FIC: The Adventure of the Six Painted Virgins, Part 2/2, BBC's Sherlock, NC-17, Sherlock/John
Title: The Adventure of the Six Painted Virgins (Part 2/2)
Author: saathi1013
Summary: Sherlock dons an unusual disguise for a case. John is…conflicted. Character study, casefic, & smut (in that order).
Spoilers: The whole of BBC’s Sherlock (series/season 1), plus various references to Arthur Conan Doyle’s original Sherlock Holmes canon, and a subtle nod or two towards the Granada series.
Pairing: John/Sherlock, first-time.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Warnings: Violence, sexual content, heresy and blasphemy on many, many levels, and fucked-up dream sequences.
Word Count: ~14.5k
A/N: Eternal gratitude to mazarin221b & carolyn_claire for their patience, encouragement, and occasionally-frustrating thoroughness (which is the best possible thing to have in a beta, honestly). Much <3 to Marielikestodraw for the stunning header image that you'll find under the cut - her talent and enthusiasm for my work will never cease to astonish me. Special thanks to accioayla, because she's known about this plot bunny longer than anyone else (and as a result, has had to wait longer than anyone should have for the finished story).
** Now available in Russian, thanks to 82al07il! [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ]
*****
(header art by MarieLikestoDraw)
(Continued from Part 1/2)
John is spared the embarrassment of facing Sherlock the next morning, finding a text in his mobile that simply says, Meet @ Gelder&Sons when available. This is worrisome (Sherlock could be running around the city in disguise without John's sworn supervision) and also gratifying, as Sherlock seems to be respecting the often-debated boundaries of John's work schedule. "Debated," of course, being a blanket term for "argued," "scoffed at," and "wholly disregarded."
The worry wins out, and John is distracted with enough potential guilt and fragments of dream-memory that it's a miracle he doesn't prescribe antibiotics for the middle-aged father who sprained his ankle on an icy patch, and 'rest, ice, compression, and elevation' to the twelve year old girl with an ear infection. His phone remains mercifully silent, despite the fact that he steals a bit of his lunch hour to ring up Padre Owen. He does have to do a bit of careful wording when Owen asks him what Sherlock is doing while John's at the practise, but he manages somehow.
And then, though it seemed to take an eternity, his shift is over, and John finds himself dawdling a bit before leaving. He tells himself he's being conscientious as he restocks the supplies, when in actual fact he's a bloody coward. He doesn't want to look Sherlock in the eye after the dream last night (had it been a sex dream? Or hadn't it? A man his age should be able to tell), and he doesn't want to see what liberties Sherlock will attempt to get away with when people believe he's a man of the cloth.
Sherlock texts three minutes after John's shift officially ended, and seventeen after his last patient left. At shop, it says, Fr.B uncooperative. John sighs as he grabs his coat.
"Oh," Sarah say with a warm smile (that's a mercy, at least, that they're both still friendly) as they pass each other in the hall. "Sorry, but we won't need you for the weekend after all. Appointments are a bit thin, I'm afraid. We'll ring you if it changes, yeah?"
"That would be great," he says, and considers adding, Good to know you still know my number, but decides against it. "Have a good weekend, Sarah," he says instead.
"You too, John," she says, her smile deepening to crinkle the corners of her eyes, just slightly. "Don't get into too much trouble."
"Ha, right," he says. "I'll see what I can do." Her laugh follows him as he turns the corner at the end of the hall.
***
When John arrives at the shop, Sherlock barely spares him a glance, embroiled as he is in a heated argument with Padre Byrne. They're standing nearly toe-to-toe, and John's not sure he's ever seen the clergyman this enraged.
"-harass my parishioners like this!"
"Whoa, whoa," John says, shouldering his way in between the two men. "Hold on, what's going on?"
"Your friend," Owen spits, "Wants to interrogate members of my church after they've suffered a terrible loss-"
"A terrible loss of an abusive criminal, yes-" Sherlock interrupts, only to have Owen simply raise his voice and continue on.
"-because he says that their grief will make it more difficult to lie, especially to a priest!" Owen finishes.
John sighs and presses Sherlock back a step with a carefully-angled elbow. "All right, all right, I see," he says with resignation. "Sherlock, would it be an acceptable compromise to tell the Padre what questions to ask, and he went in instead?"
"Not at all," Sherlock replies coldly. "He won't know what physical tells he should be observing."
Owen snorts and rolls his eyes. "If you think a priest has no experience in picking up on lies," he says, "then clearly you haven't done your research."
Sherlock's eyebrows completely disappear into his unruly fall of curls. "Fine. Then you must have no need of my expertise."
"Wait, Sherlock, no," John says, thinking of his suddenly-free weekend and what it will be like spending it cooped up at Baker Street with a petulant flatmate. He also considers the lost wages from those days and their odds of finally getting a consulting fee from the Yard. "Just give him a chance. If he fails-" he holds a placating hand up to Owen, repeating, "if he fails, then he will have more respect for your skills, and you can try a different tactic. If he succeeds, you will have the information you need to continue, and the Gelder family won't have any reason to suspect they've been questioned. Fair?"
Padre Owen nods. After holding John's gaze for an unsettling amount of time-is it unsettling? Why is it unsettling? It is, with the pale quicksilver colour of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the overcast sky above-Sherlock looks away and lifts his chin. "Fine," he says. "Ask what Peter stole from Marcus."
"Marcus isn't in there," Owen says, "so I doubt he can provide that answer."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth begins to creep up, slowly, in a crooked and delighted grin. "He isn't? Perhaps Michael can provide the answer. And if he cannot, ask when he last saw his brother. It will help me confirm the timeline of events."
Owen frowns. "I think I can manage that. Anything else?"
"No," Sherlock says. "That will be all, for now." His voice is bored and dismissive, making Owen open his mouth as if to retort. John just shrugs and gives him an apologetic smile, and Owen spins on his heel and walks away to enter the shop.
"I always thought clergymen were supposed to be even-tempered," Sherlock muses.
"You, as the saying goes, would try the patience of a saint," John says.
"Mm," Sherlock hums thoughtfully. "Then what does that make you, John?"
John just blinks at him. The only person in all of Creation able to tolerate you, apparently, he wants to say, but that might just be too strange an assertion to make to one's flatmate. So he stays silent, and after a moment, Sherlock turns away in a brusque swirl of his coat, clapping his hands together.
"So!" Sherlock says excitedly, "While Father Byrne is busy distracting Michael Gelder-and, conveniently, himself as well-we will have the chance to case the building." He strides to the end of the block, not looking to see if John will follow.
"Case the building," John echoes under his breath, as he does (inevitably) follow.
***
Sherlock has apparently spent the day scouting the residences of the owners of the final two statues. "The security's a bit tighter, which is why they've been left for last," he says, scrambling up onto a stack of wooden crates that end within arm's reach of a second-story balcony. "But our thief is getting desperate. I'm sure we will be able to-"
He swings himself up onto the balcony in a graceful motion that makes John boggle; Sherlock is wearing so many unwieldy layers that the move seems impossible. The coat and cassock alone, let alone whatever he's wearing beneath … Don't look up the cassock, John scolds himself as he stands watch on the pavement below. Don't even think about it.
Sherlock peers in the windows on both second and third storeys, then shimmies back down, apparently satisfied. "We’ll have to break into the top floor tonight," he says casually. "The family owns the whole building. Just needed to know which flat belonged to Marcus. We'd best get moving, before the good Padre notices that we're missing," Sherlock says. "I'll explain later."
They get back, barely in time. Owen's just leaving the shop.
"What did you find out?" Sherlock asks without preamble.
"Michael last saw his brother yesterday at the morgue, when they identified Peter's body. And he doesn't know anything about Peter taking anything from Marcus. He was upset when I asked, though-I had to make something up about making sure Peter's effects were retrieved from evidence and returned to the right recipients, as some items may have been stolen." Owen frowned. "Which, as it's actually possible, I promised I'd take care of." He shakes his head. "So much trouble, all over plaster statues …"
"Thank you," John says. "That's very helpful, isn't it, Sherlock?"
"Absolutely. My thanks, Father," Sherlock says, grinning broadly and falsely. John tries not to wince. "We should have this case wrapped up by tomorrow evening at the latest."
"Good," Owen says, eyes narrowing. "I don't want any more disruption to this family or my parish, you understand?"
