The Bone Fiddle, Chapter 11/13
Title: The Bone Fiddle
Authors: htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By: bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Download the fanmix
In this chapter: Gradually, John's new life is going back to, um, "normal."
Chapter 11 - Soldier's Joy
John woke up to a sound like gravel pelting the roof and against the window. Through the streaked glass, he could see fat, wet flakes of snow mixing in with the sleet. The woods were a drab and misty blur.
He was in a real bed this time. Sherlock's bed. And he was finally warm. And there was the fact that he was lightly bruised and certain muscles long unused were aching, and the sheets smelled of men and sex. John rubbed his nose against the pillow that smelled like Sherlock the most.
The morning-after panic wasn't real. It only showed up as a ghost of itself because it was expected. A little bit to his own surprise, John felt no regrets at all. None whatsoever.
Even less when he visited the toilet (indoors in bad weather, oh what a luxury, glory hallelujah), and much much less so when his nose started to sort out the complex cocktail of smells from downstairs and found that, yes, fresh coffee was one of them. He threw on his dusty and faintly bloodstained shirt and jeans, having nothing else, and made his way to the kitchen.
That's where he found Sherlock, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a what looked like a small welder's mask, staring into the messy orange guts of a totally exploded large pumpkin.
"Good morning, John," he said without turning around, in exactly the same way he'd said it when he'd caught John having a good snoop around his yard. Could that really have been less than a week ago? He never took his face away from his work.
"It's afternoon," John said. "At least I think it is . . ." With a strange fondness, John studied the hunch of Sherlock's shoulders as he rooted through pumpkin mess, the way the strap of the mask cut a path through his dark curly hair . . . oh, then there was the way that hair had felt in John's hands when he stroked it, then grabbed and pulled it, and the feral energy that unleashed . . . well . . .
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock sighed, magnified by the metal over his face. Yes, that was a small blowtorch by his hand. "Mrs. Hudson will be serving pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dinner. She has correctly deduced that it's my favorite. But I don't know why it's my favorite, or if the formula could be improved."
"I'm sure the cinnamon and nutmeg must have something to do with it."
"Obviously. But in the preliminary stages of a study, one has to isolate the discrete components. Didn't you have to master third-grade science to get into medical school?" Sherlock had taken on his addressing-a-slow-three-year-old voice again.
John's strange fondness didn't dissipate. Not in the least. But it did mean Sherlock deserved a little needling.
"I know this ain't really your area, but you should still look a man in the eye and not talk down to him too much mere hours after he's had your cock in his mouth."
Sherlock looked up and turned suddenly, and, buried behind the steel, John thought he saw a milliglimpse of fear in those quicksilver eyes. Fear that he'd misstepped. And then, just as fast, observation that he hadn't, not really.
"You're so vulgar, John."
"You didn't seem to mind that before. Had a pretty raunchy mouth yourself."
"Context is very important," Sherlock said primly, and John could clearly hear the wry smile. "Isn't it time for your sexual identity crisis?"
"I'll do that later," John said. "Right now, I'm too horny."
Sherlock started to laugh, but then John got close enough to push the welder's mask off and any further banter got muddled by kissing as it fell to the floor. Sherlock hummed into John's mouth and John heard the probably unsafe clatter of Sherlock letting the blowtorch fall to the floor. Wide warm hands ran up under John's shirt and over his chest. John shivered and retaliated by undoing the sash of Sherlock's bathrobe, which was dark blue and contrasted nicely with his pale skin.
Sherlock broke the kiss on a gasp when John's hands began mapping his body greedily, which provided John with the opportunity to kiss his defiant chin and elegant neck and along his jawline.
"Mm, let's go upstairs," John said to the sensitive space between Sherlock's ear and jaw.
Sherlock seemed to melt for a minute, although that could just have been the soft heat of his skin filling John's hands. "No," Sherlock said, growled really, before shoving John against the nearest wall.
