as the crowd gathered around her and clapped.
“You don’t have to take her up on it, you know,” John told her once Irene had left to get changed and they were sitting around eating their lunch. “I’m sure Anderson would gladly take it off your hands.”
“Of course she won’t take her up on it,” Sherlock said. “It would be the last thing she’d do.”
“What do you mean?” Molly asked, attention turned to him. Good. An audience.
“As she approached you this afternoon, your eyes widened and you took a step back, clearly intimidated by her. You did as she said, of course, you hate to disappoint anyone, especially someone with that forceful a personality. You come here almost daily, yet have never looked around at the merchandise, even when we offered you a significant discount, and when you do get caught with something, you blush furiously. So I can only conclude that the last thing you would ever want to do is take Irene up on her offer of a free session. Your tastes are too vanilla for it anyway. You’ve barely even been on a date in the past four years.”
Molly’s eyes were wide and she looked almost as if she were shocked someone would think that of her.
“I’m not a prude!”
“If you actually go through with this session I will eat my hat.”
Irene chose that moment to step back into the room. Molly wasted no time trying to prove him wrong.
“Are you around next Friday?” Molly asked.
“For you? I can make sure of it.” Irene’s pleased smirk said it all.
“I will finish work at four o’clock. Would five suit you?”
“Of course. We can get a bite to eat after it.”
Molly shot him a determined look, and Sherlock did his best to display a façade of nonchalance.
“That was mean,” John started when it was just the two of them cleaning up at the end of the day. “What you said to Molly. You know she fancies you.”
“Rubbish. She only thinks she fancies me, and destroys any other potential because she sees this as a failure. This will be good for her. One afternoon with the Woman and she will realise that her feelings for me were over some time ago.”
John stood still, broom in his hand, and stared at him. “So you antagonising the poor girl, that was-“
“Me ensuring she gets an afternoon of feeling adored? I’m not heartless, you know.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” John said, soft smile on his face that Sherlock could feel all the way to the pit of his stomach. It was an unusual feeling. One he didn’t believe he had ever felt in his life before meeting John, and it had only gotten worse since they started cohabitating. Maybe John wasn’t so good for his health after all.
***
It had been a long day and all John wanted to do was get home, have a long hot shower, and order in a curry. He’d had monthly stocktake and two people call in sick, so it was after eight by the time he departed. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for his evening, his mobile ringing when he was only ten minutes from the store.
“Listen to me carefully and do as I say,” the voice at the other end said.
John’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft?”
“You are not able to go home directly, I’m afraid. There’s a pub about five minutes away from you. Walk left down the next street and you should see it. Now say I’m on my way.”
“I’m on my way,” John said, still perplexed as to what was going on.
“I’ll have Sherlock meet you there shortly, but you are not to go home until I give you the all clear. Understand?”
The pub wasn’t one of John’s preferred establishments, but the food smelled hot and fried and the beer looked cool. He took a seat in the bistro and ordered some dinner while he waited for his flatmate to arrive.
“What’s all this, then?” John asked him as Sherlock took a seat opposite.
“One of the perks of living with me, I’m afraid, is the British Government knowing your every move. I probably should have warned you about that.” Sherlock took a long sip of his red wine and looked anything but apologetic.
“And the reason for that?” John didn’t mind so much that he was being watched. Hell, with his time in the army he was pretty much used to being monitored. But he could not imagine Mycroft Holmes sitting in front of screens watching him day in day out for no reason, no matter what little thrill ran down his spine at the thought.
“You’d have a better chance with that woman by the bar,” Sherlock said, eyeing her. John followed his gaze. “About your age, recently separated from her husband, feeling neglected and clearly looking for some fun.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“The brunette woman over there. No ring, but a tan line to indicate that she has been wearing one up until sometime recently. Short skirt, heels and a sleeveless top in an attempt to advertise her assets, even though the weather is not anywhere near appropriate for such apparel. Slight stain along her hairline indicates a makeover sometime in the past two days, a hair cut and dye for a self-esteem boost and symbolic way to reinvent her post-husband life.”
John shook his head. “Brilliant.”
“And you’d have a much better shot at bedding her than you ever will my brother.”
He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I do not wish to bed your brother.”
“Really, John. Your crush is a little obvious.”
“I can find another man attractive without wanting to shag him, you know,” he said. “And stop changing the subject. Why are we here?”
Sherlock’s eyes met his before flicking back down to his wine. “There is a certain someone in my life who sometimes tries to follow me home from work.”
John didn’t need more than one guess at who that could be. “Jim Moriarty.”
“He may have surmised your current living arrangements, and if that is the case you may have found yourself being tailed after work tonight.”
“And what, Mycroft calls and tells you to go to a pub and wait it out?”
