221B Paw Stories - Chapter 10
A/N: All my thanks to Tigzzz, who kindly betaed this fic, and to all Guest reviewers and Anons whom I may not contact via PM. Hope you enjoy this chapter. ~¤Zoffoli
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221BPAW STORIES
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Chapter 10
...how I wonder what you are
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The very first thing John felt upon waking that morning was something soft disturbingly clutching the front of his pyjamas, between the shoulder and the chest. It was a hand resting there, still holding the fabric in such a way that he dared not move, for fear of rousing the nude, innocent and slightly crowding man sleeping peacefully in his bed.
Now fully awake, John goggled at the oblivious figure that was lying next to him. A childlike expression was gracing the traits of his face, which was mere inches away from John's. The doctor gulped awkwardly, and shivered as Sherlock dangerously stirred in his sleep. His head was resting on the other pillow, and so there was a minimum distance between them: but their bodies were intertwined together, Sherlock's hand on his chest gripping his pyjamas like a little boy would grip the bottom of his mother's dress; his leg curled around John's, calf against calf, his thigh delicately pressing against the smaller man's groin. John was very glad he was not at an age where you might get a hard-on from erotic dreams every morning or so - otherwise, the position they were in would have been even more embarrassing.
He was however embarrassed enough as it was. But he was too fascinated with Sherlock's discreet, regular breathing, and with just him sleeping so calmly by his side that he forgot all about his own pitiful predicament. If being in the same bed as him at night allowed Sherlock to truly sleep and have some rest, then the awkwardness didn't matter. Well, as long as no one ever saw them, naturally - for trying to explain such a peculiar reasoning to a third party, unfamiliar with their relationship and the unique nature of their bond, would surely fail. No one could possibly understand.
Well, I don't either, John reckoned as he raised his arm and reached towards his friend's face tentatively, before pushing an inky curl back from his porcelain brow as he observed his partner's face closely. Sherlock truly was stunning. Not in a beautiful way, but in a dazzling, mesmerizing manner that John could not quite explain. He always thought it was because of the eyes, eerily blue and most conspicuous against the paleness of his skin that contrasted with the darkness of his hair. Alabaster, he thought, rather than porcelain perhaps. Yet his charming brow seemed so fragile right now... But John knew it contained hidden such depths of intelligence that the whole image of Sherlock lying here naked in bed, exposed and unaware, was strangely paradoxical. How could such a brilliant, superior mind be so juvenile and endearing in other aspects? It would never cease to amaze John; this double and simultaneous impression of an admirable genius, and of some difficult, capricious child.
As he gingerly traced the pearly chin and ear, John couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the trust this situation implied, for a man like Sherlock. As a consulting detective, he was confronted to various destructive passions, and surely the intimacy between two people must have appeared in his brain as something of which one should always be wary. To be fair, Sherlock was capable of deducing John so easily that he must have been almost certain of his devotion by now, which explained why he deemed him safe enough to sleep with. John slapped himself mentally at the terrible choice of words and cringed. Not in any sexual acceptation of the term, he corrected for himself.
Yet Sherlock could not be completely sure: he too guessed and shot in the dark - usually with amazing results, admittedly, but in this instance it meant he either accepted the risk, or truly was convinced that John would never harm him in any way. Perhaps such considerations would have seemed quite eccentric for ordinary people; why would anyone want to harm him in any way? But in this respect, John, as an ex-soldier, perfectly understood why Sherlock, with his extraordinary mind and his everyday contact with criminals, was not the most trusting person. In fact, John had been quite surprised by how easily the consulting detective had come to be comfortable with him, as if they had always lived together. He also understood why Sherlock wasn't a very good sleeper. Not that he suspected him of having been traumatized by his experience of the criminal world; John's theory was rather that Sherlock could never stop thinking, and so even if he did eventually fall asleep out of physical exhaustion, he would keep on thinking, and thinking, and thinking... It never stopped. John wondered if he dreamt, sometimes, and what his dreams may be like.
Once in a while, he wished he could enter Sherlock's brain and see how it worked, how the consulting detective comprehended the world and others. He seemed so unreachable sometimes, so far above everyone else ( including John) that the doctor craved to share his perception, even for just a day or two.
