Fill: Bound in Gold 22
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
22.
Again with the blanket. It was orange and ugly and it managed, astonishingly, to clash with black. Sherlock hadn’t even been sure that was possible, and yet...
Lestrade appeared, looking irritated and concerned, as per usual. Sherlock demanded to know why they kept putting the ugly blanket on him.
“Yeah, it’s for shock.”
“I’m not in shock!”
Lestrade paused, then admitted, “Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs.” Oh, joy.
Sherlock sighed. “So, the shooter, no sign?”
Naturally there wasn’t, naturally the police were blind as moles if Lestrade honestly thought there was nothing to go on.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
Lestrade slumped. “Okay, give it.”
Sherlock stood, trying to ignore the blanket. “The bullet they just took out of the wall was from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon, that’s a crack shot you’re looking for but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so high moral principle.” He paused to let the facts align properly. “You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and...” He turned his head and there was John, miraculously, incriminatingly. “...nerves of steel...” Oh.
Oh.
He retracted the deduction quickly, blaming the nonexistant shock for his faulty analysis. It took some convincing, and at some point Sherlock actually flapped a corner of the orange blanket in Lestrade’s face to make his point, but eventually he was allowed to leave.
He walked straight over to John. John who was angry with him. John who shouldn’t have been there. John who had just...
“You,” said John in a flat, calm voice. “Are a complete and utter lunatic.” Then he smiled and shook his head. “Sgt Donovan told me. Two pills. Dreadful business, that. I ought to divorce you over this.”
Sherlock only smiled. “Good shot.”
John didn’t hesitate, only nodded. “Yep, must’ve been. Through that window.”
“Well you’d know.”
And John’s face fell.
“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”
John sighed. “I didn’t...it wasn’t because of us.” He licked his lips. “I don’t know why that’s important, but it is. If we weren’t married, I’d have done the same thing.”
Sherlock nodded. “Are you all right?” He asked.
“Of course I’m all right.”
“You have just killed a man.” Sherlock pointed out.
John faltered, and something flitted across his face. Something dark and painful and endless, but it was shoved aside an instant later. “That’s true, isn’t it?” He said, his voice just a little shaken. Then, more strongly, “But, he wasn’t a very nice man.”
Sherlock smiled. “No. No he wasn’t.”
“And frankly a bloody aweful cab--” He didn’t get to finish that last bit. His lips and tongue were too busy grappling with Sherlock’s own, until they parted, flushed and breathless with the police lights spinning around them.
“What...why...” John could barely form the words beyond mere exhales of breath, but Sherlock understood.
“Cable knit jumper, neutral tone to make you appear unassuming and respectable, but baggy enough to easily conceal an illegal firearm. Denim trousers, perfectly fitted to allow freedom of movement, material durable enough to provide protection against minor abbrasions. Work boots, well worn but well maintained, thick tread to provide greater traction for running, heavy enough to do damange in hand-to-hand, light enough to wear comfortably over long periods. Every stich, every fabric, every colour has a purpose. It’s urban camouflage.” Sherlock grinned, almost lightheaded in his giddiness. “You could go to war in clothes like that!” And he seized John’s lips again, crushing the pair of them together as though trying to meld them into one.
When they broke apart, John managed to pant, “You fashionable gits are so stupid. You couldn’t hide a penknife in the trousers Mycroft gave me.” Sherlock groaned and kissed him again.
John tugged away, his movements reluctant. “No, Sherlock, we cannot get off at a crime scene!”
Sherlock irritably nipped at John’s lower lip. “Why should I care? You’re the one who shot him.”
“Shh! Shut up!” John giggled. “Let’s go home. Dear God, let’s go home.”
“Mm, yes.” Sherlock luxuriated in the idea. They turned together and walked side-by-side toward the road.
John stopped short, and Sherlock did the same. John was peering at him appraisingly. “You, uh, you were going to take that bloody pill weren’t you?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Course not. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”
“No you didn’t.” John chided. “That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”
Sherlock smiled, and rather than answer he said, “Hungry?”
“Starving. But I doubt Mrs Hudson’s roast is still available.”
Sherlock shrugged. “No matter. There’s a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handl--”
“Oh, hell!” John spat. “The in-laws are here.”
“Mine or yours?” But Sherlock had already located Mycroft and his oblivious assistant. “Oh...hell.”
“Another case solved.” Mycroft smirked as they approached. “How very public spirited. But then, that’s never really your motivation is it?”
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, already fed up with his brother’s presence. He’d been forced to spend three months with the smarmy git, he wasn’t overly keen to see him again so soon after regaining his freedom.
“As ever, I’m concerned about you. Beyond that, John and I need to talk.”
“I think I’ve had about enough of you talking to my husband, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. “John.” He said, his eyes still levelled on Sherlock. “You do recall our conversation earlier this evening, don’t you?”
“Vividly.” John deadpanned.