"Yes, yes we do," John says vehemently before Sherlock can draw a breath. "And we'll do what we can to minimise the impact."
"Fair enough," Owen says with a rueful smile. "Thank you, John. I'll see you both tomorrow-if not sooner, God willing."
"Tomorrow, then," John agrees, as Sherlock hails a cab.
***
When they arrive at Baker Street, John’s mobile chirps. "Ah, that’ll be Lucy," Sherlock says before John has even flipped his phone open.
"Yes, she says she wants to meet up tonight," John says with no little surprise. He stares at the display for a moment before moving to tuck the phone away in his coat.
Sherlock’s hand interrupts the motion, long gloved fingers closing around John’s wrist. "You should go," he advises. "I suspect she knows more than she’s letting on."
John blinks. "But we were going to-"
Sherlock squeezes John’s wrist once before letting go and heading up the stairs. "I can check Marcus’ flat myself. Don’t worry, I’ll call if I need you-but if Marcus is indeed our culprit, he’ll be out, going after one of the two remaining statues. With any luck, he’ll get caught by one of Lestrade’s teams." He slants a sideways smile at John from the landing. "It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if your charms managed to secure a key witness for this case."
John starts reviewing restaurant options in his mind as he climbs the staircase.
***
In the end, he settles on a small Italian place not far from Gelder & Sons, partly because it will be easy for Lucy to find and also handily located in case Sherlock runs afoul of Marcus Gelder. It’s small and quiet without being too intimate, a perfect setting for whatever confidences the poor girl might want to share with him.
Lucy arrives five minutes late, flustered and rosy-cheeked, hands chapped from the brisk chill outside. "I’m so sorry I’m late," she says. "Everything’s been such a mess since … well. It’s all I can do to keep it all together."
"I understand, believe me," he says. "Be glad you’re not in medicine."
Lucy gives a fleeting smile at this and hangs her coat on the back of a chair before sitting down. "What kind of medicine?" she asks.
"Mostly locum work, at the moment. I was a medic in Afghanistan, though, so I’ve had my fair share of the world going a bit pear-shaped on me."
"Oh, that must have been awful," she says earnestly. "All those wounded soldiers and all that blood …" She hunches her shoulders up round her ears, hugging herself with both arms. The cuff of one sleeve slides back from her wrist and John does see the telltale bruising, as predicted.
"Oh," he says, reaching one hand half across the table, palm upwards. "Oh, don’t, please. I didn’t bring you here to hear my war stories."
Her eyes flit up from the tablecloth, and she musters another half smile. "Well. It’s good to have a reminder that it could be worse, I suppose."
"That’s the spirit," he says, trying not to take that the wrong way. "Come on, I’ll bet you haven’t had a proper meal in days. It’ll be on me if you promise me one thing."
"What’s that?"
"Don’t blame yourself. Whatever happened, I’m sure you weren’t at fault."
Lucy’s eyes go wide and round and soft. One hand creeps across the table to rest in John’s palm. "Really? I just … Peter and I were going to get married, and I keep thinking that maybe if we’d never …" Her shoulders sag. "I don’t know. I just keep going round and round everything, and it all seems to end up the same."
He squeezes her hand gently. "There probably wasn’t anything you could have done," he says, nudging the menu in her direction. "A decent dinner will be a start, and we can just talk. About whatever you like. All right?"
Lucy gives him a nod, a watery smile, and a sniffle. She takes the menu, her hand slipping from his. "You never did explain how you wound up in our store," she comments. "A priest and a doctor walk into a pottery shop … Sounds like a bad joke set-up."
John chuckles and proceeds to tell her a highly edited version of meeting Padre Owen, letting her think that he’s referring to Sherlock. And then the follow-up story of the goat that found its way into the mess hall.
She counters with the story of a painting student who used a dozen mice and a whole palette of non-toxic vegetable dye for their work.
"-they were finding rainbow-hued tufts of fur everywhere in the building all winter!"
John laughs so hard he almost cries.
***
"Oh, damn," Lucy says, when they leave the restaurant. "I forgot my house keys at the shop. D’you mind terribly if …?"
"Not at all," John says, acutely aware that he's learned more about intaglio than her part in the Gelder family tragedy. "Let me walk you over. It’s dark and you’ve been through enough stress lately."
"You don’t have to-" Lucy protests, but when he lifts his eyebrows and offers her his arm, she capitulates and takes it. They walk in companionable silence for a few blocks.
"If you wanted to talk about Peter," he ventures, "I told you before, I’m willing to be a friendly ear if you need one."
She sighs and grips his elbow more tightly. "He was a good bloke," she starts. "I mean, aside from the thieving. But you know, artists are attracted to nonconformity." Lucy gives a little laugh-at herself, at the cliché, he can’t be sure.
They get to the shop, and John tries not to look up, see if there’s any sign of Sherlock moving about in the flat above. "D’you want to come in, I’ve been working on a piece for him. A … tribute, like."
John blinks. "Sure, absolutely."
Lucy continues her story as she unlocks the door and disengages the alarm. "It was his da that was the trouble. Peter should have known better than to give me his mother’s engagement ring-he didn’t ask, just nicked it from his father."
She sighs a little and leads the way to the workshop in the back without flipping on the lights, used to navigating around the space. They weave around racks of in-progress pieces, molds, and materials, towards the line of work counters and sinks at the far wall that John can see faintly in the dim light coming through the windows.
He follows Lucy’s voice: "I should have known better than to take it. But you know how it is. Getting caught up in a whirlwind and all that." She turns a corner and he loses sight of her for an instant. "Like when you met Mr. Holmes," she says, quietly.
John starts to smile fondly, then freezes. "I never-" he starts.
"No," she says, sounding sad. "You never did." He realises that she’s looped around behind him, and turns-
-only to find the pale blur of a plaster statue being swung at his head.
He drops like a stone.
***
He wakes to find Sherlock crouched over him in a small room, clay figures in rows on shelving all round them. Still in the shop, then, he thinks vaguely. Everything is bathed in a muted, red glow.
Sherlock is muttering as he cuts through the restraints on John's ankles, "Next date you go on, I’m getting you a helmet … Honestly, John, I can’t believe-"
"Lucy," John groans. "Knew who you were."
"Of course she did. You gave her your card. She looked up your blog, obviously."
"Where-" John tries to sit up, but Sherlock’s hands are like a vise on his shoulders, keeping him still. "How?"
Sherlock lets out a snort. "Silly nit sent a photo of you all trussed up, using your phone. Gave a vague threat and demanded I get her the ring and then give her 24 hours to get out of the city. Of course, I figured out where you were. Don’t think she expected me to be nearby." He gives a small smile. "Not the brightest when she panics, our Lucy."
"Where is she?"
"Gone. Probably wants some distance, in case-"
Sherlock is awfully, terribly wrong. There is a heavy creak, then a clang, and Sherlock’s gone from John’s side in an instant, shouting, "Lucy! Lucy, open the door! You don’t want to do this! Marcus was self-defence, but this is murder!" His voice echoes oddly in the small space, and John sits up to get a better look around.
"Sherlock, please tell me we aren’t in a kiln," he says, feeling calm and disconnected. He lifts his hand and touches it to his throbbing head, only to have his fingers come away wet.
"I’m sorry, Mister Holmes," Lucy says, her voice faint through the door. "Really I am. I just don’t know what else to do."
"Let us out!"
"And get arrested-for murder and theft and whatever else? No, I can’t. I’m sorry." Then, quieter, "I wish Marcus had killed me with Peter. This is all my fault."
And then she’s gone. Sherlock pounds on the door and shouts her name, but there’s only the distant sound of machinery whirring to life, the heating mechanism starting up, indifferent to its new inhabitants.
"Fuck," John says, his muscles weak and his joints like liquid as he tries to stand. He slumps back against the wall.
***
Please God, let me live, John had thought, after a few long moments of agony down in the Afghani dirt, his ears still ringing from the bomb that had upset the first truck in the convoy. Please, God, and when he'd realised what he'd been thinking, the shock of it made him exhale sharply, which made the pain spike, and then he didn't know anything at all.
He still hasn't quite processed that shock. His dying thoughts had been a prayer, and it had been answered. Hadn't it?
If it had, what did that mean?
Before that, his general idea of God had been that of an absent-minded Creator, someone who had more to worry about in the infinite vastness of the universe than the petty, daily problems of his Creation. How else to explain the whole scope of Existence, in both its glory and absolute, grinding misery?