“Generally, yes. It’s not too bad an arrangement. I get the chance to write and people watch until I am told that it’s safe to depart.”
“And what if it isn’t safe? What if he stays until closing?”
“Then I find someone to go home with.”
“And what if you don’t?” The look Sherlock shot John spoke volumes. “Sorry, of course you’ve never been turned down. Everyone wants to sleep with the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“Not everyone,” Sherlock said, giving John a pointed look that he felt right down to his bones. Heat crawled up his cheeks as images flashed through his mind of how much closer they seem to have gotten in the month they’d been living together. Sherlock walking from the bathroom to his bedroom in nothing but a towel. John falling asleep on the couch, head pillowed on Sherlock’s thigh. The way Sherlock had licked the butterscotch sauce from his fingers after he ate the pudding John had made them.
Yeah, right. Not everyone, indeed.
Any response John was about to make was silenced by the ringing of Sherlock’s mobile. Baby Elephant Walk, could only be one person.
“That was Mycroft,” Sherlock said when he ended the call.
John’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Sarcasm, John? Really?”
John’s smug grin was his only response.
“Anyway, confirmation that it is safe to return to Baker Street has come through if you wish to go home.”
“I’d be okay to stay for another beer if you like?”
Sherlock opened his mouth as if he were about to protest. Could probably tell how tired John was from the collar of his shirt or wrinkles near his left eye.
Instead, he simply lifted his glass and took a healthy swig.
“So tell me, John,” Sherlock said. “Do you come here often?”
A cackle of laughter pealed from John’s mouth at the terrible pick up line. Sherlock’s smirk suggested the humour was intentional.
“Has that line every actually worked for you?”
“Can’t say I’ve used it before. But I believe my chances of you coming home with me are pretty good.”
When they eventually wandered back to Baker Street, half cut and using each other as support, John didn’t think about Mycroft or Sarah or anyone else who might take his fancy. All he thought about was the man bumping into his sore shoulder, the nonsense that was spewing from his mouth, and how much he wouldn’t mind shutting him up the old fashioned way.
It would pass, of course, it always did even if such thoughts were occurring more often of late. But for now he enjoyed the inane conversation, and the drunken octopus Sherlock inevitably became after he’d had a few.
And if John thought that he’d be happy spending the rest of his life having the amount of fun he’d had that night, present company included, well, that was his own business.
Next chapter...
As soon as he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door open, John quickly closed the lid to the laptop and stashed it under the coffee table. He picked up a copy of the paper on the table and pretended to read that while he finished his toast.
Sherlock wandered out looking pale and dishevelled, still in his pants and undershirt, not bothering to cinch his dressing gown around his waist. He collapsed onto the couch, head resting on John’s thigh, like the sheer effort it took to get out of bed was enough to send him back to sleep.
“What time is it?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and gravelly, and John felt a pang of sympathy.
“Just after 11:00,” he told him, giving his forehead a quick temperature check. Clammy, but still cool. “It’s been a good eight hours since your fever broke.”
“The store!” Sherlock suddenly sat up, but John used the hand on his chest to pull him back down and kept it there so he didn’t move. “Relax, I’ve got it covered.”
“But you and Sally have the day off today, I can’t let Anderson run it alone!”
“I told you, I have it covered. Just relax. He’s too intimidated by your brother to do anything untoward.”
“My brother?” Sherlock asked, and John waited for the tumblers to click into place. “Bloody hell, I’m actually dead, aren’t I?”
John chuckled. “You’re very much alive. I called Mycroft last night and he agreed that I needed to be here today to look after you. He can look after the place for a few days.”
“I can go back in tomorrow.”
“You will do no such thing. In fact, consider yourself having a doctor’s certificate for the rest of the week.”
“But the store-“
“The rest of the week,” John repeated. “You can go back on Friday if, and only if, you’re eating properly again.”
“Ugh, don’t mention food.”
“You don’t want to try some dry toast?”
“I’m surprised you managed to find anything edible in here.”
“I didn’t. Your housekeeper brought me up some tea and bread this morning.”
“I don’t have a housekeeper.”
John looked around at the piles of paper and books stacked haphazardly on every available smooth surface, clothes hanging off chairs, and dishes piled high in the sink.
“Obviously. Landlady then, Mrs Hudson? She stayed up here with you while I got my medical kit last night.”
“Oh right,” he said, like he was remembering. “Did you give me a shot of something in the middle of the night?”
“Maxalon. Figured your poor body needed a break.”
“Not just an excuse to see my arse?” Sherlock said, then closed his eyes. “Sorry, John. I know you don’t appreciate those comments. My brain is not fully back online again.”
