Sherlock Fanfiction: Original Research
Title: Original Research
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: Between PG-13 and R
Length: ~3500 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of The Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Original Research follows after If I Caught You.
Excerpt: “Did you..” Mike started, entering the room and closing the door behind him. Sherlock was intent on his computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright, cheeks still too lean. “Sherlock, did you somehow…”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “Formulate a complete sentence, Mike,” he said and kept typing.
Original Research
The door from the Rare Books Room into the archivist’s office was half-open. Mike knocked lightly and waited. All he could hear was the faint click of computer keys. Sherlock usually didn’t answer. Mike poked his head around the door.
“Did you..” he started, entering the room and closing the door behind him. Sherlock was intent on his computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright, cheeks still too lean. “Sherlock, did you somehow…”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “Formulate a complete sentence, Mike,” he said and kept typing.
“Did you somehow ask John to come here?”
This time Sherlock shifted his attention to Mike. “What happened?”
“John texted. He wants to do some research that will require access to historical documents we have. Here,” Mike explained, his arm sweeping back to indicate the door behind him.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “When?”
“Tonight.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Excellent.” He swung the chair from side to side, one hand tapping on the arm in triple time.
“Something happen?” Mike asked.
“Lestrade has the hit man assigned to Mrs Hudson in custody. She and John have just given their statements at the Yard,” Sherlock said.
“One more to go, then,” Mike said, not seeing the connection with John’s urge to engage in academic research of the arcane variety.
Sherlock nodded. “John’s.” He rolled closer to the desk, planted his elbows on it. “Those are just the most immediate threats that must be neutralised, you realise.”
Considering what else he had been devoting his time to, Mike hadn’t given that side of the situation much thought. He tilted his head in acknowledgement. Sherlock would see that he hadn’t realised.
“When the third one has been captured or…” Sherlock fluttered a few fingers in the air before continuing, “I can start unravelling the rest of Moriarty’s web, thread by thread.”
Mike had read the transcript of Sherlock’s testimony in the newspapers, recognised the metaphor.
“But I need to be strong. Ignoring my physical condition could jeopardise the whole plan. So…” Sherlock looked directly at Mike. “I need you to have a certain conversation with John when he comes here tonight.”
Even after all his years of knowing Sherlock, having his full attention was an unnerving experience. A single drop of sweat trickled down Mike’s side as he nodded.
************
“I think I was only in this room once when I was training,” John said as Mike opened the door for them.
Mike heard John take a deep breath before he flicked the lights on. There was a hint of something other than old books and leather in the air that Mike couldn’t identify.
John turned in a slow circle, his eyes rising to the twilit windows and shadowy murals of the rotunda, spiralling along the galleries of bookcases, down to the shelves at eye level and the dark wooden tables with their green-shaded reading lamps. He reached out for the nearest table and ran his hand along the polished surface. “I don’t remember it being this beautiful.” John said.
“It is beautiful,” Mike agreed and hoped John would feel equally positive the next time he brought him there, because there would be a next time. Sherlock had made that clear.
“These materials are not detailed in the online catalogue,” Mike said. “You’ll have to search for them in the card catalogue.”
“I haven’t forgotten how to do that,” John said. His hand hadn’t left the table, but his gaze had returned to the rotunda. He appeared to be squinting at the artwork there. “All the muses, then,” he observed and cocked his head. “That’s a Ptolemaic view of the solar system on the dome, isn’t it?”
Mike nodded. “Yes. The theme runs throughout the room, in the ironwork, the wood carvings, the mosaics on the floor.”
John glanced at the patterns beneath his feet and thought of Sherlock not knowing that the earth revolved around the sun. Did you do a lot of research in this room, Sherlock?
Mike was speaking again. “The spiral stairs leading to the galleries are behind the narrow bookcases. They open like this,” Mike explained, walking to the nearest book shelves and demonstrating.
“I don’t recall this,” John said, joining Mike and peering into the small enclosure.
“Access to the books and documents upstairs is even more restricted,” Mike said, showing John which carved panel he had lifted to unlatch the narrow door.
John stepped inside and stared up the tight spiral of metal steps. “Limited to the very small or very slim,” John remarked.
“Indeed,” Mike agreed. “That’s who they were designed for.” John glanced at Mike, his brows drawing together, but Mike was intent on showing John where the latch inside the door was secreted. “Go up and see if you can get out all right. You want the first door.” John raised an eyebrow. “There’re other levels,” Mike said pointing upwards. “There are cupboards behind the frescos with manuscripts and unbound documents and several doorways to the outside balcony that circles the rotunda.”