For instance, to understand what in the world prompted Sherlock to give him a bloody kiss while he was in tiger form and they were stuck on a train, hearing footsteps clearly coming towards them. With hindsight, John realized that his friend must have even been quite aware that it was Mycroft coming, hence his growls. Then why the kiss? It was so preposterous, not only as a gesture from Sherlock, but from a tiger to boot, that John could make no sense of it whatsoever. All he knew was that Sherlock was undoubtedly just trying to find a way to transform back, and did not think of that kiss as a kiss at all - merely a means to solve the tiger-on-a-train problem.
John, on the other hand, very much saw a kiss as a kiss, even with a tiger - no, rather, when said tiger just happened to be his flatmate. His male flatmate. Sherlock did not ever think of sexuality as something that could possibly concern him or his personal life, so naturally this was not an issue for him. But to John, who was resolutely straight, every physical contact with Sherlock was meaningful. Cuddling was meaningful. Having his scar touched was meaningful. Kissing was bloody meaningful, even if that was the less sensual kiss he ever had. Thankfully, considering it was with a bloody tiger...
Right now, however, Sherlock was very much a man. A very naked man, too, and very much pressed to him, their limbs entangled. Yet he was still sleeping, completely oblivious, and when he'd wake up he would probably not even see the problem. Is there really one, then? John mused.
He rolled his eyes. Of course there's one. You have a beautiful girlfriend but 90% of your thoughts are devoted to Sherlock - whether he's annoying, fascinating, worrying, intoxicating... Intoxicating?
Repressing a desperate groan, John did not dare bury his face into the pillow, but very much felt like doing so. I'm doomed. Positively doomed. But caring for Sherlock and being attracted to him were two very different things. Well, not fundamentally, since for the first time in his life John had cared for someone and given that person his unconditional loyalty before he even considered them as a potential romantic partner. Sherlock was his best friend more than his flatmate or colleague. He would always love him as such. Why did hormones have to come into the picture and wreak havoc?
Because that was the problem. Hormones. Sherlock didn't even seem to have any sexual desire at all, whatever the object. He simply wasn't interested, and didn't need such a dimension to his life, which was full enough with cases and experiments. He had been clear enough during their first dinner at Angelo's, and even if for some unfathomable reasons he agreed to such a relationship with John, the doctor was intimately convinced that he would be purely indulging him. It would be the conclusion to some outrageous reasoning such as:
John is physically attracted to me.
I am not interested but if we do nothing, he'll lose it and most likely decide to leave.
John is handy and he's better than the skull, so it wouldn't be good if he left.
Conclusion: let's sleep with John so he doesn't snap and go, and everyone is happy.
Except John wouldn't be happy. At all.
He was also quite sure that Sherlock wouldn't realize what sex meant in the slightest - wouldn't give it the same meaning John would. Because the other problem was that Sherlock wasn't just a girlfriend he could break up with. It was the one person - man, woman, in this instance it did not matter - for whose sake John would do anything. One may talk about a love, John guessed; but he had never felt the physical need to hold Sherlock until now, so it must have been rather platonic.
With their transformations, however, everything had changed. It was crazy and silly, but now they truly were dependent on one another, provided Sherlock's theory about cuddling was right. For a moment, John wondered whether cuddling with anyone would have the same effect, but then he dared not imagine Maggie's face if she fell asleep with a cat in bed and woke up with a man.
Sherlock shifted a bit and grumbled something in his sleep, scowling. Amused, John smiled and smoothed the adorable frown away. Really, what was he doing? Wasn't he being horrible to both Maggie and Sherlock? But neither of them wanted the same thing from him.
That's not the issue though, is it? The question is: what do I want from each of them?
Presently, he was much more interested in Sherlock's adorably sullen face. But he could not possibly want anything from him - a loving, romantic Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock after all. John could not even conceive him as a lover. He was already lucky the detective liked him enough to consider him as his one and only friend. Yet, John couldn't help but keep wondering: What are you to me? How did you manage to become so important in such a short period of time? What are you, Sherlock?
The kiss too kept intriguing John, and he found he just couldn't let go. A question was burning his lips, something he terribly wanted to find out but could only ask himself... and yet the consequences of the answer might be too much to bear for him. He wondered if he truly was attracted to Sherlock or not. Whether he really could imagine himself sleeping with a male partner. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was most definitely in love with Sherlock, but that did not imply he could sleep with a man. Ever. Even if it was Sherlock.