John mostly escaped the picture frame that clanged to the floor, but anyway he had little time to dwell on any impending bruises because Sherlock had pressed him into the wall as hard as he pressed his mouth against John's in a demanding kiss. John's neck hurt from angling back and his skull hurt from the wall and his arms hurt from Sherlock's biting fingernails. All of it made the supple generosity of his mouth all the more entrancing.
It was abundantly clear that Sherlock wasn't wearing anything underneath that bathrobe, especially now that he wasn't letting John touch him. John's eyes closed at the persistence of Sherlock's kiss, at his tongue tasting every available surface in John's mouth like it was a challenge to do so, and John couldn't see it but God could he ever feel the heat of Sherlock's naked body, and especially the erection grinding against John's hip.
Sherlock's mouth abandoned John's, apparently satisfied once he'd got John moaning in frustration, and his nibbling kisses meandered down John's body, first through John's shirt and then on skin after Sherlock pushed the hem up for better access.
Sherlock's mouth kept descending until he landed audibly on his knees. He wasted no time licking down John's chest and into his bellybutton in a manner that made John squirm and clutch at his shoulders. He looked up at John, and his eyes were unguarded and insanely blue, either because of the shade of his robe or lust but hopefully both.
John made an involuntary sound suspiciously like a whimper and Sherlock looked smug as hell as he unbuttoned John's jeans. It would've been nice to take it slow this time, but then again Sherlock was pulling John's cock out and licking lasciviously up the underside before twining his tongue around the tip and why the fuck was John complaining again?
"Shit," John gritted out, trying not to lose it right then and there, and goddammit Sherlock glancing up at him occasionally as he took John's cock ever deeper wasn't helping. Where had Sherlock learned to do that? Maybe it was better not to know, but John sure was grateful about now.
"John," Sherlock said, and his voice was wonderfully muffled by John's cock slipping in and out of his mouth. "Watch."
"Oh God, I - "
"John."
John drew in a shaky breath and watched as Sherlock locked eyes with him, then took John deep and swallowed and it was all John could do not to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's wild hair and hold him down. He twisted the slippery material of Sherlock's robe up in his hands instead.
As if sensing John's every lewd thought Sherlock pulled off to say, "Fuck my mouth," and when John just stood there paralyzed with lust he rolled his eyes and added, "Hold my head still and do it, John."
"I. I - "
"John."
John dragged his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, traced his gorgeous flushed face, sliced his fingers into his hair. Sherlock strained forward to run his tongue under the head of John's cock teasingly until John groaned and sunk back into the heat of his mouth.
John thrusted shallowly at first, but then Sherlock incorporated his tongue at random and John had to go deeper just to see what he might do. He found an effective rhythm, with Sherlock not so much sucking as making sure John met with resistance with his obscenely wet lips, swirling his tongue and his eyes kept threatening to shut every time John plunged back in but focused obsessively on him the whole time.
John was close before long, of course he was, and Sherlock shifting suddenly to wrap a hand around his own cock and pump it in time with John's thrusts cinched it. Sherlock moaned, which felt fantastic, and John couldn't decide whether to watch his cock disappearing between Sherlock's lips or Sherlock's shameless self-pleasuring while he took it just so fucking effortlessly.
John came, breathless and shaking with Sherlock's hair knotted hopelessly between his fingers, and Sherlock kept sucking softly until John was spent, then collapsed to the side. John's vision pulsed dizzily but through the haze he watched Sherlock jerking his own cock with abandon, brows knit in concentration and his robe hanging off one shoulder but still sticking to his sweaty skin here and there.
"Let me take care of that for you," John said hoarsely, and joined him on the floor, which was much more uncomfortable and much less sensual than John had anticipated, but there was a job to be done, dammit. John tucked himself back into his jeans carelessly, then climbed over to Sherlock with heavy limbs and kissed him. Sherlock fisted his hands in John's shirt, kissed back, fell back and pulled John along with him.
