The Rules of Fair Play Do Not Apply 12/12
The final part! Almost 2000 words long. I'm half asleep and didn't proofread too closely, so please forgive typos. Also, anyone who has been reading the fic but not commenting, I would love to hear from you! And I shall respond to all your lovely comments on last chapter tomorrow.
Original Prompt
Part 1
Part 11
------------
John blinked his eyes open slowly, listening with a growing awareness to the conversation that had pulled him out of his slumber.
"No! You may not have him every time you become involved in an interesting investigation - you'll redefine the meaning of 'interesting' to include anything that puzzles the police.”
“May I have him for all interesting cases on the condition that all time lost will be repaid?”
“With interest,” Jim stipulated.
“What are you two on about?” John mumbled, stretching his sore muscles as he sat up.
“Negotiating the terms of our ceasefire,” Sherlock explained, pressing a surprisingly chaste kiss to John's temple. “Good morning.”
“It is, isn't it?” Jim said, smiling his predator's grin.
Jim's morning kiss was far from chaste. It was downright filthy - all tongue and teeth at John's pulse point.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled out in warning.
Jim shot him a wide-eyed, innocent look that had John collapsed against the pillows laughing at the irony.
When John had calmed down enough to process what he had heard, he frowned. “As the commodity in question, do I have any say in these negotiations?”
“No,” was Jim's simple response. At John's sharp glare, he elaborated in a soft, rational tone of voice. “We'll make it fair - neither of us would settle for anything less than the most we can get. You'll end up happy no matter how this turns out. Your input and proximity would most likely impede the processes.”
“In that case, you two work out your bizarrely specific custody agreement while I take a long, hot shower. I'm incredibly sore.” He pointedly ignores their smug grins, muttering a half-hearted “piss-off” as he makes his way to the bathroom.
John enjoyed his day, lazing around on the sofa, watching crap telly, trying to figure out what exactly it was that Jim and Sherlock had done to his laptop, interrupted by the occasional outburst around the definition of the word “day” and what suitable conditions for John’s return were.
“I’ll do bondage, but no pain-play!” John called back. “Also, tattoos may not be administered without my sober consent!”
The rules end up being fairly straight-forward. Jim gets Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sherlock gets Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. They alternate Sundays. Holidays will be shared, and a day starts at 12:01 unless someone is actively having sex. (There was a half-hour debate on the definition of the word “active”). See? Simple.
Overall, nothing much changes. Chip and pin machines now call him “sexy,” Sherlock snogs him at crime scenes almost as often as he insults Anderson. On the whole, things are going well.
There were days when he felt like he was living with five-year-old geniuses with the libidos of University students. He had to declare a sex boycott after the first week when Sherlock and Jim decided they wanted to christen every square inch of the flat. Individually.
“I’m not eighteen any more,” he told them when they confronted him together (confronting him together was never a good sign.) “I am almost forty. I need a break, or I am going to break. Four days total, two days each. Is that too much to ask?”
Lestrade was the only one (other than Mycroft, but Mycroft knew everything) who had managed to figure out their bizarre relationship. It had been after the completion of a particularly thrilling case, and Lestrade had been trying to take statements when he saw the familiar look on Sherlock’s face.
“For God’s sake, just kiss the man already. The unresolved sexual tension is becoming almost unbearable.”
Sherlock scowled. “I can’t.”
“Why the bloody hell not? You two aren’t having a row, are you?” the DI asked, looking back and forth between them.
“It’s a Friday. If we could hurry this up please, I’m paying interest for this.”
“What does it being Friday have to do with not being able to kiss your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend on Fridays, and if I kiss him on days he’s not my boyfriend, it’s considered a breach of contract and then Moriarty gets to blow up a building.”
“Is that actually in the contract? Please tell me that that isn’t in the contract,” John said, holding his head in his hands.
“Moriarty? Moriarty the bomber, Moriarty,” Lestrade asked, voice pitched at a level normal people would have found frightening. “And why is he going to blow up a building if you kiss John on Friday?”
“Because Jim is John’s boyfriend on Fridays,” Sherlock explained. “This really isn’t that complicated and every minute this case lasts is a minute and ten seconds that I lose on Saturday and it isn’t my Sunday, so I need Saturday or else I’m not getting any until Tuesday.”
“Jim. The Jim you brought to the crime scene three weeks ago? That was Moriarty?”
“Give me your phone,” John demanded. “I need to make it clear that blowing up buildings will result in no sex and sleeping on the couch for at least a month.”
