The Facade
a/n - this is an unbeta'd fic. I have never been to Dunkerque or Calais and I'm sure it is quite lovely there. This is the hotel they are staying at.
They were almost there and it was raining steadily. After a delayed four hour trip on the Eurostar, a three hour trip from Paris to Dunkerque and now the taxi to a shoddy little place in Calais, John was very much not interested in the case that Sherlock was now insisting on detailing to him. Yes, he knew the bloke was a fraud who stole money from big corporations while pretending to be from a government department. Yes, he knew he was tall, thin and blonde, with a Seventies porn ‘stache and faux-expensive suits. Yes, he knew the man was trying to get away but couldn’t bear to leave his beloved country so he was hiding in the shoddiest hotels in the shoddiest towns in France. Yes, he knew talking aloud helped Sherlock think and he knew Sherlock would have checked that the cabbie was safe before he began ranting, but he was just so tired. The straw that broke the John-camel’s back was when Sherlock, before slipping out of the car and towards the Hotel Du Beffroi, casually mentioned, “Oh John, we’re acting as honeymooners as well, I trust you’ll keep the façade.”
He left Sherlock to check in (it was a close call - 10:48pm) and slumped in front of the bar. John - a babe magnet in his own right - found himself chatting to a pretty blonde American woman, and while he shuddered at her accent he appreciated the curve of her breast and her obscenely short skirt. He’d only explained that he was immensely tired and the mess-ups at the train station before he felt hands on his hips and a deep ‘oh John, there you are’ in his ear.
“Who’s this,” the woman - Sharon - said in a cutesy voice.
“This is my, um -“
“Shane, his husband,” Sherlock said in the most charming voice of all time, holding out his hand. Sharon took it and he kissed her hand. She smiled widely as Sherlock fluttered his eyelashes, before excusing herself to the bathroom for a moment. Sherlock then started speaking quietly and urgently in his ear.
“I’m a banker at Shad Sanderson bank, I handle some of the France accounts. You’re an out of work actor who is trying his hand at writing a novel, you haven’t done it before though, and otherwise that leads to ‘oh have I read something of yours?’ One of your actor friends mentioned that Calais was a lovely place and one of my connections set us up with this room. I’m highly unimpressed and won’t be dealing with him for much longer, however you like it.”
John snorted. “We’re complete opposites then. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Sherlock brushed that off and continued. “As for our dynamic, you are absolutely besotted with me, and ecstatic to have married the love of your life. You can pretend that your foul mood was because I was not in your presence. It will require a bit on your part touch-wise, but I know for a fact you’re more experienced in the relationship area than I am -“
John cut in then. “More experienced? Did you just say I’m more experienced at something than you are?”
Sherlock made a noise that said, very clearly, ‘You’re in idiot and wasting our time’. “Yes, of course, otherwise there would be no point in having you as a colleague. I, while very possessive and rude, will attempt to cheat on your whenever possible, despite your love for me.”
“Oh great, so I get the pathetic position.” He sighed.
Sherlock’s head snapped up and he gave John a strange look. “No, I do. Also, my name is Shane, Sherlock is very recognisable. Do try to smile more. Ah, Sharon.”
This last part he said to the woman, who was back now, with a man that looked alarmingly like their suspect, but Sherlock’s hand tightening - now on his shoulder - and the barely audible ‘no’ whispered in his ear told him otherwise. The blonde man was a Shadrick (really, what a ridiculous name) who was planning to meet a sheikh in Paris and was stopping over here.
John chatted freely with them. “Oh, I do a bit of theatre work here and there when I can. Nothing big recently, which is a shame. Doesn’t pay well,” John mentioned after they’d wandered into the realm of work-related and Sherlock had wandered off to talk to a redhead who looked ready to shag anything with a heartbeat. In fact, the heartbeat might be optional.
“Sharon here does reviews on theatre and the like back where we’re from. She likes the arts.” Shadrick replied to John’s subject choice. “I myself am more of a reader and I don’t mind poetry. I just love language.”