John laughed. "You oka - oh, okay." Sherlock had seized John's wrist and forced it down between his legs. John took the hint, wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock went to work. This was like the graveyard, a bit, except that it was insanely better.
"God, look at you," John breathed. "You're fucking leaking everywhere." He sucked at Sherlock's neck because of how it strained back, licked into his mouth because of how it had fallen open in delight.
"John, I want you to - mmf."
John stopped kissing him after a heated moment and said, "No, that's cheating. Let me figure out what you want."
"Practicing your deductive reasoning?"
"Oh, yeah." John moved his hand a little faster, and Sherlock's eyes widened very slightly. "And I'm gonna need a lot of practice, I can tell."
"Yes, well." Sherlock was trying so hard to be cool, but he was panting more than speaking. "Practice makes perfect."
"You are perfect," John told him, burying his face in Sherlock's neck for a minute just to inhale his scent. Sherlock's hips kept straining up impatiently and John wasn't interested in teasing him right now - he increased the pressure, wanted feverishly to have Sherlock as breathless as he made John all the time.
Sherlock clutched at John's arms, which were trembling with the effort of keeping himself propped up over Sherlock as he writhed around on the floor, and as drained as he was John suddenly wanted to fuck Sherlock like this, where he could see every fleeting feeling cross Sherlock's usually stoic face, see Sherlock's hair jostling as John thrust into him and see Sherlock's eyes and mouth pleading for more.
Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightened and faltered and he spilled shudderingly into John's hand, all over his stomach, and a little bit on his bathrobe. John kissed him through it, and Sherlock responded with enthusiasm before going slack jawed and listless beneath him.
As nice as it was, John's knees were starting to protest. "Sherlock. We gotta move."
Sherlock grumbled, but he sat up and let John steer him to a clutter-clogged couch anyway. They leaned against each other while their breathing slowed, and Sherlock's fingertips traced vaguely over whatever part of John they could reach.
***
The sun was sinking behind the hills by the time they finally roused themselves, and that halfhearted snow had finally stopped coming down, leaving a light dusting on the grass that would either freeze overnight or melt away on a sunny day down the road.
Sherlock paced through the living room, fully dressed this time and playing his fiddle - a real one, which looked nearly as hellish as the bone fiddle but sounded heavenly. John spent the better part of an hour calling up various personnel at WVU, most of them notably displeased with him for making them work so close to the holiday. He did find out a fair amount about Jamie's classes, but not before enduring an army of cranky office workers. John wondered how he'd gotten roped into this in the first place. Those plural orgasms over the last 24 hours had probably had something to do with it.
"Well," John said, hanging up the phone and handing Sherlock the notepad he'd been scribbling on. "Here you go. Need me to find out how frequently she went to the bathroom or skipped class or anything else that's completely random, while I'm at it?"
"Did you get last year's schedule, too?" Sherlock faced away from him, still fiddling haphazardly.
"Yes. Though, again, I don't know why you'd need it."
Sherlock put his fiddle down and snatched the notepad from John, scanning obsessively. "Ah!" he said after a minute, then put the notepad down and beamed at John. "Professor Moriarty."
John waited.
"He's on the Easton-Bolan Coal Miners board of trustees. That's how Jamie must've gotten involved . . ."
"How do you know that? About the professor being on the board."
"They've been courting me for awhile, now. I'm quite familiar with their upper management."
"Clearly."
"Jamie took Advanced Algebra freshman year with this professor, and a low level math course the next year because he was teaching it. He must have put her in touch with the coal company or recommended her, and they must have offered that internship Elise said she was working so hard for - a ticket out of Stanger. Hard to say who came up with the idea to go on a murderous rampage, though I have to say if it wasn't Jamie herself, she sure was thinking about it. Huh. Almost flawless."
Sherlock picked up his fiddle again, played a cheery little tune and seemed quite content to bask in the glow of his own cleverness. He faced the window instead of John.
John felt awkwardness settling in. "Well. I should probably get home." He couldn't really think clearly, in Sherlock's presence. It would probably be a good idea to mull over everything that was happening between them at a safer distance.