And yet …
During the confrontation with Moriarty, John tracked Sherlock's arm as he trained a gun on a pile of explosives. Silently, John closed his eyes and thought, God, please let us get out of this alive, hoping that if there was a fraction of Divine concern for his well-being there might be some to spare for Sherlock, too.
To be fair, he hadn't expected Moriarty to be covered under the unspecified 'us,' but John will take his miracles where he gets them and choose his words more carefully next time.
-if they are miracles, of course. He's still wavering, but vaguely grateful. And he'd rather take the long odds than no odds at all, when he's staring death in the face.
So his last thought, before the heat of the furnace finally puts him under, is Please God, don't let us die like this.
***
When he comes to in the ambulance, his first thought is, three for three, before he drifts out again.
***
"-glad you tipped me off about Marcus’ body when you did," Lestrade is saying. "You’d both have died if we hadn’t searched the building in time."
"Did you catch Lucy?" Sherlock asks, voice rough with dehydration.
"Yes," Lestrade replies. "Caught her at a train station, trying to leave the city. Are you sure we can’t pin both murders on her?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock says. "Marcus Gelder’s corpse has a cut on the right thumb from the burnisher he used to stab his son. Impromptu weapon; he didn’t know how to handle it. If Lucy had been using it, she wouldn’t have a cut, but as Marcus does, it points to his guilt. As for the ring: you retrieved it?"
"Took some doing, but yeah. Turns out, it's from one of Marcus' old jobs. Worth a hefty sum-no wonder they were all rabid for it."
Sherlock makes a small dubious noise, then says, "I think, in Lucy's case, it was sentiment that undid her. Sentiment and blind terror."
"H’llo, Lestrade," John interrupts, lifting himself up on the pillows.
"Oh, good, you’re not dead," Lestrade remarks. "I really do prefer arriving at a crime scene where you’re both conscious."
"We’ll keep that in mind," John offers. Lestrade gives him a dubious look.
***
They’re fine with another couple of hours of IV fluids and numerous fussing nurses and doctors taking blood-pressure and temperature readings so often that even John starts getting grumpy. Still, they have to stay until everyone is assured they’re well.
"Thai?" Sherlock offers once they’re released, and John’s stomach growls in agreement.
"What did I miss?" John asks when they’ve ordered. "Tell me everything." Sherlock complies with enthusiasm; of course, dramatic exposition is one of his favourite parts of a case.
Peter had stolen a costly engagement ring from his father to give to Lucy. Upon discovering the theft, Marcus threatened Peter, and when she heard about it, a panicked Lucy hid the ring in one of the still-drying statues. She set that batch aside for the painted six, hoping to retrieve it later.
Of course, she hadn't really thought it through, and under the watchful gaze of her employer, she never got a chance to 'accidentally' break the proper statue before it left the shop. So the artist was forced to turn burglar, with her more experienced fiancee lending a hand. Marcus caught on and followed them; they fought, and Marcus used one of the printmaking tools Lucy had in her kit-" … the so-called ingenuity of artists," Sherlock scoffed, "adapting their tools to any task at hand, in this case burglary. I noticed the scratches around the lock also had a triangular shape. Still, it worked." -to stab his son.
Lucy escaped but was again cornered by Marcus and killed him in self defence. "Almost the same way she got you, John; there were plaster fragments in his head wound," Sherlock points out. "I found his body last night in his bath, covered in ice."
"He got ice and we got fire," John says.
"But we survived," Sherlock responds with a smile.
***
They get back to the flat in high spirits after a good meal and another victory against London's criminal element, only to find the front door of 221 Baker Street locked. This is quite possibly another one of Mrs. Hudson's passive-aggressive reminders to keep regular hours, or at least to "keep things down after midnight, for heaven's sake." So John fumbles for his keys, while Sherlock mutters in a gently disgruntled way under his breath.
As he turns back to Sherlock, John notices that they're still covered in bits of clay and plaster from passing out on the kiln floor. He reaches out to brush it off his flatmate's expensive coat, and when Sherlock realises what he's doing he grumbles some more. John replies that perhaps quiet and a tidy front hall are acceptable expectations from the woman who turns a blind eye to hazardous waste in her rubbish bins.
It's around the time that Sherlock stoops over and combs through his hair with his fingers, bits of glazed ceramic shaking out of the curls with faint pattering sounds, that John starts grinning stupidly at his life. Perhaps before, even-this wouldn't be the first occasion he's done so and it won't be the last. Then Sherlock straightens up, an answering smile on his face, his hair a dishevelled cloud around his temples, and John thinks, quite clearly, I want to kiss him.
It also occurs to him that this isn't the first time he's wanted to; it's just the first time he's allowed himself to actually acknowledge the wrench of attraction without guilt, or confusion, or hesitation.
And, god help him, he does it. He doesn't even think about it. His keys are mashed against Sherlock's lapels and his cracked lips are screaming bloody murder where they're sealed against Sherlock's mouth, but there it is.
Sherlock pulls back, looking wild around the eyes. John has a moment to consider whether his attraction to danger has less to do with adrenaline addiction and more to do with an actual death wish before Sherlock exhales, "Yes," against his mouth. And then, "Finally," before they're kissing again.
Sherlock crowds him against the door and does his level best to drive John insane with his warm mouth and his slick tongue and just enough teeth against John's lower lip to send spikes of sensation jolting down his spine. John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair and hauls him closer till the heat of their bodies bleeds and mingles through their clothes.
John pulls back for air, his head knocking against the door.
Several things occur to him: one, they're on the wrong side of the door. They're still outside, exposed to any passer-by and any number of surveillance cameras (both official and unofficial). He's not entirely keen on the fact that Mycroft now has them on tape.
Secondly: what the hell?
"Of all the times for you to decide to start thinking," Sherlock huffs. "Although your point about the cameras is a good one."
"How-"
"You glanced up over my shoulder and then your forehead crumpled up. And yes, we'll probably have commemorative copies of the video files by morning."
John manages the door handle as best he can without looking behind him and stumbles back and in as soon as it's open, getting some necessary space between them. Sherlock follows, stripping his gloves off, stuffing them in one pocket while practically stalking after John. "Go on," he says. "Say them. All the stupid reasons you've thought up for why this is a bad idea."
"Flattery," John grumbles in protest and tries to sort it all out. "Married to your work?" he manages.
"Work seems to have taken a shine to you," Sherlock responds. "And if you can put up with me under all other circumstances, I think your ego can handle the same under expanded terms for our relationship." He hooks his hands around John's waist and just breathes against the edge of John's ear before adding, "Although I am open to negotiation."
"Oh my God," John says, and tries to remember how stairs work, dragging Sherlock along. He shrugs out of his jacket on the way, planning to sit down and talk with Sherlock once they reach the living room. But Sherlock's right there when they reach the doorway, so John has to pull him in and shove him up against the wall to get a bit of his own back. Naturally.
Sherlock crumples against the wall, his mouth open and pliant beneath John's, deft fingers rucking up John's shirt to stroke bare skin. John presses forward with a dirty roll of his hips, half hard and getting harder at the small encouraging noises that Sherlock is making in the back of his throat. He breaks away to shove at Sherlock's heavy coat.
When John pulls the scarf open, hoping to expose the pale skin of Sherlock's neck, he finds the white notch of the cassock's collar. He exhales sharply and closes his eyes, his head falling forward to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. "This is ridiculous," he says. "Why on Earth are you still wearing this?"
"I wore it to Marcus’ flat in case he was still alive. Devout Catholic like that, might’ve given me a psychological edge. Is that really your only remaining objection to this-to us?" Sherlock asks irritably. "Here I thought you were being noble or sensible or some kind of self-sacrificing rubbish." He slides one palm to the small of John's back and aligns their bodies. "When all this time, you simply didn't know." There is more than enough evidence to convince John that Sherlock's not the untouchable, unattainable figure he once appeared to be. Not a monk, not a celibate priest in the Church of Reason, and-oh. Nothing like a saint.
John hisses through his teeth, his hands fisting around the fabric of Sherlock's coat. "How-how was I supposed to-" he says against Sherlock's jawline, closing his eyes against the damning collar.
It is somewhat gratifying to hear Sherlock's breath catch as he answers, "D-don't be obtuse, John. Lestrade's been making comments for months."