John learnt that Shadrick was Irish (Shadrick, shamrock, sheikh, oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph) Sharon grew up in Scotland until her teens, adopting an American accent to fit in. John told them about the novel he was writing, discussing his female war veteran meeting a plain Scotland Yard detective named Lestrudel before tapping his nose and telling them he didn’t want to ruin the end. He was in fact having a jolly old time until his phone beeped with a message from Sherlock.
He won’t be in tonight. Come and get me, act randy.
SH
John snorted at Sherlock’s use of the word ‘randy’ and excused himself. Now was where he had to get tricky. He artfully slid his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his chest, kissing Sherlock’s hair above and behind his ear.
“Ready to go?” he crooned, loud enough for Sherlock’s copper companion to hear, easily. Sherlock smiled a pained smile at his chat partner as John dragged him off. The twined their fingers until they reached to hotel room, where John freed his hand and fell on the bed. Sherlock went into the bathroom to inspect and his brain stopped dead, even if his face didn’t show it.
He carefully lay onto the bed, facing John and not the camera.
“Shit. John, we’re being watched.”
John made a face and Sherlock hissed at him, shifting closer and leaning his head on his hand. “John, there is a camera facing exactly towards this bed. There is also one in the bathroom.”
The room wasn’t big. It would have a full view.
“We can’t drop the façade.” Sherlock pulled out a photo. It was of an attractive, thin, blonde man. Their suspect.
“He’s hot,” John said before he could help himself. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Then he kissed John on the forehead and jumped up, fishing through the suitcase.
“God, I need to shower.” John said, rubbing his face.
“We should have one together,” Sherlock called from the suitcase, pert bum sticking up.
“Ugh, do we have to?” John gave in, he was not in the mood for arguing.
“Try to look happier. The façade, remember.” Sherlock said as he shrugged off his suit jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. John pushed off his shoes and tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was undressing in front of him. To his relief, the shower had an obscenely flowery plastic curtain, so at least they wouldn’t have to… touch. John huddled in and turned up the hot tap so it began to steam. Sherlock shuffled his way in shortly after with a rude ‘it’s too hot, John!’
The shower was small. Too small. They both had spray over them, Sherlock slotted in front of John. Most of their bodies were touching. John was exceedingly uncomfortable in his position, however he began to lather himself with the cheap, grainy soap and ignored the way the water sprayed down Sherlock’s back and the scent drifting off him in waves of steam.
John wasn’t gay. He’s established that, many times. He’s actually tried to be. It was the hip thing, in university. You got laid, if you were gay. And never, ever, has he had a reaction. So, why, now, was his body recognising another sexual creature in the room? It could be many reasons. Sherlock, in his movement, can be very feminine, feline and sensual (even if sometimes he stands on furniture and stomps around when he’s bored). John himself hasn’t had sex in a long time, so he may just be reacting the proximity of another bo-
“How long does it take to have sex?” Sherlock asked, snapping John out of his reverie. He thought for a moment.
“That depends. The time is takes is relative to a lot of things.”
“Such as?” Sherlock probed. John blushed at the word probed.
“Heaps of things. How attracted to each other they are, how long it’s been since they last had it, personal staying power, the type of sex they are having…”
“Okay… let’s say very attracted, within the last few days, high staying power for both parties, and… intercrural.”
So many images went through John’s mind he may have passed out for a moment. Other than recent sex, everything was possible. He cleared his throat.
“Fifteen minutes, give or take. If the attraction is very high.”
Sherlock is going to feel it soon. There’s really no way he can stop this without breaking the façade. He really should mention it.
“John, could you possibly soap my back please?” Sherlock asked, passing back the soap over his shoulder. John swallowed thickly, not daring himself to speak.
He began to lather up Sherlock’s back, watching the streams of soap make their way lower, lower until he realised that he’d stopped moving. Sherlock pushed back, trying to regain his attention, and John gasped quietly as he felt a globe of that rotund tuckus brush against his half hard cock.