After that, Jim gave Sherlock food poisoning for violating the confidentiality agreement and Sherlock sprained his wrist in retaliation. John had called Irene; things were getting out of hand. There needed to a punishment for breaking there agreement, and John wasn’t the one who could do it. One look, either heated or pathetic, and he was done for.
Rule breaking was now punished by John being confiscated, which he was completely okay with. Godfrey was a decent sort, and spending the day away from his idiot boyfriends was not always a bad thing, and he was fun to watch football matches with.
Then again, John mused as he came to after being drugged while out shopping, spending time with them, even when they were bickering and trying to hurt one another, was preferable to some things.
“No, really. I don’t know who you’re talking about,” John said for what felt like the twelfth time. They were smart, whoever they were. Bound at the shoulders and the wrists, making escape highly improbable.
“Your boyfriend. The man you’re shagging. He’s pissing me off and I want to send him a message. You’re going to call him and repeat exactly what I say, or I’m going to cut off an ear and use that instead.”
“I’d be happy to, if you would just tell me who to call,” John said, exasperated.
This was the problem with dating two geniuses who had managed to piss of the entire criminal underworld. He never really knew who he was being used to leverage.
“Could you explain how he pissed you off? That might help me straighten things out a bit.”
“He’s interfering with my work,” the man in the well fitted suit with the Irish accent offered. Mafia?
That didn’t help at all. That could easily be either one of them, albeit in different capacities.
“Tell him that Jack Gallagher says hello, and if he doesn’t back off, you’ll be saying goodbye,” the man ordered as a ringing phone was held to his ear.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the smooth baritone echoes from the speaker.
“Oh, that boyfriend. Hello, Sherlock.”
“John? Aren’t you supposed to be at the MET giving a statement right now?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah. That’s where I’m supposed to be. Ran into a friend of yours.”
“Friend?” Sherlock asked, voice suddenly tight. “Can I put you on speaker phone?”
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Johnny? Who is it? Where are you? Has he done anything yet?” Jim said, voice ice cold.
“Jack Gallagher told me to say hi. And to back off or, and I quote, because I would hate for you to think I’ve gotten cliché, ‘I’ll be saying goodbye.’ Also, there might have been threats involving my ears. Oh, and I think that’s a thug with a baseball bat coming my way.”
John really wasn’t sure how long they went at him with the bat, or how much Sherlock (and Jim) heard before the phone disconnects. What he did know was that this wasn’t his worst kidnapping. The Taliban still had that in the bag. It might have made the top ten, however.
There was a loud crashing sound that John registers in some part of his brain that was still functioning. (He was in shock, had lost a lot of blood, and probably had a concussion. He had his own permission to be a little fuzzy on the details).
“See? Subtle,” Jim said.
“The explosives, yes. The door crashing in? No.” Sherlock replied.
“Mr. Holmes, how nice of you to join us. Dr. Watson, say hello to Sherlock and his friend.”
“Jim,” John slurred. “I thought I made my stance on explosives clear.”
“Yes, you did. And now Sherlock and I are going to make our stance on the hurting of our doctor crystal clear.”
“And you are?” Gallagher asked, irritated.
“James Moriarty. Hi!” His voice was high pitched and faux-friendly in the way that sent shivers down John’s spine.
“Moriarty?” Gallagher asked, his voice shaking. “What are you doing here?”
“You took something of ours. We’ve come to get it back,” Sherlock said.
“And send a message to anyone else who is considering taking what doesn’t belong to them,” Jim added, voice dark and cold as ice.
John passed out somewhere around here, and woke up back in his bed in Baker Street. Jim held one of his hands firmly in his own whilst typing away at a laptop. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed staring down at him intently.
“Morning boys,” he said, trying to grin.
“Hardly,” Sherlock said coldly. Jim nodded in absent-minded agreement.
The schedule was put on hold as John healed, and the three of them sprawled out on the couch and watch The Princess Bride and James Bond and any other movies John could think of that were relevant for the cultural edification of his boys. He and Jim laughed at Sherlock during The Princess Bride and Sherlock pouted. He and Sherlock laughed at Jim during the Bond movies and Jim scowled. Sherlock and Jim laughed at him during The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for looking like the actor and being vaguely similar to the character Arthur Dent.
John never asked why muggers cross to the other side of the street while he was walking by, or why when the armed criminals he and Sherlock are chasing saw him they always did their best to imitate Storm Troopers. Sherlock and Jim never told him, and he allowed it to fall under the category of “It’s all Fine.”