“I spent years in this building and didn’t know about any of this,” John marvelled.
“Bart’s was built to hold secrets,” Mike said. “A lot of Victorian buildings were. It was a romantic period in architecture.” His voice trailed off.
John looked carefully at Mike. “Is something wrong?”
Mike sighed and sat on the edge of the nearest table. “Got a few minutes before you get started on your work?”
John pulled out a chair and sat. “Sure. Of course,” he replied and waited for Mike to begin.
“There are a few things, really, but the one that’s bothering me most right now is a conversation I had last night with Aditha and her brother, Aram.”
John quirked an eyebrow.
“Aram and Aditha have a history of…” Mike paused. “Robust debate.”
“And you got caught in the middle of it?” John asked.
Mike was about to say that John had been around Sherlock too long, but caught himself. “Something like that,” Mike muttered instead. “Aram lives in Toronto, so it doesn’t happen very often,” he added and sighed. “He flew in yesterday and when I got home last night they were already arguing about consent, generally and between spouses particularly.”
Both of John’s eyebrows went up. “Ah.”
“They had clearly been at it for a while.” Mike shook his head. “Neither one likes to admit they might be wrong.”
John thought of Harry and himself, of Mycroft and…
"My mother-in-law's illness is terminal so consent is something they had to discuss. And between Aditha being a psychiatrist and Aram being a lawyer they had a lot to say on the subject…” Mike took off his glasses and rubbed them absently on his sleeve. “How Aram got from their mother's situation to expounding on the fact that rape of a wife by her husband was deemed legally impossible until not that long ago, I do not know. Considering Aditha’s field you’d think she would have twigged to what Aram was doing to wind her up, but she didn’t.” Mike stopped and took a breath.
John noted Mike’s flush. “Sibling relationships are not always rational,” he offered.
“I suppose. Not having any, I don’t really know about it firsthand,” Mike said. “Over dinner…” John looked sympathetic. “Yeah, it was great for digestion,” Mike agreed. “Aram turns to me and says, ‘So, Mike, if you wake up in the middle of the night feeling a little frisky, don’t tell me you wake Aditha up to discuss consent before you act on your impulses.”
“Were your children home?” John couldn’t help asking.
“Thank heavens they were at a friend’s house, because, really, I think he would have pursued the topic whether they were there or not. I looked at him with my mouth open,” Mike continued. “Then he waves his fork at me and says, ‘You don’t need to say anything. Your red face says it all,’ and gives this gloating look to Aditha.”
“I thought Harry and I were the only ones that reached levels of embarrassment like that at family dinners,” John said. He had a flash of Mycroft saying, “You can imagine the Christmas dinners,” and shook his head slightly.
“He wasn’t done.” John’s eyebrows climbed higher. “He looks at Aditha, waving his knife this time…” Mike’s hand jabbed emphatically at the air. “And says, ‘And, dear sister, if Mike is snoring away and you aren’t quite sleepy yet, don’t you just wrap your arm around his podgy middle and see if you might get him interested again, without getting any signatures on consent forms?”
“Does your brother-in-law have it in for you?” John asked.
“I didn’t think so, but now I’m not so sure,” Mike sighed.
“He fit a lot into a couple sentences,” John said, nodding.
“Didn’t he?” Mike agreed. “Fortunately, the children came home which was a bit of a distraction and I hoped it was over…” Mike considered the stars sprinkled across the domed ceiling.
“But?”
“Aditha brought it up again when we were getting ready for bed and it was hard not to fall into the trap of agreeing with Aram, although it doesn’t have anything to do with marriage.” Mike’s gaze dropped to his fingernails. “Aditha and I lived together for a year before we got married and that is how we were.” Mike took a breath. “I was less podgy, then,” he added.
John couldn’t help thinking about how it felt to wake up with Sherlock’s fingers trailing up his thigh. “It’s rather a nice way to wake up, I think,” John said.
“Yeah,” Mike said, studying Libra’s balances in the mosaics by his feet.
“No joy yesterday, I take it?” John asked. Mike shook his head. “Is your brother-in-law still around?”
“He went up to Cambridge to spend the week with his parents,” Mike replied.
“Will he be with you again before he flies home?” John asked.
“Unfortunately,” Mike sighed again, not lifting his eyes. “I rather like it when Aditha’s all warm and sleepy.”
John patted Mike’s leg. “I agree with you. I think most folks would. I mean, marriages don’t last lifetimes anymore and there have always been plenty of bastards in the world to abuse the situation, but if you love someone and you’re sleeping with them, you rather want them to assume they have permission, don’t you?”
Mike was too embarrassed to look up, but he murmured, “That’s what I always thought.”