Sherlock's melody didn't falter at all as he replied: "Yes, go home and get your things, there's a lot of closet space here."
"Um . . . "
"You know you're going to live with me now, of course."
" . . . "
"Oh please," Sherlock snorted, deigning to turn and face him. "Winter is coming. You don't want to be cooped up in that terrible excuse for a trailer over these next months, and it will be far more convenient for you to stay here."
"I - "
It was very hard not to just say yes when Sherlock looked so confident about the whole thing, but on the other hand it was quite satisfying to watch a smidge of doubt cloud up Sherlock's eyes when John laughed and said, "Listen, I've gotta go," and bolted for the door.
Sherlock, for once, followed after John. But both of them stopped short on the porch at the sight of someone walking up to the house through the deepening dusk.
Sherlock frowned as the shadowy figure materialized into a person. "Lestrade."
"Well hey there, Honeydripper," said Lestrade. "Get your beauty rest? Good! Now let's get you boys down to the station an' take your statements."
"You find the body?" Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, putting him in John's personal space. "Jamie Rowe's, I mean."
"Yeah. Well, what was left of it. Got all tore up on its way down that mining shaft."
"I can imagine," Sherlock said, while John tried not to. "Find anything else?"
"Some mighty suspicious blood in the back of Tanner's truck. All that's in processing now."
"Know about Easton-Bolan yet?"
Lestrade frowned. "I know of them . . . "
Sherlock grinned. "We'll have lots to talk about then."
"Well I'm downright titillated," Lestrade said tonelessly. "Let's go."
"Hm." Sherlock looked sidelong at John. "Right now?"
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Why? What are you two so busy doin' you can't come with me?" He was laughing, but it made John helplessly jittery anyway.
"Oh you know," John blurted. "It's just I don't have what you'd call actual plumbing down at the trailer, and you know, it was just more convenient to come up here, and it's . . . tell you what, Sherlock was really tired. Traumatic stuff. Had to get him straight on home."
"Yes, John looked after me very, very well." He slapped John on the back but let his hand linger a bit. "I'm trying to get him to stay on and look after me full time, actually. You and Mrs. Hudson should be pleased," he added with a sneer.
Lestrade laughed again. "That so, Dr. Watson? Lord knows it's better'n that creaky old trailer accommodation wise, and Sherlock sure has got the room."
John kept blinking. At what point in their sparring match had Sherlock enlisted Lestrade?
"Of course the indoor toilet is one of this house's key selling points," Sherlock said proudly. "Tell him, Sheriff."
"You got a toilet, it's true. When you haven't blown it up lately, that is."
"I have only exploded my toilet once."
"Pretty sure I recall gettin' called out here for it twice. Still don't know how you managed to set it on fire."
"I didn't do it. " Sherlock was indignant. "That was a crude attempt on my life. By someone else."
"Okay!" John said over them. "Let's take it down a notch there, gentlemen."
Lestrade nodded to John before addressing Sherlock again. "See you know I like this, havin' the good doctor around as a referee for you."
"John is not my referee."
"'Course he ain't," Lestrade smiled. "Now come on, there's business needs taken care of, still."
Sherlock gave a put upon sigh and ducked inside to grab his coat and scarf before the three of them crunched across the lawn to Lestrade's car.
"So," Lestrade said. "I hear Mrs. Hudson invited you down to hers for Thanksgiving, and I gotta tell you, it's my sacred duty to make sure you show up. You'll break her poor heart, if you don't."
"Of course I'm going," Sherlock snapped.
"Just wasn't sure you'd be inclined to eatin' in the middle of a case like this, is all. You noticed that yet, John?"
John bit his tongue, but a couple of giggles escaped anyway.
Sherlock couldn't seem to decide who to glare at.
Lestrade held open the car door for them. "Well, then. Maybe you can keep on him about havin' a decent diet, too."
"I'll keep on him," John promised, and Sherlock snickered way too loudly at his side.