“I do believe I warned you about my brother’s recklessness. Your predaliction for danger aside, I had hoped you’d be a grounding presence in his life, if you registered at all. It’s hardly reassuring to find you encouraging him.”
Sherlock watched John carefully. It was astonishing. The man was standing at attention, his eyes unblinking and fixed, his face a perfect blank. Even Sherlock couldn’t read his expression. “Do we have to do this now? Only I’ve had a long night and I’d like to get the hell out of here.”
Mycroft inclined his head and smirked. “And what do you intend to do once you have? A tactical retreat back to your old flat, perhaps?”
Something in John’s eyes turned to steel, and without the slightest hint of unease or discomfort he said, “Shot in the dark, but I think...I’m gonna go home and shag your brother.” And with that he threw the assistant woman a careless salute and strode away, hands casually in his coat pockets, leaving two dazed Holmes brothers in his wake.
Sherlock regained his faculties after a moment and, in a perplexing reversal of roles, made to follow John. Mycroft’s hand shot out and wrapped around his arm, holding him in place.
“What?!” He demanded. “You heard him!”
Mycroft’s face didn’t move at all. There were corpses more expressive than Mycroft at that moment. But Sherlock could see his brother’s discomfort as clearly as if it had been written on his forehead, and that felt like a victory.
Then Mycroft said, “Is he?” And Sherlock went very still.
He paused, a million inferences, hints, predictions, possibilites and scenarios flashed through his head. After a moment, he answered.
“I think he is.”
Mycroft’s posture eased. It would have been a slump, on anyone else, but Mycroft hadn’t slumped since primary school. He heaved a sigh. “Then...I’m happy for you, Lock.” He managed something akin to an actual smile. He was out of practise, though, and it came out a bit lopsided. “Go after him, little brother. But I warn you,” he fixed a stern look on Sherlock. “If he really is who you think he is, you’ll have to earn him. You have to try, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded. “I know.” He turned and had just taken a few steps away when Mycroft’s slightly raised voice called after him.
“Something for you to consider, Lock. John Watson may be the only man in England to whom you would say yes.” And he was. Sherlock just knew he was. Mummy had promised to find him, Sherlock’s perfect match, and she’d kept her word. It still seemed impossible, but there he was.
“But.” Mycroft went on, his voice a caution. “Are you the one man in England to whom John Watson would propose?” There was the sound of a car door opening. Sherlock didn’t turn around. “Be that man, Sherlock. Or at least aspire to be.” The door closed. Sherlock walked away.
Chapter 23 (End)
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
22.
Again with the blanket. It was orange and ugly and it managed, astonishingly, to clash with black. Sherlock hadn’t even been sure that was possible, and yet...
Lestrade appeared, looking irritated and concerned, as per usual. Sherlock demanded to know why they kept putting the ugly blanket on him.
“Yeah, it’s for shock.”
“I’m not in shock!”
Lestrade paused, then admitted, “Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs.” Oh, joy.
Sherlock sighed. “So, the shooter, no sign?”
Naturally there wasn’t, naturally the police were blind as moles if Lestrade honestly thought there was nothing to go on.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
Lestrade slumped. “Okay, give it.”
Sherlock stood, trying to ignore the blanket. “The bullet they just took out of the wall was from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon, that’s a crack shot you’re looking for but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so high moral principle.” He paused to let the facts align properly. “You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and...” He turned his head and there was John, miraculously, incriminatingly. “...nerves of steel...” Oh.
Oh.
He retracted the deduction quickly, blaming the nonexistant shock for his faulty analysis. It took some convincing, and at some point Sherlock actually flapped a corner of the orange blanket in Lestrade’s face to make his point, but eventually he was allowed to leave.
He walked straight over to John. John who was angry with him. John who shouldn’t have been there. John who had just...
“You,” said John in a flat, calm voice. “Are a complete and utter lunatic.” Then he smiled and shook his head. “Sgt Donovan told me. Two pills. Dreadful business, that. I ought to divorce you over this.”
Sherlock only smiled. “Good shot.”
John didn’t hesitate, only nodded. “Yep, must’ve been. Through that window.”
“Well you’d know.”
And John’s face fell.
“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”
John sighed. “I didn’t...it wasn’t because of us.” He licked his lips. “I don’t know why that’s important, but it is. If we weren’t married, I’d have done the same thing.”
Sherlock nodded. “Are you all right?” He asked.
“Of course I’m all right.”
“You have just killed a man.” Sherlock pointed out.
John faltered, and something flitted across his face. Something dark and painful and endless, but it was shoved aside an instant later. “That’s true, isn’t it?” He said, his voice just a little shaken. Then, more strongly, “But, he wasn’t a very nice man.”
Sherlock smiled. “No. No he wasn’t.”
“And frankly a bloody aweful cab--” He didn’t get to finish that last bit. His lips and tongue were too busy grappling with Sherlock’s own, until they parted, flushed and breathless with the police lights spinning around them.