“Aditha will probably forgive you and forget about all of this as soon as her brother is over the ocean,” John said and glanced up quickly. He thought something had moved along one of the galleries, but there was nothing there but quiet shadows.
“I hope so,” Mike agreed, still not looking up. He hoped John would forgive him in the time to come. “So, I should leave you to your research,” Mike said finally. “Text me when you’re ready to go because the door code changes every few minutes. I’ll have the fob with me.”
“This may take me awhile,” John said.
“Well, you can stay,” Mike said, getting up. He walked to the far wall and opened a bookcase. “The washroom’s through here,” he said, gesturing. He took something out of his pocket and keyed in a code to open a larger door that mirrored the door to the main library. “The archivist’s office has a couch.” John joined Mike at the door. “And there’s a small fridge in the sideboard there with water and milk for tea. Kettle, tea, coffee and so on in the cupboard above,” Mike explained with a sweeping gesture towards the side wall.
“Wouldn’t the archivist be irked to find me asleep in his office in the morning?” John asked, surveying the crescent-shaped room.
“The post is vacant right now,” Mike said. “I’ve been filling in as needed.”
John strolled over to a full-length portrait behind the large antique desk that dominated the room.
Mike waited. “Mike,” John began, staring up at the tall man in full Victorian evening dress. “Who is this?”
Calculating rapidly, Mike replied, “Arthur Holmes, Sherlock’s great-great-great grandfather. The post of the archivist is something of a sinecure in the family, although it’s often more honorary than actual.”
John leaned back against the desk. Sherlock having the run of the place made a lot more sense as he contemplated the pale, piercing eyes of the man in the portrait. “Strong family resemblance over so many generations,” John said.
Mike joined John in front of the painting, handed John a bottle of water. “It is,” he said. Not as surprising if you knew how few generations, Mike thought. At some point John was going to learn about how long-lived the Holmeses were, he supposed, but that was for Sherlock to explain.
Glancing at his watch, Mike said, “I’ve got to dash. There’s some fruit on the sideboard and I put a few provisions in the fridge. I always get peckish when I research.”
John hadn’t moved. Mike patted him on the shoulder.
“I’m off, then,” he said and headed for the door. “Maybe I’ll see you here in the morning.”
John finally glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe,” he said. “Thanks, Mike.”
Mike heaved a big sigh. “Don’t mention it,” he said.
John twisted the cap off the water bottle, the crackle of the plastic loud in the quiet room. He drank half the bottle while studying the portrait. The erect carriage was so familiar. The artist had painted the black evening cape flaring slightly open as though the subject had just turned to face the viewer. The light shimmered across the white lining of watered silk, flashed off the silver tip of the walking stick in the man’s hand, and glimmered amidst the full head of shiny curls. John’s mouth felt dry. He finished the water. A top hat and white gloves rested on a small table to the left of the figure, along with a stack of books and papers surmounted by a skull. John scrutinised it. It looked the same as the one on their mantelpiece. “When I say a friend…” Sherlock had said.
“You mean a family heirloom or, if your forebears were anything like you, a family member,” John said aloud. His mouth closed abruptly. He missed the teasing.
John glanced behind him at the sofa. He felt tired. Libraries had always done that to him, but the material couldn’t be borrowed, so here it would have to be. He took another bottle of water from the little fridge, slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa, his gaze still on the picture. It was painted so the eyes appeared to follow the viewer. Of course.
John’s eye traced the open line of the cape, the swirls of embroidery on the silk waistcoat. He’d never seen Sherlock in anything more formal than a suit with an open-collared shirt. The elder Holmes was as slim as his descendant and seemed to favour the same tight fit in his clothes. John’s thumb rubbed across his fingertips. I think the artist loved you. The light and the pose were very flattering, the subject's expression engaged, as though he were regarding something that interested him. Arthur Holmes had one arm bent at the elbow, pushing out the cloak and showing the slimness of his waist encased in the white shirt and whiter waistcoat. The studs in the shirt and buttons of the waistcoat were black pearls, each possessed of a silvery gleam. It would take a long time to undress a man wearing all of those clothes...a long time to reach the pale skin. John’s tongue flicked across his lower lip. So many layers. He opened the fresh bottle of water and drank, pictured his hand slipping between the jacket and the waistcoat, around the narrow waist…
“Think about the paper,” John admonished himself in a stage whisper. He had to jerk his head away from the painting. “Think. The history of surgical instruments from pre-history to the present.” Why did I agree to this? It had been decades since John had written an academic paper. Why he had suddenly received an invitation from a medical journal to do so was beyond him. He suspected Mike might have had a hand in it as the editor had referred to John’s lecturing at Bart’s as well as his experience in the medical corps. An odd attraction to spending more time teaching at Bart’s had leapt into John’s mind while reading the letter. He had thought he wouldn’t be able to come back to the hospital after Sherlock…but every time he was in the building, he felt better. It had given him Sherlock, after all. Gave him and took him away.