Sherlock froze for a moment, and then, letting out a breath that sounded like a laugh, did it again. John took the soap and continued lather Sherlock’s back as Sherlock began to gently thrust back into him. His penis became a lot more interested as it bumped between Sherlock’s thighs. The second time in hit, Sherlock had parted them, allowing John a place to thrust. Intercrural sex. Very high attraction. Usually high staying power however hasn’t had sex in a long time. John began thrusting and lathered Sherlock’s lower back and hips. When his hands snaked around Sherlock’s front and found an immensely solid cock there, he gave up all pretence of washing, dropped the soap and took hold. He pumped it hard and wrapped himself over Sherlock, breathing at his back, mouth open. Sherlock, as a complete surprise to himself and John, came suddenly with a hiccup-sounding noise, squeezing his thighs together. John felt his orgasm already starting and politely pulled out and propelled himself against the wall, splurging on his own stomach instead.
Either Sherlock recovered quickly, or John took a while, because half way through coming back to the living John heard a ‘barely ten minutes’ and sensed Sherlock leaving the shower.
He dragged himself out, towelling himself dry and wrapping it around himself, pulling out tracksuit pants and a tattered Rolling Stone t-shirt and clothed himself. Sherlock was already lying in bed, wearing his suit shirt from that day - open - and a pair of grey pyjama pants with white pinstripes tapping away importantly at his laptop (thank God for wireless internet). He looked very office chic. How anyone looked chic in pyjamas was beyond John. He lay down on his side of the bed and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep peacefully. He heard the laptop click shut and suddenly he was surrounded by six feet of man. The façade, always the façade.
“Sherlock, that thing you said earlier.” John stated quietly. Sherlock sighed.
“I said many things earlier.” He answered patiently, whispering in John’s ear.
“About how you had the pathetic position. You seemed adamant.”
“Who would you pity more, John? The man who has room in his heart for love and forgiveness and care and will always be surrounded by friends and lovers, or the man who wouldn’t know a good thing if it married him, cheapens feeling and doesn’t experience love; the man who will die alone. Which would you pity?”
John hummed thoughtfully and fell asleep to the man’s breath on his neck and the string of words ‘Shane from Shad Sanderson who is really Sherlock talking to Sharon from Scotland and Shadrick who knows a sheikh’ running through his skull.
They were almost there and it was raining steadily. After a delayed four hour trip on the Eurostar, a three hour trip from Paris to Dunkerque and now the taxi to a shoddy little place in Calais, John was very much not interested in the case that Sherlock was now insisting on detailing to him. Yes, he knew the bloke was a fraud who stole money from big corporations while pretending to be from a government department. Yes, he knew he was tall, thin and blonde, with a Seventies porn ‘stache and faux-expensive suits. Yes, he knew the man was trying to get away but couldn’t bear to leave his beloved country so he was hiding in the shoddiest hotels in the shoddiest towns in France. Yes, he knew talking aloud helped Sherlock think and he knew Sherlock would have checked that the cabbie was safe before he began ranting, but he was just so tired. The straw that broke the John-camel’s back was when Sherlock, before slipping out of the car and towards the Hotel Du Beffroi, casually mentioned, “Oh John, we’re acting as honeymooners as well, I trust you’ll keep the façade.”
He left Sherlock to check in (it was a close call - 10:48pm) and slumped in front of the bar. John - a babe magnet in his own right - found himself chatting to a pretty blonde American woman, and while he shuddered at her accent he appreciated the curve of her breast and her obscenely short skirt. He’d only explained that he was immensely tired and the mess-ups at the train station before he felt hands on his hips and a deep ‘oh John, there you are’ in his ear.
“Who’s this,” the woman - Sharon - said in a cutesy voice.
“This is my, um -“
“Shane, his husband,” Sherlock said in the most charming voice of all time, holding out his hand. Sharon took it and he kissed her hand. She smiled widely as Sherlock fluttered his eyelashes, before excusing herself to the bathroom for a moment. Sherlock then started speaking quietly and urgently in his ear.
“I’m a banker at Shad Sanderson bank, I handle some of the France accounts. You’re an out of work actor who is trying his hand at writing a novel, you haven’t done it before though, and otherwise that leads to ‘oh have I read something of yours?’ One of your actor friends mentioned that Calais was a lovely place and one of my connections set us up with this room. I’m highly unimpressed and won’t be dealing with him for much longer, however you like it.”