“Surprisingly, I wasn’t too keen to get close to your bum last night.” John gave a soft smile. “And I never minded the comments, just the manipulative ones.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and John could feel his heartbeat increase under his palm. Interesting. “Good, because it’s likely to happen again.”
“I gathered as much. How are you actually feeling this morning, then?”
“How do you think I feel? Like my blood has been replaced by helium and my bones with ball bearings.”
“If you’re refusing to eat you will at least drink some electrolytes. Get your energy back up.”
“What are the chances of you nagging me until I consent?”
“Very high-to-certain.”
“Fine then.”
“You must be feeling unwell still,” John said, wriggling out from under his head to get to the kitchen where he’d put his late-night-dash-to-the-chemist stash. He was stirring the powder into the water when Sherlock piped up again.
“So, what did you think?”
“Huh?”
“My book, what did you think?”
No one had ever accused John Watson of being able to think on his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You shoved my computer under the table as soon as you heard me come out of the bedroom and then pretended to read a years old column in an obituary. And you’re avoiding eye contact which can only mean you’ve done something you feel guilty for. And really, if you’re going to feel guilty about anything it should be to do with the fact that you made me get food from that sodding cesspit at the convention.”
“I didn’t make you get a pork sandwich!”
“You made me purchase food from an unsanitary establishment which resulted in my incapacitation. Until you injected me with that miracle drug. Whoever invented that one deserves a Nobel Prize.”
“Some people would probably think that I deserve a Nobel Prize, looking after you.”
“Stop changing the subject. You read my book. What did you think of it?”
John hesitated. Sherlock’s book wasn’t so much a novel as a collection of short stories. Some were excellent, but some were... “Well-“
“Spit it out, I want to know.”
“It’s just. You don’t take constructive criticism very well.” John handed Sherlock his drink, and he winced at the taste before shooting the rest down his throat.
“I take criticism just fine, thank you.”
“I told you your last blog post on the company website was long winded and you threatened to set my computer on fire!”
“That was different, you have barely had any exposure to writing for the web. But this is a book and you almost fit my demographic. I need your opinion.”
John took his seat back on the couch and Sherlock rested his head against his thigh once again.
“It’s good. Well written. Definitely erotic. Very hot.”
“Don’t sugar coat it.”
“I’m telling the truth. I like it. It just lacks emotion.”
Sherlock scoffed. “When it comes to erotica, emotion is not required.”
“But it is. Sure, that story with the young man in the back room of the gay club, maybe not then. But the married couple? Where the husband compromises his comfort levels completely to fulfill his wife’s fantasy? I know that one is a bit of a red herring, but not even a thank you at the end? I’m not finished them all, but you’re ending up with a collection of stories that are technically well written, but characters the reader will have no attachment to. They’re not going to care about any of them.”
Sherlock was silent for a beat and John was thankful the man appeared too exhausted for his usual wander-off-for-a-sulk routine.
“You sound like my editor.”
“You wanted my opinion. And if your editor and I agree, maybe it is something you should consider rather than dismissing it as drivel.”
“I wasn’t going to dismiss anything.”
“Please. You’re not the only one who can make deductions.”
“Well, if you’re not going to let me work then I shall have time to think about it.”
John let the subject drop. It was about as close to getting Sherlock to take advice as he was going to get.
***
The bell above the door chimed as John walked into the store, a good half-hour late thanks to a certain best friend. It was like dealing with a petulant child, sitting opposite him at the table watching him eat dry toast and black tea before leaving him alone for the day.
“Good morning, Dr Watson,” Anderson said as he approached the counter.
John’s eyebrows furrowed at the formal greeting. Oh god, what had he gotten up to unsupervised?
“Good morning, everything okay?” John asked, trying, and likely failing, to keep the hint of skepticism from his voice.
“Dr Watson, there you are.” Mycroft stepped out of the office before Anderson could respond. Seeing Mycroft Holmes in his expensive bespoke suit never failed to sock John in the guts. The man exuded power and intelligence, which was something John had always responded to. As far as looks went, he wasn’t as striking as his brother, but he was nothing to scoff at either.
“What’s wrong with Anderson?” John asked as he joined Mycroft in the office.
“I thought it was time the man learned to respect his superiors.”
“He finds you terrifying, you know.”
“Maybe he’ll think twice before sampling the wares during his shift next time.”
“Was it the new Power Pump?”
“Indeed it was.”
“To be fair, he does need all the help he can get in that department.”
“So I noticed. He does realise how wide the CCTV coverage stretches, yes?”
John nodded. “All part of Sherlock’s little experiment.”
“Yes, of course. Tell me, how is my brother faring?”
“He’s much better, but still weak. A few days away from work won’t kill him.”
Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. “Perhaps you do not know my brother as well as you thought?”
“I put an antihistamine in his tea this morning. He’ll be fine. Probably napping on the couch as we speak.”