John let his head fall back on the arm of the sofa. Maybe he should take a nap before he started on the research. See what Mike had left in the fridge when he woke up and then tackle the work refreshed. His breathing was getting shallow when he noticed a fragrance. John smiled. Maybe the gentleman in the portrait wore the same cologne as Sherlock, John thought. The warm air beneath the cloak would be sweet with it.
“John,” Sherlock said softly, leaning over the sofa. “John, can you open your eyes just for a moment and look at me?”
Oh, Sherlock, I wish I could. John’s eyelids felt far too heavy to open, but he smiled a crooked smile at the voice.
“John, there are things I need to do to you,” Sherlock went on and his breath wafted over John’s cheek. John could feel how warm it was.
“Sherlock,” he mumbled.
“May I do them to you, John? Will you let me?”
John muttered sleepily and took a deeper breath of the wonderful fragrance. His hand lifted a few centimetres from his chest. He wanted… he wanted something to be nearer.
“John, say ‘yes’ to me.”
“Yes,” John murmured. “Always yes to you…Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s cheek. Warm, full. Not cold, dead.
“Sherlock?” John whispered unsteadily.
“Yes, John?”
The voice felt sweet in his ears, trickling down his throat, tickling and so sweet. “Closer,” John entreated. Sherlock’s lips touched his ear. Warm breath.
“May I do what I want, John?” Sherlock asked, his hand sliding over John’s jumper to his jeans, over his hip to the warm denim between his thighs.
“Yes,” John answered, the last sound drawn out and sibilant. Sherlock’s lips hovered over John’s mouth, catching the breath. John’s lips parted to say yes again and the tip of Sherlock’s tongue slipped lightly between them, then away. “No,” John complained and his hands fluttered briefly above his chest before they fell against the cushions. “’Back,” John said on an exhaled breath. “Come back.”
Sherlock’s fingers walked over the denim to the button at John’s waist, flicked it open and withdrew. John lifted his hips slightly.
“’Back, Sherlock,” John said.
“Wait,” Sherlock replied.
John heard the shush of the zip. He wanted to lift his hips higher, but they wouldn’t obey. Sherlock’s arm curved behind John’s back and raised them. John half smiled. The cloth slipped away. The air was chill against his skin. The first warm flick of Sherlock’s tongue made John sigh. "No need to move,” John thought. Sherlock's other arm slid beneath John's thighs and lifted him into the heat.
John sighed again and let Sherlock take everything he needed.
*************
Mike tapped John’s bare shoulder lightly. “John,” he said.
John rolled onto his side smiling and reached out towards the voice. “Mmm,” he said, his hand falling to the floor. Mike retrieved it, laying it on the sofa.
Mike took in the bare foot sticking out from beneath the two sheets folded over John, tallied the number of garments on the floor by the sofa, the empty water bottle and the half-empty water bottle and felt fairly confident in his deduction. He checked his watch. John could sleep another hour and still have plenty of time to get home, change and make it to the clinic for his afternoon shift.
Mike texted Sherlock.
“In lab,” came the reply.
***********
“You look well-rested, John,” Sarah commented when John arrived at the surgery.
John took a deep breath, pulled his shoulders back and considered the observation. “You know, I think I am,” John said, “Although I was supposed to be doing research for a paper.”
Sarah smiled. “Academic research is known for its soporific effects.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” John said. “Is Stine in already?”
Sarah shook her head. “She called. Problem on the Circle Line. She got off at Euston and started walking.” Sarah glanced at the clock on the wall. “Should be here in about ten minutes.”
“Anyone waiting?”
“Next appointment’s in a half hour,” Sarah replied.
“Time for tea, then,” John said, slipping off his jacket as he walked towards the coat rack. “Want one?”
“Sure,” Sarah replied, looking after John and nodding. “No sugar,” she called. “This may work,” she added to herself.
************
“You can give him a fob,” Sherlock said. “I think he’ll stay anyway now.”
Mike remembered how John had looked when he left for the clinic in the morning. “I think you’re right.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his microscope.
“Test results okay?” Mike checked, although he was fairly sure of the answer.
“Perfect,” Sherlock said and pushed a stack of papers towards Mike.