Well. John's gotten somewhat accustomed to people making assumptions about them. Perhaps he could adjust his opinions of other people's intuition a bit. He laughs. The both of us could, at that, he thinks. "I did have a dream about you," he admits, dragging his teeth along the line of muscle in Sherlock's neck.
"Oh?" Sherlock asks in a voice more breath than speech.
"You were giving me Last Rites," John says without thinking, grinding his pelvis forward, the hot line of Sherlock's erection at his hip irresistible enticement. "And you brought me back to life." When he realises what he's said, he freezes in place, mortified.
Instead of reacting like a sane, normal person and oh, running for the hills screaming, Sherlock pants a laugh into John's hair. "Hah," he says, "I can keep the cassock on, if you like." John rolls his eyes.
"No, oh god, no, shut up-" John says, hooking his fingers around that damned collar and dragging Sherlock back in for a kiss. It's a long minute of shared breath and trying to crawl under each other's skin through their clothes before they part again. John pulls away, taking the scrap of white linen and cardboard with him-just a disguise, after all, a cheap costume Sherlock doesn't need any longer - and lets it drop to the floor.
"That's better," he says, and Sherlock gives him a wicked smile. It's the same smile he reserves for proposing they go into a known drug kingpin's lair or attempt to purchase extra bullets from the black market using Anderson's credit card.
"Not as good as it's going to be," Sherlock promises, and steers John backwards towards the bedroom.
***
The buttons on the cassock are a nightmare. And, beyond that, Sherlock has a vest and trousers and pants, all black and of course they didn't think to turn on the light.
John generally considers himself to be a very patient man., but this is simply unfair. It's only with Sherlock's help-and it usually takes more than this to make John properly clumsy-that they get undressed at all.
But then, finally, they are both rid of their offending garments, and John has Sherlock's hot, hard length in his hand. They're sprawled in haphazard, misaligned angles across the bed and John stares down at the sight below him, his own erection weeping trails against Sherlock's narrow waist. Sherlock arches up in time with his strokes, his eyelids flickering shut and his own touches becoming erratic over John's skin.
"John," he's saying, and "please," and "oh," and then "yes" when John bends down and takes one of Sherlock's nipples between his teeth. He comes in hot slick pulses over John's hand, his spine bending in a steep arc as he presses the back of one wrist to his mouth to muffle his ecstatic shout.
John lifts his head to just look at Sherlock, who is collapsed below him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. Sherlock looks … well, John doesn't have words for it, but an image of baroque white marble flickers through his mind. Then Sherlock opens those pale-pale eyes of his and surges upwards, rolling them both over so that he can-
"Ohmygod," John says in a gasp, because he's pretty sure Teresa didn't have a mouth like this. Sherlock's lips are a brand, his flickering tongue a flame setting John's nerves alight. "I want-I, I want-" John says blindly, and Sherlock lifts his head for a moment to catch his eye.
"Yes," is all Sherlock says, and then he bends down again to take John completely apart.
***
Sherlock breaks the pleasant, companionable silence that follows with, "You never took the Lord's name in vain before Afghanistan."
John feels his diaphragm clench and his mouth stretch into a smile. He holds back the giggle. This is absurd. Of all the things to say … "Yes, yes, you're right." It had been one of the last behavioural strictures he'd kept for himself, but it had been absolutely, irrevocably broken with the crack of gunfire during his first terrifying skirmish. "How can you tell?"
"You have a faint touch of an accent when you blaspheme, as if you picked up the habit around others from … mm, I'd say southern America, but I don't have enough data to say for sure."
That's enough to set John off. "You-you were deducing me while we were-" He rolls onto his side and allows the laughter to bubble up out of him, post-coital endorphins and the sheer absurdity of it all seizing him. "Oh for-for heaven's sake," he manages when he can draw a proper breath, "How is this going to work?"
Beside him, Sherlock props himself up on his elbows, frowning. "You don't think it will? Then why did you kiss me?"
"Oh, it will," John assures him, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's forearm, rubbing circles against the fine hairs with his thumb. "I know it will. I just don't understand how."
Sherlock looks mollified, but just barely. "Conclusions without even a hypothesis to support them are rubbish. You've no proof."
"Oh," John says, tugging Sherlock into a kiss. "But I have faith," he says, and Sherlock huffs a small, disbelieving laugh but kisses him back anyway.
***
John wakes alone in a tent of heavy and faded olive drab canvas, the sides stitched together with rope through eyelets that bleed rusty stains down the seams. There is a familiar silhouette at the entrance, one hand brushing the flap aside as if it is a window curtain. Beyond that are the brightness of the Afghani sun and the faint sound of gunfire.
"Who are you?" John hears himself asking, even though he knows the answer.
"Joan of Arc," Sherlock replies.
"You're not French," John points out. Because that's the major problem with what Sherlock's just said.
"I am, actually," Sherlock says, letting the curtain fall. "On my mother's side."
"Ah," John says as if this explains everything. "What are you doing up? Come back to bed." He feels a little thrill as he says this, because he can say it, can pull Sherlock down to the pile of blankets and pillows and do whatever he likes to him now. It's fantastic.
"In a moment," Sherlock says. "I want to see how the battle is going." He pushes the canvas aside again.
John pulls a sheet around his waist and pads across the room, toes digging into the thick plush Persian carpeting unrolled over the dirt floor. When he joins Sherlock, they're standing at the window in the living room of 221b, watching men in armour fight on the London street. The sounds of gunfire are now clashing swords.
Lestrade fells a giant in maille and a crimson tunic and pauses to wave up at them. John lifts a hand to wave back.
"He fights for justice," Sherlock is saying. "But he doesn't see the larger picture. He doesn't see what I see. I'm the only one, John. I see things that others don't and I-" His voice falters, and John looks at him, concerned. Sherlock's face is placid, but a line flexes in his jaw.
"Is that why I'm here?" John says.
"You are my sword and my shield and my solace, John," Sherlock says, stepping in close, looping his arms around John's waist and resting his chin on John's shoulder, still staring out the window. "You allow me to focus on what's important."
"Thought I'd be a distraction," John says lightly.
"No," Sherlock corrects. "You keep me grounded. You keep me from being blinded to what I overlook by those things only I can see. You keep me from being consumed by the hunt." And outside the window the street is a verdant field, far, far below, and Lestrade sits astride a horse, a swarm of hounds keeping pace as they chase a fox with Moriarty's face.
John turns in Sherlock's embrace. "Come to bed," he says, taking Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock follows without a word.
***
After the case wraps up, John visits Padre Byrne every Saturday afternoon. This time, Owen's outside in the courtyard, staring at a smallish square patch of earth thoughtfully. A faint hint of spring is creeping into the air, stronger every day. Time for planting. "Vegetables or flowers?" he asks without turning to look at John.
"Vegetables-carrots and lettuce and tomatoes, maybe? Get the students to help, send the results to the soup kitchen," John suggests.
Owen looks at him, smiling. "Such a generous soul you are, John … I just finished writing tomorrow's sermon. Would you like to hear it?"
"All right," John replies, already knowing how Owen will respond. It's become their private ritual, this exchange.
"Then you should come to Mass tomorrow morning."
John grins. "Maybe." He always says 'maybe,' and they both know he always means 'no.' But Owen will always offer-not prod or push, but offer, a fine distinction that John appreciates. It's why he says 'maybe' every week instead of ‘no.’ Maybe one Saturday, he'll actually mean 'yes.'
"Still living in sin with that detective of yours?" Owen says as they wander back inside, towards warmth.
John ducks his head and scrubs at the short hairs on the back of his head with one hand. "Yeah, I suppose you could call it that."
"You're not married," Owen points out.
"Not fair, mate," John says. "It's not like we could, not here, anyway." He still remembers the distressed phone call from Harriet, back when he’d been in Afghanistan. He'd arranged an eight-hour gap to catch up on rest between surgeries, and half of them had been spent on a phone because she and Clara couldn't have a 'proper wedding.'
Owen stops in the hallway to face him. "You're a decorated war veteran, not to mention a good friend of mine, and that madman you've fallen for is one of the most heroic civilians I've had the mixed fortune of meeting. I see his name in the papers more often than you think. A man could do a lot worse than you two, if he wanted a good example to fight his own superiors over."
John blinks, sets his jaw, and nods. "Bit early, still," he manages. "But thanks."
Owen nods curtly, and they continue on.