John snorted. “We’re complete opposites then. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Sherlock brushed that off and continued. “As for our dynamic, you are absolutely besotted with me, and ecstatic to have married the love of your life. You can pretend that your foul mood was because I was not in your presence. It will require a bit on your part touch-wise, but I know for a fact you’re more experienced in the relationship area than I am -“
John cut in then. “More experienced? Did you just say I’m more experienced at something than you are?”
Sherlock made a noise that said, very clearly, ‘You’re in idiot and wasting our time’. “Yes, of course, otherwise there would be no point in having you as a colleague. I, while very possessive and rude, will attempt to cheat on your whenever possible, despite your love for me.”
“Oh great, so I get the pathetic position.” He sighed.
Sherlock’s head snapped up and he gave John a strange look. “No, I do. Also, my name is Shane, Sherlock is very recognisable. Do try to smile more. Ah, Sharon.”
This last part he said to the woman, who was back now, with a man that looked alarmingly like their suspect, but Sherlock’s hand tightening - now on his shoulder - and the barely audible ‘no’ whispered in his ear told him otherwise. The blonde man was a Shadrick (really, what a ridiculous name) who was planning to meet a sheikh in Paris and was stopping over here.
John chatted freely with them. “Oh, I do a bit of theatre work here and there when I can. Nothing big recently, which is a shame. Doesn’t pay well,” John mentioned after they’d wandered into the realm of work-related and Sherlock had wandered off to talk to a redhead who looked ready to shag anything with a heartbeat. In fact, the heartbeat might be optional.
“Sharon here does reviews on theatre and the like back where we’re from. She likes the arts.” Shadrick replied to John’s subject choice. “I myself am more of a reader and I don’t mind poetry. I just love language.”
John learnt that Shadrick was Irish (Shadrick, shamrock, sheikh, oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph) Sharon grew up in Scotland until her teens, adopting an American accent to fit in. John told them about the novel he was writing, discussing his female war veteran meeting a plain Scotland Yard detective named Lestrudel before tapping his nose and telling them he didn’t want to ruin the end. He was in fact having a jolly old time until his phone beeped with a message from Sherlock.
He won’t be in tonight. Come and get me, act randy.
SH
John snorted at Sherlock’s use of the word ‘randy’ and excused himself. Now was where he had to get tricky. He artfully slid his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his chest, kissing Sherlock’s hair above and behind his ear.
“Ready to go?” he crooned, loud enough for Sherlock’s copper companion to hear, easily. Sherlock smiled a pained smile at his chat partner as John dragged him off. The twined their fingers until they reached to hotel room, where John freed his hand and fell on the bed. Sherlock went into the bathroom to inspect and his brain stopped dead, even if his face didn’t show it.
He carefully lay onto the bed, facing John and not the camera.
“Shit. John, we’re being watched.”
John made a face and Sherlock hissed at him, shifting closer and leaning his head on his hand. “John, there is a camera facing exactly towards this bed. There is also one in the bathroom.”
The room wasn’t big. It would have a full view.
“We can’t drop the façade.” Sherlock pulled out a photo. It was of an attractive, thin, blonde man. Their suspect.
“He’s hot,” John said before he could help himself. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Then he kissed John on the forehead and jumped up, fishing through the suitcase.
“God, I need to shower.” John said, rubbing his face.
“We should have one together,” Sherlock called from the suitcase, pert bum sticking up.
“Ugh, do we have to?” John gave in, he was not in the mood for arguing.
“Try to look happier. The façade, remember.” Sherlock said as he shrugged off his suit jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. John pushed off his shoes and tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was undressing in front of him. To his relief, the shower had an obscenely flowery plastic curtain, so at least they wouldn’t have to… touch. John huddled in and turned up the hot tap so it began to steam. Sherlock shuffled his way in shortly after with a rude ‘it’s too hot, John!’