“What...why...” John could barely form the words beyond mere exhales of breath, but Sherlock understood.
“Cable knit jumper, neutral tone to make you appear unassuming and respectable, but baggy enough to easily conceal an illegal firearm. Denim trousers, perfectly fitted to allow freedom of movement, material durable enough to provide protection against minor abbrasions. Work boots, well worn but well maintained, thick tread to provide greater traction for running, heavy enough to do damange in hand-to-hand, light enough to wear comfortably over long periods. Every stich, every fabric, every colour has a purpose. It’s urban camouflage.” Sherlock grinned, almost lightheaded in his giddiness. “You could go to war in clothes like that!” And he seized John’s lips again, crushing the pair of them together as though trying to meld them into one.
When they broke apart, John managed to pant, “You fashionable gits are so stupid. You couldn’t hide a penknife in the trousers Mycroft gave me.” Sherlock groaned and kissed him again.
John tugged away, his movements reluctant. “No, Sherlock, we cannot get off at a crime scene!”
Sherlock irritably nipped at John’s lower lip. “Why should I care? You’re the one who shot him.”
“Shh! Shut up!” John giggled. “Let’s go home. Dear God, let’s go home.”
“Mm, yes.” Sherlock luxuriated in the idea. They turned together and walked side-by-side toward the road.
John stopped short, and Sherlock did the same. John was peering at him appraisingly. “You, uh, you were going to take that bloody pill weren’t you?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Course not. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”
“No you didn’t.” John chided. “That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”
Sherlock smiled, and rather than answer he said, “Hungry?”
“Starving. But I doubt Mrs Hudson’s roast is still available.”
Sherlock shrugged. “No matter. There’s a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handl--”
“Oh, hell!” John spat. “The in-laws are here.”
“Mine or yours?” But Sherlock had already located Mycroft and his oblivious assistant. “Oh...hell.”
“Another case solved.” Mycroft smirked as they approached. “How very public spirited. But then, that’s never really your motivation is it?”
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, already fed up with his brother’s presence. He’d been forced to spend three months with the smarmy git, he wasn’t overly keen to see him again so soon after regaining his freedom.
“As ever, I’m concerned about you. Beyond that, John and I need to talk.”
“I think I’ve had about enough of you talking to my husband, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. “John.” He said, his eyes still levelled on Sherlock. “You do recall our conversation earlier this evening, don’t you?”
“Vividly.” John deadpanned.
“I do believe I warned you about my brother’s recklessness. Your predaliction for danger aside, I had hoped you’d be a grounding presence in his life, if you registered at all. It’s hardly reassuring to find you encouraging him.”
Sherlock watched John carefully. It was astonishing. The man was standing at attention, his eyes unblinking and fixed, his face a perfect blank. Even Sherlock couldn’t read his expression. “Do we have to do this now? Only I’ve had a long night and I’d like to get the hell out of here.”
Mycroft inclined his head and smirked. “And what do you intend to do once you have? A tactical retreat back to your old flat, perhaps?”
Something in John’s eyes turned to steel, and without the slightest hint of unease or discomfort he said, “Shot in the dark, but I think...I’m gonna go home and shag your brother.” And with that he threw the assistant woman a careless salute and strode away, hands casually in his coat pockets, leaving two dazed Holmes brothers in his wake.
Sherlock regained his faculties after a moment and, in a perplexing reversal of roles, made to follow John. Mycroft’s hand shot out and wrapped around his arm, holding him in place.
“What?!” He demanded. “You heard him!”
Mycroft’s face didn’t move at all. There were corpses more expressive than Mycroft at that moment. But Sherlock could see his brother’s discomfort as clearly as if it had been written on his forehead, and that felt like a victory.
Then Mycroft said, “Is he?” And Sherlock went very still.
He paused, a million inferences, hints, predictions, possibilites and scenarios flashed through his head. After a moment, he answered.
“I think he is.”
Mycroft’s posture eased. It would have been a slump, on anyone else, but Mycroft hadn’t slumped since primary school. He heaved a sigh. “Then...I’m happy for you, Lock.” He managed something akin to an actual smile. He was out of practise, though, and it came out a bit lopsided. “Go after him, little brother. But I warn you,” he fixed a stern look on Sherlock. “If he really is who you think he is, you’ll have to earn him. You have to try, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded. “I know.” He turned and had just taken a few steps away when Mycroft’s slightly raised voice called after him.
“Something for you to consider, Lock. John Watson may be the only man in England to whom you would say yes.” And he was. Sherlock just knew he was. Mummy had promised to find him, Sherlock’s perfect match, and she’d kept her word. It still seemed impossible, but there he was.
“But.” Mycroft went on, his voice a caution. “Are you the one man in England to whom John Watson would propose?” There was the sound of a car door opening. Sherlock didn’t turn around. “Be that man, Sherlock. Or at least aspire to be.” The door closed. Sherlock walked away.
Chapter 23 (End)