He looked through them, smiling at the figures. Mike noticed which one was missing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: Between PG-13 and R
Length: ~3500 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of The Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Original Research follows after If I Caught You.
Excerpt: “Did you..” Mike started, entering the room and closing the door behind him. Sherlock was intent on his computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright, cheeks still too lean. “Sherlock, did you somehow…”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “Formulate a complete sentence, Mike,” he said and kept typing.
Original Research
The door from the Rare Books Room into the archivist’s office was half-open. Mike knocked lightly and waited. All he could hear was the faint click of computer keys. Sherlock usually didn’t answer. Mike poked his head around the door.
“Did you..” he started, entering the room and closing the door behind him. Sherlock was intent on his computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright, cheeks still too lean. “Sherlock, did you somehow…”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “Formulate a complete sentence, Mike,” he said and kept typing.
“Did you somehow ask John to come here?”
This time Sherlock shifted his attention to Mike. “What happened?”
“John texted. He wants to do some research that will require access to historical documents we have. Here,” Mike explained, his arm sweeping back to indicate the door behind him.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “When?”
“Tonight.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Excellent.” He swung the chair from side to side, one hand tapping on the arm in triple time.
“Something happen?” Mike asked.
“Lestrade has the hit man assigned to Mrs Hudson in custody. She and John have just given their statements at the Yard,” Sherlock said.
“One more to go, then,” Mike said, not seeing the connection with John’s urge to engage in academic research of the arcane variety.
Sherlock nodded. “John’s.” He rolled closer to the desk, planted his elbows on it. “Those are just the most immediate threats that must be neutralised, you realise.”
Considering what else he had been devoting his time to, Mike hadn’t given that side of the situation much thought. He tilted his head in acknowledgement. Sherlock would see that he hadn’t realised.
“When the third one has been captured or…” Sherlock fluttered a few fingers in the air before continuing, “I can start unravelling the rest of Moriarty’s web, thread by thread.”
Mike had read the transcript of Sherlock’s testimony in the newspapers, recognised the metaphor.
“But I need to be strong. Ignoring my physical condition could jeopardise the whole plan. So…” Sherlock looked directly at Mike. “I need you to have a certain conversation with John when he comes here tonight.”
Even after all his years of knowing Sherlock, having his full attention was an unnerving experience. A single drop of sweat trickled down Mike’s side as he nodded.
************
“I think I was only in this room once when I was training,” John said as Mike opened the door for them.
Mike heard John take a deep breath before he flicked the lights on. There was a hint of something other than old books and leather in the air that Mike couldn’t identify.
John turned in a slow circle, his eyes rising to the twilit windows and shadowy murals of the rotunda, spiralling along the galleries of bookcases, down to the shelves at eye level and the dark wooden tables with their green-shaded reading lamps. He reached out for the nearest table and ran his hand along the polished surface. “I don’t remember it being this beautiful.” John said.
“It is beautiful,” Mike agreed and hoped John would feel equally positive the next time he brought him there, because there would be a next time. Sherlock had made that clear.
“These materials are not detailed in the online catalogue,” Mike said. “You’ll have to search for them in the card catalogue.”
“I haven’t forgotten how to do that,” John said. His hand hadn’t left the table, but his gaze had returned to the rotunda. He appeared to be squinting at the artwork there. “All the muses, then,” he observed and cocked his head. “That’s a Ptolemaic view of the solar system on the dome, isn’t it?”
Mike nodded. “Yes. The theme runs throughout the room, in the ironwork, the wood carvings, the mosaics on the floor.”
John glanced at the patterns beneath his feet and thought of Sherlock not knowing that the earth revolved around the sun. Did you do a lot of research in this room, Sherlock?
Mike was speaking again. “The spiral stairs leading to the galleries are behind the narrow bookcases. They open like this,” Mike explained, walking to the nearest book shelves and demonstrating.
“I don’t recall this,” John said, joining Mike and peering into the small enclosure.
“Access to the books and documents upstairs is even more restricted,” Mike said, showing John which carved panel he had lifted to unlatch the narrow door.
John stepped inside and stared up the tight spiral of metal steps. “Limited to the very small or very slim,” John remarked.
“Indeed,” Mike agreed. “That’s who they were designed for.” John glanced at Mike, his brows drawing together, but Mike was intent on showing John where the latch inside the door was secreted. “Go up and see if you can get out all right. You want the first door.” John raised an eyebrow. “There’re other levels,” Mike said pointing upwards. “There are cupboards behind the frescos with manuscripts and unbound documents and several doorways to the outside balcony that circles the rotunda.”
“I spent years in this building and didn’t know about any of this,” John marvelled.