- END -
Post-fic note: this is what a burnisher looks like (the printmaking tool that Marcus used to kill Peter). Artists get the best weapons and the best chemicals, I sweartogod.
Author: saathi1013
Summary: Sherlock dons an unusual disguise for a case. John is…conflicted. Character study, casefic, & smut (in that order).
Spoilers: The whole of BBC’s Sherlock (series/season 1), plus various references to Arthur Conan Doyle’s original Sherlock Holmes canon, and a subtle nod or two towards the Granada series.
Pairing: John/Sherlock, first-time.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Warnings: Violence, sexual content, heresy and blasphemy on many, many levels, and fucked-up dream sequences.
Word Count: ~14.5k
A/N: Eternal gratitude to mazarin221b & carolyn_claire for their patience, encouragement, and occasionally-frustrating thoroughness (which is the best possible thing to have in a beta, honestly). Much <3 to Marielikestodraw for the stunning header image that you'll find under the cut - her talent and enthusiasm for my work will never cease to astonish me. Special thanks to accioayla, because she's known about this plot bunny longer than anyone else (and as a result, has had to wait longer than anyone should have for the finished story).
** Now available in Russian, thanks to 82al07il! [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ]
*****
(header art by MarieLikestoDraw)
(Continued from Part 1/2)
John is spared the embarrassment of facing Sherlock the next morning, finding a text in his mobile that simply says, Meet @ Gelder&Sons when available. This is worrisome (Sherlock could be running around the city in disguise without John's sworn supervision) and also gratifying, as Sherlock seems to be respecting the often-debated boundaries of John's work schedule. "Debated," of course, being a blanket term for "argued," "scoffed at," and "wholly disregarded."
The worry wins out, and John is distracted with enough potential guilt and fragments of dream-memory that it's a miracle he doesn't prescribe antibiotics for the middle-aged father who sprained his ankle on an icy patch, and 'rest, ice, compression, and elevation' to the twelve year old girl with an ear infection. His phone remains mercifully silent, despite the fact that he steals a bit of his lunch hour to ring up Padre Owen. He does have to do a bit of careful wording when Owen asks him what Sherlock is doing while John's at the practise, but he manages somehow.
And then, though it seemed to take an eternity, his shift is over, and John finds himself dawdling a bit before leaving. He tells himself he's being conscientious as he restocks the supplies, when in actual fact he's a bloody coward. He doesn't want to look Sherlock in the eye after the dream last night (had it been a sex dream? Or hadn't it? A man his age should be able to tell), and he doesn't want to see what liberties Sherlock will attempt to get away with when people believe he's a man of the cloth.
Sherlock texts three minutes after John's shift officially ended, and seventeen after his last patient left. At shop, it says, Fr.B uncooperative. John sighs as he grabs his coat.
"Oh," Sarah say with a warm smile (that's a mercy, at least, that they're both still friendly) as they pass each other in the hall. "Sorry, but we won't need you for the weekend after all. Appointments are a bit thin, I'm afraid. We'll ring you if it changes, yeah?"
"That would be great," he says, and considers adding, Good to know you still know my number, but decides against it. "Have a good weekend, Sarah," he says instead.
"You too, John," she says, her smile deepening to crinkle the corners of her eyes, just slightly. "Don't get into too much trouble."
"Ha, right," he says. "I'll see what I can do." Her laugh follows him as he turns the corner at the end of the hall.
***
When John arrives at the shop, Sherlock barely spares him a glance, embroiled as he is in a heated argument with Padre Byrne. They're standing nearly toe-to-toe, and John's not sure he's ever seen the clergyman this enraged.
"-harass my parishioners like this!"
"Whoa, whoa," John says, shouldering his way in between the two men. "Hold on, what's going on?"
"Your friend," Owen spits, "Wants to interrogate members of my church after they've suffered a terrible loss-"
"A terrible loss of an abusive criminal, yes-" Sherlock interrupts, only to have Owen simply raise his voice and continue on.
"-because he says that their grief will make it more difficult to lie, especially to a priest!" Owen finishes.
John sighs and presses Sherlock back a step with a carefully-angled elbow. "All right, all right, I see," he says with resignation. "Sherlock, would it be an acceptable compromise to tell the Padre what questions to ask, and he went in instead?"
"Not at all," Sherlock replies coldly. "He won't know what physical tells he should be observing."
Owen snorts and rolls his eyes. "If you think a priest has no experience in picking up on lies," he says, "then clearly you haven't done your research."
Sherlock's eyebrows completely disappear into his unruly fall of curls. "Fine. Then you must have no need of my expertise."
"Wait, Sherlock, no," John says, thinking of his suddenly-free weekend and what it will be like spending it cooped up at Baker Street with a petulant flatmate. He also considers the lost wages from those days and their odds of finally getting a consulting fee from the Yard. "Just give him a chance. If he fails-" he holds a placating hand up to Owen, repeating, "if he fails, then he will have more respect for your skills, and you can try a different tactic. If he succeeds, you will have the information you need to continue, and the Gelder family won't have any reason to suspect they've been questioned. Fair?"
Padre Owen nods. After holding John's gaze for an unsettling amount of time-is it unsettling? Why is it unsettling? It is, with the pale quicksilver colour of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the overcast sky above-Sherlock looks away and lifts his chin. "Fine," he says. "Ask what Peter stole from Marcus."
"Marcus isn't in there," Owen says, "so I doubt he can provide that answer."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth begins to creep up, slowly, in a crooked and delighted grin. "He isn't? Perhaps Michael can provide the answer. And if he cannot, ask when he last saw his brother. It will help me confirm the timeline of events."
Owen frowns. "I think I can manage that. Anything else?"
"No," Sherlock says. "That will be all, for now." His voice is bored and dismissive, making Owen open his mouth as if to retort. John just shrugs and gives him an apologetic smile, and Owen spins on his heel and walks away to enter the shop.
"I always thought clergymen were supposed to be even-tempered," Sherlock muses.
"You, as the saying goes, would try the patience of a saint," John says.
"Mm," Sherlock hums thoughtfully. "Then what does that make you, John?"
John just blinks at him. The only person in all of Creation able to tolerate you, apparently, he wants to say, but that might just be too strange an assertion to make to one's flatmate. So he stays silent, and after a moment, Sherlock turns away in a brusque swirl of his coat, clapping his hands together.
"So!" Sherlock says excitedly, "While Father Byrne is busy distracting Michael Gelder-and, conveniently, himself as well-we will have the chance to case the building." He strides to the end of the block, not looking to see if John will follow.
"Case the building," John echoes under his breath, as he does (inevitably) follow.
***
Sherlock has apparently spent the day scouting the residences of the owners of the final two statues. "The security's a bit tighter, which is why they've been left for last," he says, scrambling up onto a stack of wooden crates that end within arm's reach of a second-story balcony. "But our thief is getting desperate. I'm sure we will be able to-"
He swings himself up onto the balcony in a graceful motion that makes John boggle; Sherlock is wearing so many unwieldy layers that the move seems impossible. The coat and cassock alone, let alone whatever he's wearing beneath … Don't look up the cassock, John scolds himself as he stands watch on the pavement below. Don't even think about it.
Sherlock peers in the windows on both second and third storeys, then shimmies back down, apparently satisfied. "We’ll have to break into the top floor tonight," he says casually. "The family owns the whole building. Just needed to know which flat belonged to Marcus. We'd best get moving, before the good Padre notices that we're missing," Sherlock says. "I'll explain later."
They get back, barely in time. Owen's just leaving the shop.
"What did you find out?" Sherlock asks without preamble.
"Michael last saw his brother yesterday at the morgue, when they identified Peter's body. And he doesn't know anything about Peter taking anything from Marcus. He was upset when I asked, though-I had to make something up about making sure Peter's effects were retrieved from evidence and returned to the right recipients, as some items may have been stolen." Owen frowned. "Which, as it's actually possible, I promised I'd take care of." He shakes his head. "So much trouble, all over plaster statues …"
"Thank you," John says. "That's very helpful, isn't it, Sherlock?"
"Absolutely. My thanks, Father," Sherlock says, grinning broadly and falsely. John tries not to wince. "We should have this case wrapped up by tomorrow evening at the latest."
"Good," Owen says, eyes narrowing. "I don't want any more disruption to this family or my parish, you understand?"
"Yes, yes we do," John says vehemently before Sherlock can draw a breath. "And we'll do what we can to minimise the impact."