The smirk reached Mycroft’s eyes. “How devious. I’m almost impressed.”
“I figure if I can get him to rest until at least Thursday I’ve done well.”
“If my brother can last until Thursday without incurring further damage to Baker Street, I shall nominate you for a national award.” Mycroft stood and took his coat from the back of the chair. “Well, I believe you will be able to look after things from here. Tell Sherlock that the catering company are being fined a large amount as well as being thoroughly investigated by every government department they can be. Including the tax office.”
“He’ll be happy to know that.”
“He and the 327 other people who ended up in hospital. Do call me if you require further assistance.”
“Sure. And thanks for looking after things here for us.”
“You’ve implemented some good changes. It was a pleasure to see them in action.”
John felt the blush crawl up his chest at the appraising look he was given.
“Thank you.”
“I have some ideas for this business. Maybe we should catch up for dinner one evening?”
He could only imagine Sherlock’s reaction to him socialising with his brother. “I’d like that.”
“I’ll have my assistant set something up for tomorrow night. There’s a French Restaurant not far from your apartment that has a most excellent wine list. Until then.” Mycroft nodded and left the room, leaving John feeling a bit gobsmacked.
French restaurant? Excellent wine? If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Mycroft Holmes, John would have thought he’d just been asked out on a date.
****
“Did you remember to get tea?”
John rolled his eyes as he opened the cupboard to put away the groceries he’d bought. Sherlock had managed three days at home on his own and was only just starting to show evidence of cabin fever.
“Good evening, John. How was work today? Oh it was great, thanks for asking, Sherlock. That’s good to hear, and thanks so much for buying food after working on the shop floor all day.” John threw a box of Twinings at Sherlock’s head. “Yes, I got your bloody tea.”
“No need for violence. I told you I was well enough to come in today.”
“And I told you if you manage to actually eat some dinner you can go in tomorrow.”
“It’s been four days, John!”
“So eat your dinner tonight!” he said as he ascended the stairs to the spare bedroom to change out of his work clothes. John could hear Sherlock’s scoff even behind the closed door.
Dinner was chicken that Molly had steamed for them, along with a bit of rice and some Asian greens. Sherlock made a show of shovelling the food into his mouth.
“I have to go in tomorrow, anyway,” he said between bites. “I’m meeting with The Woman’s agent at ten.”
“What for?”
“For her DVD launch, of course.”
John’s eyes widened in surprise and he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. “She agreed?”
“She did. I told you on Sunday. You probably couldn’t hear me over your excessive flirting.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“It was a business discussion!”
“Last time I had a business discussion that looked like that I ended up on my back on a bear skin rug.”
John tried not to let that description paint an image in his mind.
“You have a bear skin rug?”
“No, more’s the pity. They are surprisingly unscratchy.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, speaking of business discussions, we should receive Sarah’s shipment in three weeks. We’ll have to work out the visual merchandising and release schedule for it.”
“You’ll want to do this in conjunction with Dr Sawyer, I presume? On your own? Over candlelight?”
He tried not to get annoyed with Sherlock’s tone of voice. Despite his protests, his body was still recovering from such a violent attack of food poisoning. Also, he did like to be the centre of John’s attentions.
“Whatever happens between Sarah and I outside of work is completely different to any business happenings. As store manager it is your job to be involved in that side of things.”
“So there will be out of work happenings with her?”
“How is this any different to you going out for dinner with Irene as well as selling her DVDs?”
“She’s a friend.”
“As is Sarah, so drop it.”
“But-“
“Drop it,” he said a little more forcefully. If he was this difficult to talk about Sarah with, what would he be like when he found out he had been to dinner with his brother?
***
Sherlock returned to 221B after work that Saturday to a heavy chemical scent coming from his flat. He took the stairs two at a time, eager to ensure John was safe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had attempted to gas Sherlock out of his lodgings.
“John!” He flung open the door to the flat and could not believe what he was seeing.
“Oh, hello,” John said from the bathroom doorway, holding a scrubbing brush in his gloved hand. Sherlock suddenly recognised the smell; bleach. “You’re home early.”
“It’s after six.”
“Already? Can you turn the oven down to 100 degrees for me?”
“John? What is going on?”
“Trying to make your cesspit more livable. And I don’t have a working oven in my apartment and had a sudden craving for roasted vegetables.”
Sherlock looked around at his lounge room. All of his books were shelved, his papers in neat piles on the table, the floors vacuumed.
“Perhaps I liked the chaos?”
“Perhaps you are incredibly lazy. No wonder you’ve been unable to find a flatmate.”
“You’ve stuck around all week.”
“Because you’ve needed looking after.”
“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “I haven’t needed looking after since Monday. You’re here because you want to be.”