***
Chapter 12
Authors: htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By: bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Download the fanmix
In this chapter: Gradually, John's new life is going back to, um, "normal."
Chapter 11 - Soldier's Joy
John woke up to a sound like gravel pelting the roof and against the window. Through the streaked glass, he could see fat, wet flakes of snow mixing in with the sleet. The woods were a drab and misty blur.
He was in a real bed this time. Sherlock's bed. And he was finally warm. And there was the fact that he was lightly bruised and certain muscles long unused were aching, and the sheets smelled of men and sex. John rubbed his nose against the pillow that smelled like Sherlock the most.
The morning-after panic wasn't real. It only showed up as a ghost of itself because it was expected. A little bit to his own surprise, John felt no regrets at all. None whatsoever.
Even less when he visited the toilet (indoors in bad weather, oh what a luxury, glory hallelujah), and much much less so when his nose started to sort out the complex cocktail of smells from downstairs and found that, yes, fresh coffee was one of them. He threw on his dusty and faintly bloodstained shirt and jeans, having nothing else, and made his way to the kitchen.
That's where he found Sherlock, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a what looked like a small welder's mask, staring into the messy orange guts of a totally exploded large pumpkin.
"Good morning, John," he said without turning around, in exactly the same way he'd said it when he'd caught John having a good snoop around his yard. Could that really have been less than a week ago? He never took his face away from his work.
"It's afternoon," John said. "At least I think it is . . ." With a strange fondness, John studied the hunch of Sherlock's shoulders as he rooted through pumpkin mess, the way the strap of the mask cut a path through his dark curly hair . . . oh, then there was the way that hair had felt in John's hands when he stroked it, then grabbed and pulled it, and the feral energy that unleashed . . . well . . .
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock sighed, magnified by the metal over his face. Yes, that was a small blowtorch by his hand. "Mrs. Hudson will be serving pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dinner. She has correctly deduced that it's my favorite. But I don't know why it's my favorite, or if the formula could be improved."
"I'm sure the cinnamon and nutmeg must have something to do with it."
"Obviously. But in the preliminary stages of a study, one has to isolate the discrete components. Didn't you have to master third-grade science to get into medical school?" Sherlock had taken on his addressing-a-slow-three-year-old voice again.
John's strange fondness didn't dissipate. Not in the least. But it did mean Sherlock deserved a little needling.
"I know this ain't really your area, but you should still look a man in the eye and not talk down to him too much mere hours after he's had your cock in his mouth."
Sherlock looked up and turned suddenly, and, buried behind the steel, John thought he saw a milliglimpse of fear in those quicksilver eyes. Fear that he'd misstepped. And then, just as fast, observation that he hadn't, not really.
"You're so vulgar, John."
"You didn't seem to mind that before. Had a pretty raunchy mouth yourself."
"Context is very important," Sherlock said primly, and John could clearly hear the wry smile. "Isn't it time for your sexual identity crisis?"
"I'll do that later," John said. "Right now, I'm too horny."
Sherlock started to laugh, but then John got close enough to push the welder's mask off and any further banter got muddled by kissing as it fell to the floor. Sherlock hummed into John's mouth and John heard the probably unsafe clatter of Sherlock letting the blowtorch fall to the floor. Wide warm hands ran up under John's shirt and over his chest. John shivered and retaliated by undoing the sash of Sherlock's bathrobe, which was dark blue and contrasted nicely with his pale skin.
Sherlock broke the kiss on a gasp when John's hands began mapping his body greedily, which provided John with the opportunity to kiss his defiant chin and elegant neck and along his jawline.
"Mm, let's go upstairs," John said to the sensitive space between Sherlock's ear and jaw.
Sherlock seemed to melt for a minute, although that could just have been the soft heat of his skin filling John's hands. "No," Sherlock said, growled really, before shoving John against the nearest wall.