The shower was small. Too small. They both had spray over them, Sherlock slotted in front of John. Most of their bodies were touching. John was exceedingly uncomfortable in his position, however he began to lather himself with the cheap, grainy soap and ignored the way the water sprayed down Sherlock’s back and the scent drifting off him in waves of steam.
John wasn’t gay. He’s established that, many times. He’s actually tried to be. It was the hip thing, in university. You got laid, if you were gay. And never, ever, has he had a reaction. So, why, now, was his body recognising another sexual creature in the room? It could be many reasons. Sherlock, in his movement, can be very feminine, feline and sensual (even if sometimes he stands on furniture and stomps around when he’s bored). John himself hasn’t had sex in a long time, so he may just be reacting the proximity of another bo-
“How long does it take to have sex?” Sherlock asked, snapping John out of his reverie. He thought for a moment.
“That depends. The time is takes is relative to a lot of things.”
“Such as?” Sherlock probed. John blushed at the word probed.
“Heaps of things. How attracted to each other they are, how long it’s been since they last had it, personal staying power, the type of sex they are having…”
“Okay… let’s say very attracted, within the last few days, high staying power for both parties, and… intercrural.”
So many images went through John’s mind he may have passed out for a moment. Other than recent sex, everything was possible. He cleared his throat.
“Fifteen minutes, give or take. If the attraction is very high.”
Sherlock is going to feel it soon. There’s really no way he can stop this without breaking the façade. He really should mention it.
“John, could you possibly soap my back please?” Sherlock asked, passing back the soap over his shoulder. John swallowed thickly, not daring himself to speak.
He began to lather up Sherlock’s back, watching the streams of soap make their way lower, lower until he realised that he’d stopped moving. Sherlock pushed back, trying to regain his attention, and John gasped quietly as he felt a globe of that rotund tuckus brush against his half hard cock.
Sherlock froze for a moment, and then, letting out a breath that sounded like a laugh, did it again. John took the soap and continued lather Sherlock’s back as Sherlock began to gently thrust back into him. His penis became a lot more interested as it bumped between Sherlock’s thighs. The second time in hit, Sherlock had parted them, allowing John a place to thrust. Intercrural sex. Very high attraction. Usually high staying power however hasn’t had sex in a long time. John began thrusting and lathered Sherlock’s lower back and hips. When his hands snaked around Sherlock’s front and found an immensely solid cock there, he gave up all pretence of washing, dropped the soap and took hold. He pumped it hard and wrapped himself over Sherlock, breathing at his back, mouth open. Sherlock, as a complete surprise to himself and John, came suddenly with a hiccup-sounding noise, squeezing his thighs together. John felt his orgasm already starting and politely pulled out and propelled himself against the wall, splurging on his own stomach instead.
Either Sherlock recovered quickly, or John took a while, because half way through coming back to the living John heard a ‘barely ten minutes’ and sensed Sherlock leaving the shower.
He dragged himself out, towelling himself dry and wrapping it around himself, pulling out tracksuit pants and a tattered Rolling Stone t-shirt and clothed himself. Sherlock was already lying in bed, wearing his suit shirt from that day - open - and a pair of grey pyjama pants with white pinstripes tapping away importantly at his laptop (thank God for wireless internet). He looked very office chic. How anyone looked chic in pyjamas was beyond John. He lay down on his side of the bed and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep peacefully. He heard the laptop click shut and suddenly he was surrounded by six feet of man. The façade, always the façade.
“Sherlock, that thing you said earlier.” John stated quietly. Sherlock sighed.
“I said many things earlier.” He answered patiently, whispering in John’s ear.
“About how you had the pathetic position. You seemed adamant.”
“Who would you pity more, John? The man who has room in his heart for love and forgiveness and care and will always be surrounded by friends and lovers, or the man who wouldn’t know a good thing if it married him, cheapens feeling and doesn’t experience love; the man who will die alone. Which would you pity?”
John hummed thoughtfully and fell asleep to the man’s breath on his neck and the string of words ‘Shane from Shad Sanderson who is really Sherlock talking to Sharon from Scotland and Shadrick who knows a sheikh’ running through his skull.