John pulled off his rubber gloves as he entered the lounge room.
“You’ve deduced that, have you?” He crossed his arms.
“You’re standing in your friend’s flat in nothing but your pants and undershirt, scrubbing soap scum from tile you did not create and making it a more attractive place to live. You are taking advantage of a fully functioning kitchen, have stocked the pantry with actual edible food, and haven’t stayed back at work even once this week, although you did have that business dinner with Mycroft, but that hardly counts. Most of your more favoured possessions have migrated over, you are obviously much happier here than your dark den of an apartment and the sooner you agree that this arrangement will work in both of our favours and move in, the happier both of us will be.”
John stood for a beat and looked out the window. Sherlock held his breath while he waited for John’s response. John had never walked out on him after one of his deductions, but there was a first time for everything.
After what felt like an age, John finally met his eyes. Sherlock was not one for patience.
“So.” He shrugged. “How much is rent?”
***
It only took an hour and one cab ride for John to transfer his belongings to Baker Street. Sherlock was generous and gave him the morning off work, leaving Sally in charge to no doubt throw her weight around until John went in after lunch.
“Oh, Dr Watson!” Mrs Hudson said as they carried boxes of John’s possessions up the stairs. “You’re moving in.”
“Yes, I am,” John said in a polite way that would only please a woman of her generation.
“Mrs Hudson, please.” Sherlock stopped behind John with a heavy box of books in his hands. “Either grab a box and help us upstairs, or refrain from continuing this conversation until it’s done.”
Mrs Hudson ignored him. “It’s lovely to see Sherlock settle down with someone.”
“Mrs Hudson!”
“Thought I was going to have to install a revolving door at one stage.”
“Not helping, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock said over John’s chuckle. “Move, John!”
“I would help you carry up your things, dear, but I’ve got this hip-“
“No worries, Sherlock and I have got it, don’t we?”
Sherlock grumbled in response. For someone with few possessions they sure weighed a ton.
“Sorry,” John said when they got upstairs. “You must have grabbed the box with my medical texts.”
“You still have medical books?” His curiosity was piqued. Sherlock had a few laying around the flat, but most were antiquated and only good as an historical source.
“Of course. I may not be practicing right now, but I’m still a doctor and I need to keep up with the latest research and happenings in the field.”
“So you’re intending to go back then? To the profession?”
“I’m not sure yet. It’s been nice having a break from it, but I can’t deny I’m still interested.”
Suddenly the tumblers all fell into place. “Of course. Your dinner with Mycroft.”
“What about my dinner with Mycroft?” John had been secretive about it, but it was all starting to make sense.
“He propositioned you,” he started, then at the look on John’s face, clarified, “not of a sexual nature, grow up. He’s been interested in expanding the business for a while, found a bargain the other side of London, no doubt, and wants to turn it into another version of The Vibe but with you heading it up instead of me. Oh, he is crafty.”
“What? How--?”
“You’ve started reading your medical magazines and journals in your lunch break, and your catching up with Sarah has once again piqued your interest. Mycroft’s proposal, completely against my wishes as I have told him several times you are vital to our store, has made you think about whether you would consider a complete career change permanently.”
“Vital?”
“You put up with Sally, control Anderson, and are able to work alongside me. I’d say you were vital.”
“So that’s what positive feedback feels like,” John muttered.
“I give you positive feedback.”
“How my arse looks on any given day is not related to my work.”
“On the contrary, wearing those jeans the other week ensured repeat custom from several new people.”
Redness swept across John’s cheeks. “Right then. Let’s go get the rest of my stuff from downstairs, yeah?”
As Sherlock followed behind John down the stairs and got a good look at the arse in the jeans in question. One thing he was certain of with John’s moving in; seeing this all day every day should definitely dampen the attraction. Definitely.
***
Sherlock thought that whoever suggested that familiarity breeds contempt had obviously never been enamoured of John Watson. Living with him was turning into some kind of self-inflicted torture.
He wasn’t one to endure the constant company of others, yet John was in his life practically every waking moment and Sherlock had yet to tire of him. If anything, he felt himself drawn closer. It was most disturbing, especially with how much delight Irene took in his infatuation. Vile woman.
So when John wasn’t around to cook him dinner or yell at him for playing the violin so late at night, Sherlock found himself craving his company. It was strange. When he was first looking for a flatmate, he was hoping it would be someone who was never around to bother him. Now, John was out taking Sarah to dinner and he was watching the clock waiting for his return.
It was just after eleven when he finally came back, footsteps slow but steady on the stairs. They’d shared a bottle of wine then, maybe two, so John would be loose lipped and possibly loose limbed. He had a great tolerance with lager, but start the man on wine and he would be half drunk without realising how he got there.