John mostly escaped the picture frame that clanged to the floor, but anyway he had little time to dwell on any impending bruises because Sherlock had pressed him into the wall as hard as he pressed his mouth against John's in a demanding kiss. John's neck hurt from angling back and his skull hurt from the wall and his arms hurt from Sherlock's biting fingernails. All of it made the supple generosity of his mouth all the more entrancing.
It was abundantly clear that Sherlock wasn't wearing anything underneath that bathrobe, especially now that he wasn't letting John touch him. John's eyes closed at the persistence of Sherlock's kiss, at his tongue tasting every available surface in John's mouth like it was a challenge to do so, and John couldn't see it but God could he ever feel the heat of Sherlock's naked body, and especially the erection grinding against John's hip.
Sherlock's mouth abandoned John's, apparently satisfied once he'd got John moaning in frustration, and his nibbling kisses meandered down John's body, first through John's shirt and then on skin after Sherlock pushed the hem up for better access.
Sherlock's mouth kept descending until he landed audibly on his knees. He wasted no time licking down John's chest and into his bellybutton in a manner that made John squirm and clutch at his shoulders. He looked up at John, and his eyes were unguarded and insanely blue, either because of the shade of his robe or lust but hopefully both.
John made an involuntary sound suspiciously like a whimper and Sherlock looked smug as hell as he unbuttoned John's jeans. It would've been nice to take it slow this time, but then again Sherlock was pulling John's cock out and licking lasciviously up the underside before twining his tongue around the tip and why the fuck was John complaining again?
"Shit," John gritted out, trying not to lose it right then and there, and goddammit Sherlock glancing up at him occasionally as he took John's cock ever deeper wasn't helping. Where had Sherlock learned to do that? Maybe it was better not to know, but John sure was grateful about now.
"John," Sherlock said, and his voice was wonderfully muffled by John's cock slipping in and out of his mouth. "Watch."
"Oh God, I - "
"John."
John drew in a shaky breath and watched as Sherlock locked eyes with him, then took John deep and swallowed and it was all John could do not to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's wild hair and hold him down. He twisted the slippery material of Sherlock's robe up in his hands instead.
As if sensing John's every lewd thought Sherlock pulled off to say, "Fuck my mouth," and when John just stood there paralyzed with lust he rolled his eyes and added, "Hold my head still and do it, John."
"I. I - "
"John."
John dragged his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, traced his gorgeous flushed face, sliced his fingers into his hair. Sherlock strained forward to run his tongue under the head of John's cock teasingly until John groaned and sunk back into the heat of his mouth.
John thrusted shallowly at first, but then Sherlock incorporated his tongue at random and John had to go deeper just to see what he might do. He found an effective rhythm, with Sherlock not so much sucking as making sure John met with resistance with his obscenely wet lips, swirling his tongue and his eyes kept threatening to shut every time John plunged back in but focused obsessively on him the whole time.
John was close before long, of course he was, and Sherlock shifting suddenly to wrap a hand around his own cock and pump it in time with John's thrusts cinched it. Sherlock moaned, which felt fantastic, and John couldn't decide whether to watch his cock disappearing between Sherlock's lips or Sherlock's shameless self-pleasuring while he took it just so fucking effortlessly.
John came, breathless and shaking with Sherlock's hair knotted hopelessly between his fingers, and Sherlock kept sucking softly until John was spent, then collapsed to the side. John's vision pulsed dizzily but through the haze he watched Sherlock jerking his own cock with abandon, brows knit in concentration and his robe hanging off one shoulder but still sticking to his sweaty skin here and there.
"Let me take care of that for you," John said hoarsely, and joined him on the floor, which was much more uncomfortable and much less sensual than John had anticipated, but there was a job to be done, dammit. John tucked himself back into his jeans carelessly, then climbed over to Sherlock with heavy limbs and kissed him. Sherlock fisted his hands in John's shirt, kissed back, fell back and pulled John along with him.
John laughed. "You oka - oh, okay." Sherlock had seized John's wrist and forced it down between his legs. John took the hint, wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock went to work. This was like the graveyard, a bit, except that it was insanely better.