And so John very much wanted to know if he would be disgusted by any close bodily contact with the detective in human form. Waking up all entangled with him was a first test, but as it was, Sherlock could have just been a very importune and clinging little brother. His grip, and the way he completely crowded John's personal space, were too candid and unconscious to hold any romantic meaning. Consequently, John had not many options left.
He swallowed with some difficulty as his eyes instantly fell to the fleshy lips of the detective. Kissing him when he was unaware was disrespectful, John knew, but there was no other way to see how he himself would react to it: with an awake Sherlock, the situation could become very difficult if John did indeed realize that he could not kiss a man - even if it was Sherlock, and even if he loved him.
So slowly, hesitantly, he leant in closer, and closer, and closer, closing the distance between their two faces. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's chastely, barely touching, his mouth completely still. The sound of something soft falling to the ground behind him made him jump in panic and jolt back. He turned, and saw Maggie. She was staring, in shock, a look of betrayal on her face. John couldn't bear it.
"Maggie, I can explain. Wait!" he exclaimed as she dashed out of the room, leaving the croissants behind and running away. "Maggie, please wait!"
But she was not listening, and John only managed to catch up with her in the staircase. He was still in his pyjama, but fortunately he was fully dressed, unlike Sherlock. Perhaps it would be easier to justify himself, he thought.
... wrongly.
"I can explain."
"Oh really? What is there to explain, John? I think you could still have given me a call, you know, to tell me things were over because you'd finally admitted to yourself that you were gay?"
"But I am not!"
"Oh please, John!"
"It's true. You must believe me."
"How?" she asked, and her voice broke into a sob as she could no longer hold back her tears. "How could you believe anything I said if I ditched you on Christmas and you found me in bed with a naked man a few days later?"
When she put it that way, it did seem awfully despicable.
"I... Look, Maggie, there's nothing between us. Sherlock... He has nightmares, sometimes! Very bad ones, too. I just serve as a pillow to help him fall back to sleep."
"You were in his room, John. Not him in yours."
"I heard him scream! I thought something had happened, but..."
"Just drop it, John. I've seen enough."
"No, please!"
He caught her wrist and made her turn to him again. He truly felt horrible, and wished to make it up to her in any possible way. Taking a deep breath, he looked her in the eye.
"We didn't do anything. We never had sex. You must believe me."
"John. You were kissing him."
"I wasn't!"
"For God's sake, do you think I'm blind? Maybe I was... Oh, I was so stupid."
And with those words, she shook his hand off and left, slamming the front door. John felt a pang of guilt, and grit his teeth, walking back up to the flat morosely.
He decided not to go back to the room, and instead gloomily fell into his armchair. With Maggie's unexpected arrival, he hadn't even had time to properly observe his own reactions to the kiss. In all likelihood, however, he hadn't felt any disgust. He hadn't been aroused, either, but it had been so chaste a gesture, and so tentative, it wasn't surprising.
Maggie's words, and her anger, too, weren't surprising either. John realized his relationship with Sherlock was too ambiguous in everybody's eyes for any of them to take him seriously if he claimed not to be gay after having been found in bed with a naked Sherlock. He repressed a sigh. What could he do, now?
"John?"
He started and looked up to his flatmate who had just walked into the living-room draped in his sheet, looking as pompous as Julius Caesar. John couldn't help but chuckle.
"What?" Sherlock inquired, his tone slightly offended.
"You hair... It's dishevelled. You can't look cool like that." Quite cute, though.
Sherlock frowned and retorted with a regal pout:
"I wasn't trying to look cool, John. So how did it go?"
"Um?"
"With Maggie Oakshott."
John froze.
"You heard us?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he fell back sloppily onto the couch, and John had to look away. The idiot just looked ridiculously eatable sprawled there only wrapped in a sheet.
"The contrary would've been difficult, considering you jumped and shouted right next to me."
John let out a sigh, and didn't answer. What was there to say anyway? He'd got himself into a fine mess...
Sherlock observed him for a second before standing up and disappearing down the corridor. John heard him put water to boil in the kitchen, but he was so engrossed in his own brooding that he didn't realize how peculiar it was to have Sherlock prepare breakfast when they were both in human form.
Soon however the detective was back, still draped in his bloody sheet, and he handed John a cup of tea and a croissant.
"Eat," he ordered, as if that hadn't been obvious from his gesture. "We're leaving as soon as you're done."
John blinked, confused.