“You’re still up? What am I saying, of course you are,” John said as he walked into the lounge. He fell heavily next to Sherlock on the couch, practically falling on top of him and causing the medical journal he was reading to fall to the floor. Sherlock could smell a hint of red wine as well as the floral of a perfume on his jumper and tamped down the hot feeling that suddenly rose from his stomach.
“Good night, then?”
“Enjoyable. We went to this lovely restaurant only a few blocks from here. I should take you there some time.”
That was promising. John was sentimental and if his first date with Sarah went spectacularly well he’d hardly want to share the venue with another. And while he smelt of her perfume, there was not a smudge of lipstick or gloss anywhere but his cheek.
“So you’ll be going out with her again?”
John burrowed the back of his head into Sherlock’s shoulder, seemingly trying to get comfortable against the bony joint. He looked up at him with tired eyes. “You haven’t deduced it already?”
Well, yes, he had, obviously, but he’d learned that John was less amenable to his deductions when he was fatigued.
“You had a rather pleasant evening, meeting at the restaurant before going for a stroll through the park to Sarah’s house where she left you with a kiss on the cheek. She would have invited you in but she has an early appointment tomorrow, and you were somewhat relieved as while you like her, you aren’t exactly sure where this will lead. Although you were disappointed to not get anything other than a goodnight peck on the cheek.”
John continued to gaze up at Sherlock. “Brilliant. All of it. How--?”
“You met late for dinner and are home after three hours, not enough time for anything other than dinner and another quick activity, such as walking through the park, which is obvious due to the bottom of your trouser leg being damp and the soil stuck to the soles of your shoes. You have lip gloss on the side of your face, so a quick kiss goodbye and the promise of more to come, but you’re affectionate when it comes to people you like and wished to see how compatible you are in that capacity.”
Sherlock looked down to see John staring at his mouth and running his tongue across his own lips. His breath caught in his throat.
“You’re brilliant. And you’re right. I do like seeing if there’s any compatibility with kissing someone I like,” he said in an almost-whisper, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “See if that chemistry is going to lead somewhere.”
Loose lipped and loose limbed indeed, Sherlock could see John’s neck straining up at the same time he felt his own bending down of its own free will, ready to meet those lips at last. To finally satiate the curiosity and attraction to this man.
Sherlock’s lips were almost upon John’s when he took a breath and smelled nothing but red wine and a hint of garlic. Disappointment ran cold in his chest.
“You’re drunk.”
“Just a little,” he replied, inching even closer. Sherlock turned his head away and John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought-“
“You’re tired and slightly inebriated. We don’t want to do anything we might regret,” he said, sending a message to every part of his body that was telling him to continue the embrace, to see where it would lead, to shut the hell up.
“Oh.” John sat up and ran a hand down his face. “You’re right, of course. And I should be going to bed. Big day tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, picking up the fallen journal from the floor. “Good night, then.”
John waved him off and headed up the stairs to his room while Sherlock sat quietly on the couch and mentally kicked himself in the head. But John’s friendship was too rare to lose over an encounter such as that. Sherlock could not take advantage of his more amorous mood.
And later in bed that evening, if Sherlock shoved a hand down his pants and thought of the possibilities of where the night could have lead had he been less chivalrous, well, he was only human.
***
To say Irene Adler had a loyal fanbase would be like saying that the Antarctic could be a little nippy. Her DVD was to be launched at 11:00AM, followed by an hour and a half of signing, and finishing with the drawing of the winner for a session with The Woman herself. They had advertised in store, on their website, twitter, facebook, and email, and it had appeared that half of London had received the memo.
Sherlock had never seen the place so busy. John had snaked the queue through the store but the line still managed to run out the door. All hands were on deck for the day; John was in charge of the logistics and first aid, Sally and two of their part-time staff were manning the tills, Anderson was at the front door to direct people, a few of their other part-timers were busy restocking shelves and helping with enquiries. Which left Sherlock at the signing table with Irene.
“With your powers of observation you will be able to tell who will want to cause trouble before they even get to her,” John had said. “Besides, I know how much the two of you enjoy each other’s company.”
Sherlock had raised his eyebrow at the tone. “Normally I’d say that jealousy was not an attractive quality, but you manage to make even that look good. Shouldn’t surprise me really, you even looked alright in that ghastly jumper you wore last night.”
Sherlock probably deserved the finger that John had flicked up at him.
The morning was interminable, not only because of the clientele that such an appearance brought out, but also due to a certain woman who believed she could read his mind.
“If I wasn’t a lesbian before this signing, I certainly am now,” Irene said once a particularly gushing fan left. “How did I let you talk me into this?”
“Because you’re a greedy fame whore.”