"Fair enough," Owen says with a rueful smile. "Thank you, John. I'll see you both tomorrow-if not sooner, God willing."
"Tomorrow, then," John agrees, as Sherlock hails a cab.
***
When they arrive at Baker Street, John’s mobile chirps. "Ah, that’ll be Lucy," Sherlock says before John has even flipped his phone open.
"Yes, she says she wants to meet up tonight," John says with no little surprise. He stares at the display for a moment before moving to tuck the phone away in his coat.
Sherlock’s hand interrupts the motion, long gloved fingers closing around John’s wrist. "You should go," he advises. "I suspect she knows more than she’s letting on."
John blinks. "But we were going to-"
Sherlock squeezes John’s wrist once before letting go and heading up the stairs. "I can check Marcus’ flat myself. Don’t worry, I’ll call if I need you-but if Marcus is indeed our culprit, he’ll be out, going after one of the two remaining statues. With any luck, he’ll get caught by one of Lestrade’s teams." He slants a sideways smile at John from the landing. "It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if your charms managed to secure a key witness for this case."
John starts reviewing restaurant options in his mind as he climbs the staircase.
***
In the end, he settles on a small Italian place not far from Gelder & Sons, partly because it will be easy for Lucy to find and also handily located in case Sherlock runs afoul of Marcus Gelder. It’s small and quiet without being too intimate, a perfect setting for whatever confidences the poor girl might want to share with him.
Lucy arrives five minutes late, flustered and rosy-cheeked, hands chapped from the brisk chill outside. "I’m so sorry I’m late," she says. "Everything’s been such a mess since … well. It’s all I can do to keep it all together."
"I understand, believe me," he says. "Be glad you’re not in medicine."
Lucy gives a fleeting smile at this and hangs her coat on the back of a chair before sitting down. "What kind of medicine?" she asks.
"Mostly locum work, at the moment. I was a medic in Afghanistan, though, so I’ve had my fair share of the world going a bit pear-shaped on me."
"Oh, that must have been awful," she says earnestly. "All those wounded soldiers and all that blood …" She hunches her shoulders up round her ears, hugging herself with both arms. The cuff of one sleeve slides back from her wrist and John does see the telltale bruising, as predicted.
"Oh," he says, reaching one hand half across the table, palm upwards. "Oh, don’t, please. I didn’t bring you here to hear my war stories."
Her eyes flit up from the tablecloth, and she musters another half smile. "Well. It’s good to have a reminder that it could be worse, I suppose."
"That’s the spirit," he says, trying not to take that the wrong way. "Come on, I’ll bet you haven’t had a proper meal in days. It’ll be on me if you promise me one thing."
"What’s that?"
"Don’t blame yourself. Whatever happened, I’m sure you weren’t at fault."
Lucy’s eyes go wide and round and soft. One hand creeps across the table to rest in John’s palm. "Really? I just … Peter and I were going to get married, and I keep thinking that maybe if we’d never …" Her shoulders sag. "I don’t know. I just keep going round and round everything, and it all seems to end up the same."
He squeezes her hand gently. "There probably wasn’t anything you could have done," he says, nudging the menu in her direction. "A decent dinner will be a start, and we can just talk. About whatever you like. All right?"
Lucy gives him a nod, a watery smile, and a sniffle. She takes the menu, her hand slipping from his. "You never did explain how you wound up in our store," she comments. "A priest and a doctor walk into a pottery shop … Sounds like a bad joke set-up."
John chuckles and proceeds to tell her a highly edited version of meeting Padre Owen, letting her think that he’s referring to Sherlock. And then the follow-up story of the goat that found its way into the mess hall.
She counters with the story of a painting student who used a dozen mice and a whole palette of non-toxic vegetable dye for their work.
"-they were finding rainbow-hued tufts of fur everywhere in the building all winter!"
John laughs so hard he almost cries.
***
"Oh, damn," Lucy says, when they leave the restaurant. "I forgot my house keys at the shop. D’you mind terribly if …?"
"Not at all," John says, acutely aware that he's learned more about intaglio than her part in the Gelder family tragedy. "Let me walk you over. It’s dark and you’ve been through enough stress lately."
"You don’t have to-" Lucy protests, but when he lifts his eyebrows and offers her his arm, she capitulates and takes it. They walk in companionable silence for a few blocks.
"If you wanted to talk about Peter," he ventures, "I told you before, I’m willing to be a friendly ear if you need one."
She sighs and grips his elbow more tightly. "He was a good bloke," she starts. "I mean, aside from the thieving. But you know, artists are attracted to nonconformity." Lucy gives a little laugh-at herself, at the cliché, he can’t be sure.
They get to the shop, and John tries not to look up, see if there’s any sign of Sherlock moving about in the flat above. "D’you want to come in, I’ve been working on a piece for him. A … tribute, like."
John blinks. "Sure, absolutely."
Lucy continues her story as she unlocks the door and disengages the alarm. "It was his da that was the trouble. Peter should have known better than to give me his mother’s engagement ring-he didn’t ask, just nicked it from his father."
She sighs a little and leads the way to the workshop in the back without flipping on the lights, used to navigating around the space. They weave around racks of in-progress pieces, molds, and materials, towards the line of work counters and sinks at the far wall that John can see faintly in the dim light coming through the windows.
He follows Lucy’s voice: "I should have known better than to take it. But you know how it is. Getting caught up in a whirlwind and all that." She turns a corner and he loses sight of her for an instant. "Like when you met Mr. Holmes," she says, quietly.
John starts to smile fondly, then freezes. "I never-" he starts.
"No," she says, sounding sad. "You never did." He realises that she’s looped around behind him, and turns-
-only to find the pale blur of a plaster statue being swung at his head.
He drops like a stone.
***
He wakes to find Sherlock crouched over him in a small room, clay figures in rows on shelving all round them. Still in the shop, then, he thinks vaguely. Everything is bathed in a muted, red glow.
Sherlock is muttering as he cuts through the restraints on John's ankles, "Next date you go on, I’m getting you a helmet … Honestly, John, I can’t believe-"
"Lucy," John groans. "Knew who you were."
"Of course she did. You gave her your card. She looked up your blog, obviously."
"Where-" John tries to sit up, but Sherlock’s hands are like a vise on his shoulders, keeping him still. "How?"
Sherlock lets out a snort. "Silly nit sent a photo of you all trussed up, using your phone. Gave a vague threat and demanded I get her the ring and then give her 24 hours to get out of the city. Of course, I figured out where you were. Don’t think she expected me to be nearby." He gives a small smile. "Not the brightest when she panics, our Lucy."
"Where is she?"
"Gone. Probably wants some distance, in case-"
Sherlock is awfully, terribly wrong. There is a heavy creak, then a clang, and Sherlock’s gone from John’s side in an instant, shouting, "Lucy! Lucy, open the door! You don’t want to do this! Marcus was self-defence, but this is murder!" His voice echoes oddly in the small space, and John sits up to get a better look around.
"Sherlock, please tell me we aren’t in a kiln," he says, feeling calm and disconnected. He lifts his hand and touches it to his throbbing head, only to have his fingers come away wet.
"I’m sorry, Mister Holmes," Lucy says, her voice faint through the door. "Really I am. I just don’t know what else to do."
"Let us out!"
"And get arrested-for murder and theft and whatever else? No, I can’t. I’m sorry." Then, quieter, "I wish Marcus had killed me with Peter. This is all my fault."
And then she’s gone. Sherlock pounds on the door and shouts her name, but there’s only the distant sound of machinery whirring to life, the heating mechanism starting up, indifferent to its new inhabitants.
"Fuck," John says, his muscles weak and his joints like liquid as he tries to stand. He slumps back against the wall.
***
Please God, let me live, John had thought, after a few long moments of agony down in the Afghani dirt, his ears still ringing from the bomb that had upset the first truck in the convoy. Please, God, and when he'd realised what he'd been thinking, the shock of it made him exhale sharply, which made the pain spike, and then he didn't know anything at all.
He still hasn't quite processed that shock. His dying thoughts had been a prayer, and it had been answered. Hadn't it?
If it had, what did that mean?
Before that, his general idea of God had been that of an absent-minded Creator, someone who had more to worry about in the infinite vastness of the universe than the petty, daily problems of his Creation. How else to explain the whole scope of Existence, in both its glory and absolute, grinding misery?