The life John lives with his genius, crazy, idiotic boyfriends is fun and dangerous and beautiful and full of surprises. And John Watson wouldn’t have it any other way.
Original Prompt
Part 1
Part 11
------------
John blinked his eyes open slowly, listening with a growing awareness to the conversation that had pulled him out of his slumber.
"No! You may not have him every time you become involved in an interesting investigation - you'll redefine the meaning of 'interesting' to include anything that puzzles the police.”
“May I have him for all interesting cases on the condition that all time lost will be repaid?”
“With interest,” Jim stipulated.
“What are you two on about?” John mumbled, stretching his sore muscles as he sat up.
“Negotiating the terms of our ceasefire,” Sherlock explained, pressing a surprisingly chaste kiss to John's temple. “Good morning.”
“It is, isn't it?” Jim said, smiling his predator's grin.
Jim's morning kiss was far from chaste. It was downright filthy - all tongue and teeth at John's pulse point.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock growled out in warning.
Jim shot him a wide-eyed, innocent look that had John collapsed against the pillows laughing at the irony.
When John had calmed down enough to process what he had heard, he frowned. “As the commodity in question, do I have any say in these negotiations?”
“No,” was Jim's simple response. At John's sharp glare, he elaborated in a soft, rational tone of voice. “We'll make it fair - neither of us would settle for anything less than the most we can get. You'll end up happy no matter how this turns out. Your input and proximity would most likely impede the processes.”
“In that case, you two work out your bizarrely specific custody agreement while I take a long, hot shower. I'm incredibly sore.” He pointedly ignores their smug grins, muttering a half-hearted “piss-off” as he makes his way to the bathroom.
John enjoyed his day, lazing around on the sofa, watching crap telly, trying to figure out what exactly it was that Jim and Sherlock had done to his laptop, interrupted by the occasional outburst around the definition of the word “day” and what suitable conditions for John’s return were.
“I’ll do bondage, but no pain-play!” John called back. “Also, tattoos may not be administered without my sober consent!”
The rules end up being fairly straight-forward. Jim gets Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sherlock gets Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. They alternate Sundays. Holidays will be shared, and a day starts at 12:01 unless someone is actively having sex. (There was a half-hour debate on the definition of the word “active”). See? Simple.
Overall, nothing much changes. Chip and pin machines now call him “sexy,” Sherlock snogs him at crime scenes almost as often as he insults Anderson. On the whole, things are going well.
There were days when he felt like he was living with five-year-old geniuses with the libidos of University students. He had to declare a sex boycott after the first week when Sherlock and Jim decided they wanted to christen every square inch of the flat. Individually.
“I’m not eighteen any more,” he told them when they confronted him together (confronting him together was never a good sign.) “I am almost forty. I need a break, or I am going to break. Four days total, two days each. Is that too much to ask?”
Lestrade was the only one (other than Mycroft, but Mycroft knew everything) who had managed to figure out their bizarre relationship. It had been after the completion of a particularly thrilling case, and Lestrade had been trying to take statements when he saw the familiar look on Sherlock’s face.
“For God’s sake, just kiss the man already. The unresolved sexual tension is becoming almost unbearable.”
Sherlock scowled. “I can’t.”
“Why the bloody hell not? You two aren’t having a row, are you?” the DI asked, looking back and forth between them.
“It’s a Friday. If we could hurry this up please, I’m paying interest for this.”
“What does it being Friday have to do with not being able to kiss your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend on Fridays, and if I kiss him on days he’s not my boyfriend, it’s considered a breach of contract and then Moriarty gets to blow up a building.”
“Is that actually in the contract? Please tell me that that isn’t in the contract,” John said, holding his head in his hands.
“Moriarty? Moriarty the bomber, Moriarty,” Lestrade asked, voice pitched at a level normal people would have found frightening. “And why is he going to blow up a building if you kiss John on Friday?”
“Because Jim is John’s boyfriend on Fridays,” Sherlock explained. “This really isn’t that complicated and every minute this case lasts is a minute and ten seconds that I lose on Saturday and it isn’t my Sunday, so I need Saturday or else I’m not getting any until Tuesday.”
“Jim. The Jim you brought to the crime scene three weeks ago? That was Moriarty?”
“Give me your phone,” John demanded. “I need to make it clear that blowing up buildings will result in no sex and sleeping on the couch for at least a month.”
After that, Jim gave Sherlock food poisoning for violating the confidentiality agreement and Sherlock sprained his wrist in retaliation. John had called Irene; things were getting out of hand. There needed to a punishment for breaking there agreement, and John wasn’t the one who could do it. One look, either heated or pathetic, and he was done for.