“And you wanted to see the pleased smile on John’s face when you told him his idea would work.” Sherlock tried not to scowl at that comment. “Sherlock relationships-are-pointless Holmes is smitten. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You have ten minutes left, hurry through the last of your followers, so we can find out which of these people get an hour with your wares.”
It felt like an age before the last person was finally through, but it was only probably thirty minutes. Regardless, it was longer than planned as lunch had just arrived and it wasn’t due until an hour after the signing was scheduled to finish.
“What is that?” Irene practically purred.
Sherlock followed her eyes to Molly standing by the counter, joking with Sally. She had her hair down, falling across her shoulders, and a pink twin set which matched a rather pretty skirt.
“Lunch,” Sherlock said.
“More like dessert.” And with that, Irene was up off her chair and heading toward the counter, black cat-suit accentuating her figure. God, she was going to eat poor Molly alive.
“The draw!” Sherlock called after her but she dismissed him.
“We’ll do it in five minutes.” She came to a stop in front of Molly and held out her hand. “Irene Adler.”
“Uh, Molly Hooper.” She blushed and shook her hand. “Oh, you’re the lady from the videos.”
“You know my work?”
Molly’s blush got impossibly darker. “No, I mean, I see your face on those posters,” she pointed around the shop, “but I haven’t seen your, ah, work.”
“Oh, but you must.” Irene grabbed a DVD from the counter. “Here. It’s my latest. On the house.”
“Hang on!” Sherlock called out but was once again ignored.
“I’ll even sign it for you.” She took a marker and started writing. “Dear Molly, we should do dinner sometime. Always, Irene Adler.”
“Oh, thanks,” Molly said, too polite not to take it.
“And don’t forget to fill out your details on this card for the door prize. Free entry with every copy sold.”
“But I didn’t buy it.”
“Yes you did.” Irene practically stood over Molly while she filled it in.
Sherlock was growing impatient of all the pointless flirting. Honestly, if it wasn’t his brother with John, then it was Irene with any pretty lady. “Can we get on with the draw yet? I’d like to go home sometime this evening.”
John got the microphone out and gathered those who were waiting around for the draw. Irene stuck her hand in the tub and pulled out one of the folded pieces of paper. She smiled as she opened it and turned on her most predatory look.
“And the winner of the complementary session with yours truly is,” she held up the piece of paper and looked toward the counter. “Molly Hooper.”
Poor Molly looked as if she were about to faint as the crowd gathered around her and clapped.
“You don’t have to take her up on it, you know,” John told her once Irene had left to get changed and they were sitting around eating their lunch. “I’m sure Anderson would gladly take it off your hands.”
“Of course she won’t take her up on it,” Sherlock said. “It would be the last thing she’d do.”
“What do you mean?” Molly asked, attention turned to him. Good. An audience.
“As she approached you this afternoon, your eyes widened and you took a step back, clearly intimidated by her. You did as she said, of course, you hate to disappoint anyone, especially someone with that forceful a personality. You come here almost daily, yet have never looked around at the merchandise, even when we offered you a significant discount, and when you do get caught with something, you blush furiously. So I can only conclude that the last thing you would ever want to do is take Irene up on her offer of a free session. Your tastes are too vanilla for it anyway. You’ve barely even been on a date in the past four years.”
Molly’s eyes were wide and she looked almost as if she were shocked someone would think that of her.
“I’m not a prude!”
“If you actually go through with this session I will eat my hat.”
Irene chose that moment to step back into the room. Molly wasted no time trying to prove him wrong.
“Are you around next Friday?” Molly asked.
“For you? I can make sure of it.” Irene’s pleased smirk said it all.
“I will finish work at four o’clock. Would five suit you?”
“Of course. We can get a bite to eat after it.”
Molly shot him a determined look, and Sherlock did his best to display a façade of nonchalance.
“That was mean,” John started when it was just the two of them cleaning up at the end of the day. “What you said to Molly. You know she fancies you.”
“Rubbish. She only thinks she fancies me, and destroys any other potential because she sees this as a failure. This will be good for her. One afternoon with the Woman and she will realise that her feelings for me were over some time ago.”
John stood still, broom in his hand, and stared at him. “So you antagonising the poor girl, that was-“
“Me ensuring she gets an afternoon of feeling adored? I’m not heartless, you know.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” John said, soft smile on his face that Sherlock could feel all the way to the pit of his stomach. It was an unusual feeling. One he didn’t believe he had ever felt in his life before meeting John, and it had only gotten worse since they started cohabitating. Maybe John wasn’t so good for his health after all.
***
It had been a long day and all John wanted to do was get home, have a long hot shower, and order in a curry. He’d had monthly stocktake and two people call in sick, so it was after eight by the time he departed. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for his evening, his mobile ringing when he was only ten minutes from the store.