And yet …
During the confrontation with Moriarty, John tracked Sherlock's arm as he trained a gun on a pile of explosives. Silently, John closed his eyes and thought, God, please let us get out of this alive, hoping that if there was a fraction of Divine concern for his well-being there might be some to spare for Sherlock, too.
To be fair, he hadn't expected Moriarty to be covered under the unspecified 'us,' but John will take his miracles where he gets them and choose his words more carefully next time.
-if they are miracles, of course. He's still wavering, but vaguely grateful. And he'd rather take the long odds than no odds at all, when he's staring death in the face.
So his last thought, before the heat of the furnace finally puts him under, is Please God, don't let us die like this.
***
When he comes to in the ambulance, his first thought is, three for three, before he drifts out again.
***
"-glad you tipped me off about Marcus’ body when you did," Lestrade is saying. "You’d both have died if we hadn’t searched the building in time."
"Did you catch Lucy?" Sherlock asks, voice rough with dehydration.
"Yes," Lestrade replies. "Caught her at a train station, trying to leave the city. Are you sure we can’t pin both murders on her?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock says. "Marcus Gelder’s corpse has a cut on the right thumb from the burnisher he used to stab his son. Impromptu weapon; he didn’t know how to handle it. If Lucy had been using it, she wouldn’t have a cut, but as Marcus does, it points to his guilt. As for the ring: you retrieved it?"
"Took some doing, but yeah. Turns out, it's from one of Marcus' old jobs. Worth a hefty sum-no wonder they were all rabid for it."
Sherlock makes a small dubious noise, then says, "I think, in Lucy's case, it was sentiment that undid her. Sentiment and blind terror."
"H’llo, Lestrade," John interrupts, lifting himself up on the pillows.
"Oh, good, you’re not dead," Lestrade remarks. "I really do prefer arriving at a crime scene where you’re both conscious."
"We’ll keep that in mind," John offers. Lestrade gives him a dubious look.
***
They’re fine with another couple of hours of IV fluids and numerous fussing nurses and doctors taking blood-pressure and temperature readings so often that even John starts getting grumpy. Still, they have to stay until everyone is assured they’re well.
"Thai?" Sherlock offers once they’re released, and John’s stomach growls in agreement.
"What did I miss?" John asks when they’ve ordered. "Tell me everything." Sherlock complies with enthusiasm; of course, dramatic exposition is one of his favourite parts of a case.
Peter had stolen a costly engagement ring from his father to give to Lucy. Upon discovering the theft, Marcus threatened Peter, and when she heard about it, a panicked Lucy hid the ring in one of the still-drying statues. She set that batch aside for the painted six, hoping to retrieve it later.
Of course, she hadn't really thought it through, and under the watchful gaze of her employer, she never got a chance to 'accidentally' break the proper statue before it left the shop. So the artist was forced to turn burglar, with her more experienced fiancee lending a hand. Marcus caught on and followed them; they fought, and Marcus used one of the printmaking tools Lucy had in her kit-" … the so-called ingenuity of artists," Sherlock scoffed, "adapting their tools to any task at hand, in this case burglary. I noticed the scratches around the lock also had a triangular shape. Still, it worked." -to stab his son.
Lucy escaped but was again cornered by Marcus and killed him in self defence. "Almost the same way she got you, John; there were plaster fragments in his head wound," Sherlock points out. "I found his body last night in his bath, covered in ice."
"He got ice and we got fire," John says.
"But we survived," Sherlock responds with a smile.
***
They get back to the flat in high spirits after a good meal and another victory against London's criminal element, only to find the front door of 221 Baker Street locked. This is quite possibly another one of Mrs. Hudson's passive-aggressive reminders to keep regular hours, or at least to "keep things down after midnight, for heaven's sake." So John fumbles for his keys, while Sherlock mutters in a gently disgruntled way under his breath.
As he turns back to Sherlock, John notices that they're still covered in bits of clay and plaster from passing out on the kiln floor. He reaches out to brush it off his flatmate's expensive coat, and when Sherlock realises what he's doing he grumbles some more. John replies that perhaps quiet and a tidy front hall are acceptable expectations from the woman who turns a blind eye to hazardous waste in her rubbish bins.
It's around the time that Sherlock stoops over and combs through his hair with his fingers, bits of glazed ceramic shaking out of the curls with faint pattering sounds, that John starts grinning stupidly at his life. Perhaps before, even-this wouldn't be the first occasion he's done so and it won't be the last. Then Sherlock straightens up, an answering smile on his face, his hair a dishevelled cloud around his temples, and John thinks, quite clearly, I want to kiss him.
It also occurs to him that this isn't the first time he's wanted to; it's just the first time he's allowed himself to actually acknowledge the wrench of attraction without guilt, or confusion, or hesitation.
And, god help him, he does it. He doesn't even think about it. His keys are mashed against Sherlock's lapels and his cracked lips are screaming bloody murder where they're sealed against Sherlock's mouth, but there it is.
Sherlock pulls back, looking wild around the eyes. John has a moment to consider whether his attraction to danger has less to do with adrenaline addiction and more to do with an actual death wish before Sherlock exhales, "Yes," against his mouth. And then, "Finally," before they're kissing again.
Sherlock crowds him against the door and does his level best to drive John insane with his warm mouth and his slick tongue and just enough teeth against John's lower lip to send spikes of sensation jolting down his spine. John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair and hauls him closer till the heat of their bodies bleeds and mingles through their clothes.
John pulls back for air, his head knocking against the door.
Several things occur to him: one, they're on the wrong side of the door. They're still outside, exposed to any passer-by and any number of surveillance cameras (both official and unofficial). He's not entirely keen on the fact that Mycroft now has them on tape.
Secondly: what the hell?
"Of all the times for you to decide to start thinking," Sherlock huffs. "Although your point about the cameras is a good one."
"How-"
"You glanced up over my shoulder and then your forehead crumpled up. And yes, we'll probably have commemorative copies of the video files by morning."
John manages the door handle as best he can without looking behind him and stumbles back and in as soon as it's open, getting some necessary space between them. Sherlock follows, stripping his gloves off, stuffing them in one pocket while practically stalking after John. "Go on," he says. "Say them. All the stupid reasons you've thought up for why this is a bad idea."
"Flattery," John grumbles in protest and tries to sort it all out. "Married to your work?" he manages.
"Work seems to have taken a shine to you," Sherlock responds. "And if you can put up with me under all other circumstances, I think your ego can handle the same under expanded terms for our relationship." He hooks his hands around John's waist and just breathes against the edge of John's ear before adding, "Although I am open to negotiation."
"Oh my God," John says, and tries to remember how stairs work, dragging Sherlock along. He shrugs out of his jacket on the way, planning to sit down and talk with Sherlock once they reach the living room. But Sherlock's right there when they reach the doorway, so John has to pull him in and shove him up against the wall to get a bit of his own back. Naturally.
Sherlock crumples against the wall, his mouth open and pliant beneath John's, deft fingers rucking up John's shirt to stroke bare skin. John presses forward with a dirty roll of his hips, half hard and getting harder at the small encouraging noises that Sherlock is making in the back of his throat. He breaks away to shove at Sherlock's heavy coat.
When John pulls the scarf open, hoping to expose the pale skin of Sherlock's neck, he finds the white notch of the cassock's collar. He exhales sharply and closes his eyes, his head falling forward to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. "This is ridiculous," he says. "Why on Earth are you still wearing this?"
"I wore it to Marcus’ flat in case he was still alive. Devout Catholic like that, might’ve given me a psychological edge. Is that really your only remaining objection to this-to us?" Sherlock asks irritably. "Here I thought you were being noble or sensible or some kind of self-sacrificing rubbish." He slides one palm to the small of John's back and aligns their bodies. "When all this time, you simply didn't know." There is more than enough evidence to convince John that Sherlock's not the untouchable, unattainable figure he once appeared to be. Not a monk, not a celibate priest in the Church of Reason, and-oh. Nothing like a saint.
John hisses through his teeth, his hands fisting around the fabric of Sherlock's coat. "How-how was I supposed to-" he says against Sherlock's jawline, closing his eyes against the damning collar.
It is somewhat gratifying to hear Sherlock's breath catch as he answers, "D-don't be obtuse, John. Lestrade's been making comments for months."
Well. John's gotten somewhat accustomed to people making assumptions about them. Perhaps he could adjust his opinions of other people's intuition a bit. He laughs. The both of us could, at that, he thinks. "I did have a dream about you," he admits, dragging his teeth along the line of muscle in Sherlock's neck.