Rule breaking was now punished by John being confiscated, which he was completely okay with. Godfrey was a decent sort, and spending the day away from his idiot boyfriends was not always a bad thing, and he was fun to watch football matches with.
Then again, John mused as he came to after being drugged while out shopping, spending time with them, even when they were bickering and trying to hurt one another, was preferable to some things.
“No, really. I don’t know who you’re talking about,” John said for what felt like the twelfth time. They were smart, whoever they were. Bound at the shoulders and the wrists, making escape highly improbable.
“Your boyfriend. The man you’re shagging. He’s pissing me off and I want to send him a message. You’re going to call him and repeat exactly what I say, or I’m going to cut off an ear and use that instead.”
“I’d be happy to, if you would just tell me who to call,” John said, exasperated.
This was the problem with dating two geniuses who had managed to piss of the entire criminal underworld. He never really knew who he was being used to leverage.
“Could you explain how he pissed you off? That might help me straighten things out a bit.”
“He’s interfering with my work,” the man in the well fitted suit with the Irish accent offered. Mafia?
That didn’t help at all. That could easily be either one of them, albeit in different capacities.
“Tell him that Jack Gallagher says hello, and if he doesn’t back off, you’ll be saying goodbye,” the man ordered as a ringing phone was held to his ear.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the smooth baritone echoes from the speaker.
“Oh, that boyfriend. Hello, Sherlock.”
“John? Aren’t you supposed to be at the MET giving a statement right now?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah. That’s where I’m supposed to be. Ran into a friend of yours.”
“Friend?” Sherlock asked, voice suddenly tight. “Can I put you on speaker phone?”
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Johnny? Who is it? Where are you? Has he done anything yet?” Jim said, voice ice cold.
“Jack Gallagher told me to say hi. And to back off or, and I quote, because I would hate for you to think I’ve gotten cliché, ‘I’ll be saying goodbye.’ Also, there might have been threats involving my ears. Oh, and I think that’s a thug with a baseball bat coming my way.”
John really wasn’t sure how long they went at him with the bat, or how much Sherlock (and Jim) heard before the phone disconnects. What he did know was that this wasn’t his worst kidnapping. The Taliban still had that in the bag. It might have made the top ten, however.
There was a loud crashing sound that John registers in some part of his brain that was still functioning. (He was in shock, had lost a lot of blood, and probably had a concussion. He had his own permission to be a little fuzzy on the details).
“See? Subtle,” Jim said.
“The explosives, yes. The door crashing in? No.” Sherlock replied.
“Mr. Holmes, how nice of you to join us. Dr. Watson, say hello to Sherlock and his friend.”
“Jim,” John slurred. “I thought I made my stance on explosives clear.”
“Yes, you did. And now Sherlock and I are going to make our stance on the hurting of our doctor crystal clear.”
“And you are?” Gallagher asked, irritated.
“James Moriarty. Hi!” His voice was high pitched and faux-friendly in the way that sent shivers down John’s spine.
“Moriarty?” Gallagher asked, his voice shaking. “What are you doing here?”
“You took something of ours. We’ve come to get it back,” Sherlock said.
“And send a message to anyone else who is considering taking what doesn’t belong to them,” Jim added, voice dark and cold as ice.
John passed out somewhere around here, and woke up back in his bed in Baker Street. Jim held one of his hands firmly in his own whilst typing away at a laptop. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed staring down at him intently.
“Morning boys,” he said, trying to grin.
“Hardly,” Sherlock said coldly. Jim nodded in absent-minded agreement.
The schedule was put on hold as John healed, and the three of them sprawled out on the couch and watch The Princess Bride and James Bond and any other movies John could think of that were relevant for the cultural edification of his boys. He and Jim laughed at Sherlock during The Princess Bride and Sherlock pouted. He and Sherlock laughed at Jim during the Bond movies and Jim scowled. Sherlock and Jim laughed at him during The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for looking like the actor and being vaguely similar to the character Arthur Dent.
John never asked why muggers cross to the other side of the street while he was walking by, or why when the armed criminals he and Sherlock are chasing saw him they always did their best to imitate Storm Troopers. Sherlock and Jim never told him, and he allowed it to fall under the category of “It’s all Fine.”
The life John lives with his genius, crazy, idiotic boyfriends is fun and dangerous and beautiful and full of surprises. And John Watson wouldn’t have it any other way.