"God, look at you," John breathed. "You're fucking leaking everywhere." He sucked at Sherlock's neck because of how it strained back, licked into his mouth because of how it had fallen open in delight.
"John, I want you to - mmf."
John stopped kissing him after a heated moment and said, "No, that's cheating. Let me figure out what you want."
"Practicing your deductive reasoning?"
"Oh, yeah." John moved his hand a little faster, and Sherlock's eyes widened very slightly. "And I'm gonna need a lot of practice, I can tell."
"Yes, well." Sherlock was trying so hard to be cool, but he was panting more than speaking. "Practice makes perfect."
"You are perfect," John told him, burying his face in Sherlock's neck for a minute just to inhale his scent. Sherlock's hips kept straining up impatiently and John wasn't interested in teasing him right now - he increased the pressure, wanted feverishly to have Sherlock as breathless as he made John all the time.
Sherlock clutched at John's arms, which were trembling with the effort of keeping himself propped up over Sherlock as he writhed around on the floor, and as drained as he was John suddenly wanted to fuck Sherlock like this, where he could see every fleeting feeling cross Sherlock's usually stoic face, see Sherlock's hair jostling as John thrust into him and see Sherlock's eyes and mouth pleading for more.
Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightened and faltered and he spilled shudderingly into John's hand, all over his stomach, and a little bit on his bathrobe. John kissed him through it, and Sherlock responded with enthusiasm before going slack jawed and listless beneath him.
As nice as it was, John's knees were starting to protest. "Sherlock. We gotta move."
Sherlock grumbled, but he sat up and let John steer him to a clutter-clogged couch anyway. They leaned against each other while their breathing slowed, and Sherlock's fingertips traced vaguely over whatever part of John they could reach.
***
The sun was sinking behind the hills by the time they finally roused themselves, and that halfhearted snow had finally stopped coming down, leaving a light dusting on the grass that would either freeze overnight or melt away on a sunny day down the road.
Sherlock paced through the living room, fully dressed this time and playing his fiddle - a real one, which looked nearly as hellish as the bone fiddle but sounded heavenly. John spent the better part of an hour calling up various personnel at WVU, most of them notably displeased with him for making them work so close to the holiday. He did find out a fair amount about Jamie's classes, but not before enduring an army of cranky office workers. John wondered how he'd gotten roped into this in the first place. Those plural orgasms over the last 24 hours had probably had something to do with it.
"Well," John said, hanging up the phone and handing Sherlock the notepad he'd been scribbling on. "Here you go. Need me to find out how frequently she went to the bathroom or skipped class or anything else that's completely random, while I'm at it?"
"Did you get last year's schedule, too?" Sherlock faced away from him, still fiddling haphazardly.
"Yes. Though, again, I don't know why you'd need it."
Sherlock put his fiddle down and snatched the notepad from John, scanning obsessively. "Ah!" he said after a minute, then put the notepad down and beamed at John. "Professor Moriarty."
John waited.
"He's on the Easton-Bolan Coal Miners board of trustees. That's how Jamie must've gotten involved . . ."
"How do you know that? About the professor being on the board."
"They've been courting me for awhile, now. I'm quite familiar with their upper management."
"Clearly."
"Jamie took Advanced Algebra freshman year with this professor, and a low level math course the next year because he was teaching it. He must have put her in touch with the coal company or recommended her, and they must have offered that internship Elise said she was working so hard for - a ticket out of Stanger. Hard to say who came up with the idea to go on a murderous rampage, though I have to say if it wasn't Jamie herself, she sure was thinking about it. Huh. Almost flawless."
Sherlock picked up his fiddle again, played a cheery little tune and seemed quite content to bask in the glow of his own cleverness. He faced the window instead of John.
John felt awkwardness settling in. "Well. I should probably get home." He couldn't really think clearly, in Sherlock's presence. It would probably be a good idea to mull over everything that was happening between them at a safer distance.