"Oh?" Sherlock asks in a voice more breath than speech.
"You were giving me Last Rites," John says without thinking, grinding his pelvis forward, the hot line of Sherlock's erection at his hip irresistible enticement. "And you brought me back to life." When he realises what he's said, he freezes in place, mortified.
Instead of reacting like a sane, normal person and oh, running for the hills screaming, Sherlock pants a laugh into John's hair. "Hah," he says, "I can keep the cassock on, if you like." John rolls his eyes.
"No, oh god, no, shut up-" John says, hooking his fingers around that damned collar and dragging Sherlock back in for a kiss. It's a long minute of shared breath and trying to crawl under each other's skin through their clothes before they part again. John pulls away, taking the scrap of white linen and cardboard with him-just a disguise, after all, a cheap costume Sherlock doesn't need any longer - and lets it drop to the floor.
"That's better," he says, and Sherlock gives him a wicked smile. It's the same smile he reserves for proposing they go into a known drug kingpin's lair or attempt to purchase extra bullets from the black market using Anderson's credit card.
"Not as good as it's going to be," Sherlock promises, and steers John backwards towards the bedroom.
***
The buttons on the cassock are a nightmare. And, beyond that, Sherlock has a vest and trousers and pants, all black and of course they didn't think to turn on the light.
John generally considers himself to be a very patient man., but this is simply unfair. It's only with Sherlock's help-and it usually takes more than this to make John properly clumsy-that they get undressed at all.
But then, finally, they are both rid of their offending garments, and John has Sherlock's hot, hard length in his hand. They're sprawled in haphazard, misaligned angles across the bed and John stares down at the sight below him, his own erection weeping trails against Sherlock's narrow waist. Sherlock arches up in time with his strokes, his eyelids flickering shut and his own touches becoming erratic over John's skin.
"John," he's saying, and "please," and "oh," and then "yes" when John bends down and takes one of Sherlock's nipples between his teeth. He comes in hot slick pulses over John's hand, his spine bending in a steep arc as he presses the back of one wrist to his mouth to muffle his ecstatic shout.
John lifts his head to just look at Sherlock, who is collapsed below him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. Sherlock looks … well, John doesn't have words for it, but an image of baroque white marble flickers through his mind. Then Sherlock opens those pale-pale eyes of his and surges upwards, rolling them both over so that he can-
"Ohmygod," John says in a gasp, because he's pretty sure Teresa didn't have a mouth like this. Sherlock's lips are a brand, his flickering tongue a flame setting John's nerves alight. "I want-I, I want-" John says blindly, and Sherlock lifts his head for a moment to catch his eye.
"Yes," is all Sherlock says, and then he bends down again to take John completely apart.
***
Sherlock breaks the pleasant, companionable silence that follows with, "You never took the Lord's name in vain before Afghanistan."
John feels his diaphragm clench and his mouth stretch into a smile. He holds back the giggle. This is absurd. Of all the things to say … "Yes, yes, you're right." It had been one of the last behavioural strictures he'd kept for himself, but it had been absolutely, irrevocably broken with the crack of gunfire during his first terrifying skirmish. "How can you tell?"
"You have a faint touch of an accent when you blaspheme, as if you picked up the habit around others from … mm, I'd say southern America, but I don't have enough data to say for sure."
That's enough to set John off. "You-you were deducing me while we were-" He rolls onto his side and allows the laughter to bubble up out of him, post-coital endorphins and the sheer absurdity of it all seizing him. "Oh for-for heaven's sake," he manages when he can draw a proper breath, "How is this going to work?"
Beside him, Sherlock props himself up on his elbows, frowning. "You don't think it will? Then why did you kiss me?"
"Oh, it will," John assures him, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's forearm, rubbing circles against the fine hairs with his thumb. "I know it will. I just don't understand how."
Sherlock looks mollified, but just barely. "Conclusions without even a hypothesis to support them are rubbish. You've no proof."
"Oh," John says, tugging Sherlock into a kiss. "But I have faith," he says, and Sherlock huffs a small, disbelieving laugh but kisses him back anyway.
***
John wakes alone in a tent of heavy and faded olive drab canvas, the sides stitched together with rope through eyelets that bleed rusty stains down the seams. There is a familiar silhouette at the entrance, one hand brushing the flap aside as if it is a window curtain. Beyond that are the brightness of the Afghani sun and the faint sound of gunfire.
"Who are you?" John hears himself asking, even though he knows the answer.
"Joan of Arc," Sherlock replies.
"You're not French," John points out. Because that's the major problem with what Sherlock's just said.
"I am, actually," Sherlock says, letting the curtain fall. "On my mother's side."
"Ah," John says as if this explains everything. "What are you doing up? Come back to bed." He feels a little thrill as he says this, because he can say it, can pull Sherlock down to the pile of blankets and pillows and do whatever he likes to him now. It's fantastic.
"In a moment," Sherlock says. "I want to see how the battle is going." He pushes the canvas aside again.
John pulls a sheet around his waist and pads across the room, toes digging into the thick plush Persian carpeting unrolled over the dirt floor. When he joins Sherlock, they're standing at the window in the living room of 221b, watching men in armour fight on the London street. The sounds of gunfire are now clashing swords.
Lestrade fells a giant in maille and a crimson tunic and pauses to wave up at them. John lifts a hand to wave back.
"He fights for justice," Sherlock is saying. "But he doesn't see the larger picture. He doesn't see what I see. I'm the only one, John. I see things that others don't and I-" His voice falters, and John looks at him, concerned. Sherlock's face is placid, but a line flexes in his jaw.
"Is that why I'm here?" John says.
"You are my sword and my shield and my solace, John," Sherlock says, stepping in close, looping his arms around John's waist and resting his chin on John's shoulder, still staring out the window. "You allow me to focus on what's important."
"Thought I'd be a distraction," John says lightly.
"No," Sherlock corrects. "You keep me grounded. You keep me from being blinded to what I overlook by those things only I can see. You keep me from being consumed by the hunt." And outside the window the street is a verdant field, far, far below, and Lestrade sits astride a horse, a swarm of hounds keeping pace as they chase a fox with Moriarty's face.
John turns in Sherlock's embrace. "Come to bed," he says, taking Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock follows without a word.
***
After the case wraps up, John visits Padre Byrne every Saturday afternoon. This time, Owen's outside in the courtyard, staring at a smallish square patch of earth thoughtfully. A faint hint of spring is creeping into the air, stronger every day. Time for planting. "Vegetables or flowers?" he asks without turning to look at John.
"Vegetables-carrots and lettuce and tomatoes, maybe? Get the students to help, send the results to the soup kitchen," John suggests.
Owen looks at him, smiling. "Such a generous soul you are, John … I just finished writing tomorrow's sermon. Would you like to hear it?"
"All right," John replies, already knowing how Owen will respond. It's become their private ritual, this exchange.
"Then you should come to Mass tomorrow morning."
John grins. "Maybe." He always says 'maybe,' and they both know he always means 'no.' But Owen will always offer-not prod or push, but offer, a fine distinction that John appreciates. It's why he says 'maybe' every week instead of ‘no.’ Maybe one Saturday, he'll actually mean 'yes.'
"Still living in sin with that detective of yours?" Owen says as they wander back inside, towards warmth.
John ducks his head and scrubs at the short hairs on the back of his head with one hand. "Yeah, I suppose you could call it that."
"You're not married," Owen points out.
"Not fair, mate," John says. "It's not like we could, not here, anyway." He still remembers the distressed phone call from Harriet, back when he’d been in Afghanistan. He'd arranged an eight-hour gap to catch up on rest between surgeries, and half of them had been spent on a phone because she and Clara couldn't have a 'proper wedding.'
Owen stops in the hallway to face him. "You're a decorated war veteran, not to mention a good friend of mine, and that madman you've fallen for is one of the most heroic civilians I've had the mixed fortune of meeting. I see his name in the papers more often than you think. A man could do a lot worse than you two, if he wanted a good example to fight his own superiors over."
John blinks, sets his jaw, and nods. "Bit early, still," he manages. "But thanks."
Owen nods curtly, and they continue on.
- END -
Post-fic note: this is what a burnisher looks like (the printmaking tool that Marcus used to kill Peter). Artists get the best weapons and the best chemicals, I sweartogod.