“Bart’s was built to hold secrets,” Mike said. “A lot of Victorian buildings were. It was a romantic period in architecture.” His voice trailed off.
John looked carefully at Mike. “Is something wrong?”
Mike sighed and sat on the edge of the nearest table. “Got a few minutes before you get started on your work?”
John pulled out a chair and sat. “Sure. Of course,” he replied and waited for Mike to begin.
“There are a few things, really, but the one that’s bothering me most right now is a conversation I had last night with Aditha and her brother, Aram.”
John quirked an eyebrow.
“Aram and Aditha have a history of…” Mike paused. “Robust debate.”
“And you got caught in the middle of it?” John asked.
Mike was about to say that John had been around Sherlock too long, but caught himself. “Something like that,” Mike muttered instead. “Aram lives in Toronto, so it doesn’t happen very often,” he added and sighed. “He flew in yesterday and when I got home last night they were already arguing about consent, generally and between spouses particularly.”
Both of John’s eyebrows went up. “Ah.”
“They had clearly been at it for a while.” Mike shook his head. “Neither one likes to admit they might be wrong.”
John thought of Harry and himself, of Mycroft and…
"My mother-in-law's illness is terminal so consent is something they had to discuss. And between Aditha being a psychiatrist and Aram being a lawyer they had a lot to say on the subject…” Mike took off his glasses and rubbed them absently on his sleeve. “How Aram got from their mother's situation to expounding on the fact that rape of a wife by her husband was deemed legally impossible until not that long ago, I do not know. Considering Aditha’s field you’d think she would have twigged to what Aram was doing to wind her up, but she didn’t.” Mike stopped and took a breath.
John noted Mike’s flush. “Sibling relationships are not always rational,” he offered.
“I suppose. Not having any, I don’t really know about it firsthand,” Mike said. “Over dinner…” John looked sympathetic. “Yeah, it was great for digestion,” Mike agreed. “Aram turns to me and says, ‘So, Mike, if you wake up in the middle of the night feeling a little frisky, don’t tell me you wake Aditha up to discuss consent before you act on your impulses.”
“Were your children home?” John couldn’t help asking.
“Thank heavens they were at a friend’s house, because, really, I think he would have pursued the topic whether they were there or not. I looked at him with my mouth open,” Mike continued. “Then he waves his fork at me and says, ‘You don’t need to say anything. Your red face says it all,’ and gives this gloating look to Aditha.”
“I thought Harry and I were the only ones that reached levels of embarrassment like that at family dinners,” John said. He had a flash of Mycroft saying, “You can imagine the Christmas dinners,” and shook his head slightly.
“He wasn’t done.” John’s eyebrows climbed higher. “He looks at Aditha, waving his knife this time…” Mike’s hand jabbed emphatically at the air. “And says, ‘And, dear sister, if Mike is snoring away and you aren’t quite sleepy yet, don’t you just wrap your arm around his podgy middle and see if you might get him interested again, without getting any signatures on consent forms?”
“Does your brother-in-law have it in for you?” John asked.
“I didn’t think so, but now I’m not so sure,” Mike sighed.
“He fit a lot into a couple sentences,” John said, nodding.
“Didn’t he?” Mike agreed. “Fortunately, the children came home which was a bit of a distraction and I hoped it was over…” Mike considered the stars sprinkled across the domed ceiling.
“But?”
“Aditha brought it up again when we were getting ready for bed and it was hard not to fall into the trap of agreeing with Aram, although it doesn’t have anything to do with marriage.” Mike’s gaze dropped to his fingernails. “Aditha and I lived together for a year before we got married and that is how we were.” Mike took a breath. “I was less podgy, then,” he added.
John couldn’t help thinking about how it felt to wake up with Sherlock’s fingers trailing up his thigh. “It’s rather a nice way to wake up, I think,” John said.
“Yeah,” Mike said, studying Libra’s balances in the mosaics by his feet.
“No joy yesterday, I take it?” John asked. Mike shook his head. “Is your brother-in-law still around?”
“He went up to Cambridge to spend the week with his parents,” Mike replied.
“Will he be with you again before he flies home?” John asked.
“Unfortunately,” Mike sighed again, not lifting his eyes. “I rather like it when Aditha’s all warm and sleepy.”
John patted Mike’s leg. “I agree with you. I think most folks would. I mean, marriages don’t last lifetimes anymore and there have always been plenty of bastards in the world to abuse the situation, but if you love someone and you’re sleeping with them, you rather want them to assume they have permission, don’t you?”
Mike was too embarrassed to look up, but he murmured, “That’s what I always thought.”