Sherlock's melody didn't falter at all as he replied: "Yes, go home and get your things, there's a lot of closet space here."
"Um . . . "
"You know you're going to live with me now, of course."
" . . . "
"Oh please," Sherlock snorted, deigning to turn and face him. "Winter is coming. You don't want to be cooped up in that terrible excuse for a trailer over these next months, and it will be far more convenient for you to stay here."
"I - "
It was very hard not to just say yes when Sherlock looked so confident about the whole thing, but on the other hand it was quite satisfying to watch a smidge of doubt cloud up Sherlock's eyes when John laughed and said, "Listen, I've gotta go," and bolted for the door.
Sherlock, for once, followed after John. But both of them stopped short on the porch at the sight of someone walking up to the house through the deepening dusk.
Sherlock frowned as the shadowy figure materialized into a person. "Lestrade."
"Well hey there, Honeydripper," said Lestrade. "Get your beauty rest? Good! Now let's get you boys down to the station an' take your statements."
"You find the body?" Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, putting him in John's personal space. "Jamie Rowe's, I mean."
"Yeah. Well, what was left of it. Got all tore up on its way down that mining shaft."
"I can imagine," Sherlock said, while John tried not to. "Find anything else?"
"Some mighty suspicious blood in the back of Tanner's truck. All that's in processing now."
"Know about Easton-Bolan yet?"
Lestrade frowned. "I know of them . . . "
Sherlock grinned. "We'll have lots to talk about then."
"Well I'm downright titillated," Lestrade said tonelessly. "Let's go."
"Hm." Sherlock looked sidelong at John. "Right now?"
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Why? What are you two so busy doin' you can't come with me?" He was laughing, but it made John helplessly jittery anyway.
"Oh you know," John blurted. "It's just I don't have what you'd call actual plumbing down at the trailer, and you know, it was just more convenient to come up here, and it's . . . tell you what, Sherlock was really tired. Traumatic stuff. Had to get him straight on home."
"Yes, John looked after me very, very well." He slapped John on the back but let his hand linger a bit. "I'm trying to get him to stay on and look after me full time, actually. You and Mrs. Hudson should be pleased," he added with a sneer.
Lestrade laughed again. "That so, Dr. Watson? Lord knows it's better'n that creaky old trailer accommodation wise, and Sherlock sure has got the room."
John kept blinking. At what point in their sparring match had Sherlock enlisted Lestrade?
"Of course the indoor toilet is one of this house's key selling points," Sherlock said proudly. "Tell him, Sheriff."
"You got a toilet, it's true. When you haven't blown it up lately, that is."
"I have only exploded my toilet once."
"Pretty sure I recall gettin' called out here for it twice. Still don't know how you managed to set it on fire."
"I didn't do it. " Sherlock was indignant. "That was a crude attempt on my life. By someone else."
"Okay!" John said over them. "Let's take it down a notch there, gentlemen."
Lestrade nodded to John before addressing Sherlock again. "See you know I like this, havin' the good doctor around as a referee for you."
"John is not my referee."
"'Course he ain't," Lestrade smiled. "Now come on, there's business needs taken care of, still."
Sherlock gave a put upon sigh and ducked inside to grab his coat and scarf before the three of them crunched across the lawn to Lestrade's car.
"So," Lestrade said. "I hear Mrs. Hudson invited you down to hers for Thanksgiving, and I gotta tell you, it's my sacred duty to make sure you show up. You'll break her poor heart, if you don't."
"Of course I'm going," Sherlock snapped.
"Just wasn't sure you'd be inclined to eatin' in the middle of a case like this, is all. You noticed that yet, John?"
John bit his tongue, but a couple of giggles escaped anyway.
Sherlock couldn't seem to decide who to glare at.
Lestrade held open the car door for them. "Well, then. Maybe you can keep on him about havin' a decent diet, too."
"I'll keep on him," John promised, and Sherlock snickered way too loudly at his side.
***
Chapter 12