“Listen to me carefully and do as I say,” the voice at the other end said.
John’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft?”
“You are not able to go home directly, I’m afraid. There’s a pub about five minutes away from you. Walk left down the next street and you should see it. Now say I’m on my way.”
“I’m on my way,” John said, still perplexed as to what was going on.
“I’ll have Sherlock meet you there shortly, but you are not to go home until I give you the all clear. Understand?”
The pub wasn’t one of John’s preferred establishments, but the food smelled hot and fried and the beer looked cool. He took a seat in the bistro and ordered some dinner while he waited for his flatmate to arrive.
“What’s all this, then?” John asked him as Sherlock took a seat opposite.
“One of the perks of living with me, I’m afraid, is the British Government knowing your every move. I probably should have warned you about that.” Sherlock took a long sip of his red wine and looked anything but apologetic.
“And the reason for that?” John didn’t mind so much that he was being watched. Hell, with his time in the army he was pretty much used to being monitored. But he could not imagine Mycroft Holmes sitting in front of screens watching him day in day out for no reason, no matter what little thrill ran down his spine at the thought.
“You’d have a better chance with that woman by the bar,” Sherlock said, eyeing her. John followed his gaze. “About your age, recently separated from her husband, feeling neglected and clearly looking for some fun.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“The brunette woman over there. No ring, but a tan line to indicate that she has been wearing one up until sometime recently. Short skirt, heels and a sleeveless top in an attempt to advertise her assets, even though the weather is not anywhere near appropriate for such apparel. Slight stain along her hairline indicates a makeover sometime in the past two days, a hair cut and dye for a self-esteem boost and symbolic way to reinvent her post-husband life.”
John shook his head. “Brilliant.”
“And you’d have a much better shot at bedding her than you ever will my brother.”
He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I do not wish to bed your brother.”
“Really, John. Your crush is a little obvious.”
“I can find another man attractive without wanting to shag him, you know,” he said. “And stop changing the subject. Why are we here?”
Sherlock’s eyes met his before flicking back down to his wine. “There is a certain someone in my life who sometimes tries to follow me home from work.”
John didn’t need more than one guess at who that could be. “Jim Moriarty.”
“He may have surmised your current living arrangements, and if that is the case you may have found yourself being tailed after work tonight.”
“And what, Mycroft calls and tells you to go to a pub and wait it out?”
“Generally, yes. It’s not too bad an arrangement. I get the chance to write and people watch until I am told that it’s safe to depart.”
“And what if it isn’t safe? What if he stays until closing?”
“Then I find someone to go home with.”
“And what if you don’t?” The look Sherlock shot John spoke volumes. “Sorry, of course you’ve never been turned down. Everyone wants to sleep with the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“Not everyone,” Sherlock said, giving John a pointed look that he felt right down to his bones. Heat crawled up his cheeks as images flashed through his mind of how much closer they seem to have gotten in the month they’d been living together. Sherlock walking from the bathroom to his bedroom in nothing but a towel. John falling asleep on the couch, head pillowed on Sherlock’s thigh. The way Sherlock had licked the butterscotch sauce from his fingers after he ate the pudding John had made them.
Yeah, right. Not everyone, indeed.
Any response John was about to make was silenced by the ringing of Sherlock’s mobile. Baby Elephant Walk, could only be one person.
“That was Mycroft,” Sherlock said when he ended the call.
John’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Sarcasm, John? Really?”
John’s smug grin was his only response.
“Anyway, confirmation that it is safe to return to Baker Street has come through if you wish to go home.”
“I’d be okay to stay for another beer if you like?”
Sherlock opened his mouth as if he were about to protest. Could probably tell how tired John was from the collar of his shirt or wrinkles near his left eye.
Instead, he simply lifted his glass and took a healthy swig.
“So tell me, John,” Sherlock said. “Do you come here often?”
A cackle of laughter pealed from John’s mouth at the terrible pick up line. Sherlock’s smirk suggested the humour was intentional.
“Has that line every actually worked for you?”
“Can’t say I’ve used it before. But I believe my chances of you coming home with me are pretty good.”
When they eventually wandered back to Baker Street, half cut and using each other as support, John didn’t think about Mycroft or Sarah or anyone else who might take his fancy. All he thought about was the man bumping into his sore shoulder, the nonsense that was spewing from his mouth, and how much he wouldn’t mind shutting him up the old fashioned way.
It would pass, of course, it always did even if such thoughts were occurring more often of late. But for now he enjoyed the inane conversation, and the drunken octopus Sherlock inevitably became after he’d had a few.
And if John thought that he’d be happy spending the rest of his life having the amount of fun he’d had that night, present company included, well, that was his own business.
Next chapter...