“Aditha will probably forgive you and forget about all of this as soon as her brother is over the ocean,” John said and glanced up quickly. He thought something had moved along one of the galleries, but there was nothing there but quiet shadows.
“I hope so,” Mike agreed, still not looking up. He hoped John would forgive him in the time to come. “So, I should leave you to your research,” Mike said finally. “Text me when you’re ready to go because the door code changes every few minutes. I’ll have the fob with me.”
“This may take me awhile,” John said.
“Well, you can stay,” Mike said, getting up. He walked to the far wall and opened a bookcase. “The washroom’s through here,” he said, gesturing. He took something out of his pocket and keyed in a code to open a larger door that mirrored the door to the main library. “The archivist’s office has a couch.” John joined Mike at the door. “And there’s a small fridge in the sideboard there with water and milk for tea. Kettle, tea, coffee and so on in the cupboard above,” Mike explained with a sweeping gesture towards the side wall.
“Wouldn’t the archivist be irked to find me asleep in his office in the morning?” John asked, surveying the crescent-shaped room.
“The post is vacant right now,” Mike said. “I’ve been filling in as needed.”
John strolled over to a full-length portrait behind the large antique desk that dominated the room.
Mike waited. “Mike,” John began, staring up at the tall man in full Victorian evening dress. “Who is this?”
Calculating rapidly, Mike replied, “Arthur Holmes, Sherlock’s great-great-great grandfather. The post of the archivist is something of a sinecure in the family, although it’s often more honorary than actual.”
John leaned back against the desk. Sherlock having the run of the place made a lot more sense as he contemplated the pale, piercing eyes of the man in the portrait. “Strong family resemblance over so many generations,” John said.
Mike joined John in front of the painting, handed John a bottle of water. “It is,” he said. Not as surprising if you knew how few generations, Mike thought. At some point John was going to learn about how long-lived the Holmeses were, he supposed, but that was for Sherlock to explain.
Glancing at his watch, Mike said, “I’ve got to dash. There’s some fruit on the sideboard and I put a few provisions in the fridge. I always get peckish when I research.”
John hadn’t moved. Mike patted him on the shoulder.
“I’m off, then,” he said and headed for the door. “Maybe I’ll see you here in the morning.”
John finally glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe,” he said. “Thanks, Mike.”
Mike heaved a big sigh. “Don’t mention it,” he said.
John twisted the cap off the water bottle, the crackle of the plastic loud in the quiet room. He drank half the bottle while studying the portrait. The erect carriage was so familiar. The artist had painted the black evening cape flaring slightly open as though the subject had just turned to face the viewer. The light shimmered across the white lining of watered silk, flashed off the silver tip of the walking stick in the man’s hand, and glimmered amidst the full head of shiny curls. John’s mouth felt dry. He finished the water. A top hat and white gloves rested on a small table to the left of the figure, along with a stack of books and papers surmounted by a skull. John scrutinised it. It looked the same as the one on their mantelpiece. “When I say a friend…” Sherlock had said.
“You mean a family heirloom or, if your forebears were anything like you, a family member,” John said aloud. His mouth closed abruptly. He missed the teasing.
John glanced behind him at the sofa. He felt tired. Libraries had always done that to him, but the material couldn’t be borrowed, so here it would have to be. He took another bottle of water from the little fridge, slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa, his gaze still on the picture. It was painted so the eyes appeared to follow the viewer. Of course.
John’s eye traced the open line of the cape, the swirls of embroidery on the silk waistcoat. He’d never seen Sherlock in anything more formal than a suit with an open-collared shirt. The elder Holmes was as slim as his descendant and seemed to favour the same tight fit in his clothes. John’s thumb rubbed across his fingertips. I think the artist loved you. The light and the pose were very flattering, the subject's expression engaged, as though he were regarding something that interested him. Arthur Holmes had one arm bent at the elbow, pushing out the cloak and showing the slimness of his waist encased in the white shirt and whiter waistcoat. The studs in the shirt and buttons of the waistcoat were black pearls, each possessed of a silvery gleam. It would take a long time to undress a man wearing all of those clothes...a long time to reach the pale skin. John’s tongue flicked across his lower lip. So many layers. He opened the fresh bottle of water and drank, pictured his hand slipping between the jacket and the waistcoat, around the narrow waist…
“Think about the paper,” John admonished himself in a stage whisper. He had to jerk his head away from the painting. “Think. The history of surgical instruments from pre-history to the present.” Why did I agree to this? It had been decades since John had written an academic paper. Why he had suddenly received an invitation from a medical journal to do so was beyond him. He suspected Mike might have had a hand in it as the editor had referred to John’s lecturing at Bart’s as well as his experience in the medical corps. An odd attraction to spending more time teaching at Bart’s had leapt into John’s mind while reading the letter. He had thought he wouldn’t be able to come back to the hospital after Sherlock…but every time he was in the building, he felt better. It had given him Sherlock, after all. Gave him and took him away.
John let his head fall back on the arm of the sofa. Maybe he should take a nap before he started on the research. See what Mike had left in the fridge when he woke up and then tackle the work refreshed. His breathing was getting shallow when he noticed a fragrance. John smiled. Maybe the gentleman in the portrait wore the same cologne as Sherlock, John thought. The warm air beneath the cloak would be sweet with it.
“John,” Sherlock said softly, leaning over the sofa. “John, can you open your eyes just for a moment and look at me?”
Oh, Sherlock, I wish I could. John’s eyelids felt far too heavy to open, but he smiled a crooked smile at the voice.
“John, there are things I need to do to you,” Sherlock went on and his breath wafted over John’s cheek. John could feel how warm it was.
“Sherlock,” he mumbled.
“May I do them to you, John? Will you let me?”
John muttered sleepily and took a deeper breath of the wonderful fragrance. His hand lifted a few centimetres from his chest. He wanted… he wanted something to be nearer.
“John, say ‘yes’ to me.”
“Yes,” John murmured. “Always yes to you…Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s cheek. Warm, full. Not cold, dead.
“Sherlock?” John whispered unsteadily.
“Yes, John?”
The voice felt sweet in his ears, trickling down his throat, tickling and so sweet. “Closer,” John entreated. Sherlock’s lips touched his ear. Warm breath.
“May I do what I want, John?” Sherlock asked, his hand sliding over John’s jumper to his jeans, over his hip to the warm denim between his thighs.
“Yes,” John answered, the last sound drawn out and sibilant. Sherlock’s lips hovered over John’s mouth, catching the breath. John’s lips parted to say yes again and the tip of Sherlock’s tongue slipped lightly between them, then away. “No,” John complained and his hands fluttered briefly above his chest before they fell against the cushions. “’Back,” John said on an exhaled breath. “Come back.”
Sherlock’s fingers walked over the denim to the button at John’s waist, flicked it open and withdrew. John lifted his hips slightly.
“’Back, Sherlock,” John said.
“Wait,” Sherlock replied.
John heard the shush of the zip. He wanted to lift his hips higher, but they wouldn’t obey. Sherlock’s arm curved behind John’s back and raised them. John half smiled. The cloth slipped away. The air was chill against his skin. The first warm flick of Sherlock’s tongue made John sigh. "No need to move,” John thought. Sherlock's other arm slid beneath John's thighs and lifted him into the heat.
John sighed again and let Sherlock take everything he needed.
*************
Mike tapped John’s bare shoulder lightly. “John,” he said.
John rolled onto his side smiling and reached out towards the voice. “Mmm,” he said, his hand falling to the floor. Mike retrieved it, laying it on the sofa.
Mike took in the bare foot sticking out from beneath the two sheets folded over John, tallied the number of garments on the floor by the sofa, the empty water bottle and the half-empty water bottle and felt fairly confident in his deduction. He checked his watch. John could sleep another hour and still have plenty of time to get home, change and make it to the clinic for his afternoon shift.
Mike texted Sherlock.
“In lab,” came the reply.
***********
“You look well-rested, John,” Sarah commented when John arrived at the surgery.
John took a deep breath, pulled his shoulders back and considered the observation. “You know, I think I am,” John said, “Although I was supposed to be doing research for a paper.”
Sarah smiled. “Academic research is known for its soporific effects.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” John said. “Is Stine in already?”
Sarah shook her head. “She called. Problem on the Circle Line. She got off at Euston and started walking.” Sarah glanced at the clock on the wall. “Should be here in about ten minutes.”
“Anyone waiting?”
“Next appointment’s in a half hour,” Sarah replied.
“Time for tea, then,” John said, slipping off his jacket as he walked towards the coat rack. “Want one?”
“Sure,” Sarah replied, looking after John and nodding. “No sugar,” she called. “This may work,” she added to herself.
************
“You can give him a fob,” Sherlock said. “I think he’ll stay anyway now.”
Mike remembered how John had looked when he left for the clinic in the morning. “I think you’re right.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his microscope.
“Test results okay?” Mike checked, although he was fairly sure of the answer.
“Perfect,” Sherlock said and pushed a stack of papers towards Mike.
He looked through them, smiling at the figures. Mike noticed which one was missing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part may be read here.