"Leaving?" he repeated dumbly as he took the tea and the croissant.
"Breckinridge, at Covent garden!" Sherlock replied before going back to his room to dress up.
Right. The case. The bloody case that just had to involve Maggie's family as well. Why did she have to come this morning? Why did I have to be kissing Sherlock when she came?
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
It took less than ten minutes for the consulting detective to wash and put his clothes on, and he came back into the living-room excitedly, already beaming with anticipation because the case was on!
However he found John still prostrated in his chair, having drank his tea but not even finished his croissant. Sherlock scowled.
"John, what are you doing? We're leaving!"
"You're leaving."
Sherlock stopped dead in his track and turned back to John instead of opening the door.
"You're not coming?"
"I can't possibly go! Do you even realize how awkward this is for me? What if James Oakshott truly is guilty? I'll be exposing my girlfriend's own brother!"
"That didn't seem to bother you when we went to Brixton."
"I had no idea that Maggie's family could be involved in such a way at the time!"
"And of course this sudden burst of guilt has nothing to do with the fact that she saw you kissing me this morning," Sherlock remarked, supercilious.
John felt his heart miss a beat, and stared at his friend in shock. It took him a few seconds to find his voice, and he stuttered:
"Y... you... you were awake?"
"And I would've faked sleeping? Please. I wasn't awake. But having something pressed on one's lips does wake one up, you know."
No, I don't, John thought grumpily, wondering why the day was getting worse and worse with every passing moment.
"Look, I..."
"It is the first time I have been kissed," Sherlock mused, as if thinking out loud. "You could've waited until I was really awake."
This rendered John speechless. He knew Sherlock wasn't interested in the least, and did not have much experience in the matter. Still a virgin. But kissing? Just kissing? It seemed absurd to John to think that nobody had ever wanted to kiss him. There must have been tons of people more than willing to... Oh. Right. Sherlock was fascinating, but he was also so impressive it was almost frightening. He appeared to be so much above everyone else that even John hadn't dared try to kiss him when he was conscious - which was of course a horrible thing to do. But it just meant that John had been as intimidated as everyone else.
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine, but be quick now."
John gaped. "What?" Quick in doing what exactly?
Sherlock clicked his tongue in impatience.
"Go and dress up, John! I know you like dawdling over breakfast, but today we have a case!"
He was no longer smiling, rather frustrated with John's slowness; but his eyes were still sparkling with verve.
John however only got even more upset.
"Can't you stop thinking about the damn case for one second?!"
Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief at the outburst.
"What is wrong with you?"
"What is wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. I was just ditched because of you - again!"
Sherlock blinked, and John felt another pang of guilt. He knew he wasn't being fair at all, and this was not Sherlock's fault in any way. But the taller man just stood there, staring at him, apparently thinking very hard about something, and didn't retort the obvious: 'you're the one who kissed me.' It made John feel even worse.
"Do you want to invite her over dinner? I can tell her we were just cuddling, and..."
"Two flatmates don't cuddle with each other, Sherlock!" John exploded.
"But we do," Sherlock pointed out, not understanding.
"And that's the problem."
Sherlock frowned with perplexity.
"But why is it a problem?"
John sighed in desperation. Could anyone be more oblivious?
"Because male best friends don't cuddle. Parents cuddle with their children, romantic pairs cuddle, but we are not any of those!"
"Does it matter? Surely Maggie would understand."
"No, she wouldn't. Look, Sherlock, just drop it. I... I just don't want to make things even worse."
Sherlock observed him closely.
"You know, you were quite perceptive on that one. I was so sure you'd be convinced that our 'mission' would be to prove James Oakshott's innocence."
"I know I'm stupid, but even I could see he sounded suspicious."
The detective snorted.
"Is that why, then? Because he sounded suspicious?"
What John heard as a scornful tone finally made him snap completely.
"Well, sorry for not being a genius who can tell the whole past of someone from their tan and wristwatch! I have other interests, you see? Interests that imply an actual interaction with people, and not just analysing them as if they were things."
The flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes, very similar to the one John had seen when they were in Sebastian Wilkes' office, made the guilt unbearable.
"I'm sorry," he said precipitately. "I didn't mean..."
"Fine. I'll go alone," Sherlock cut in, his face now blank.
"No, wait, Sherlock!"
John caught his arm and was strangely reminded of the scene with Maggie. This time, though, he was much more desperate to be forgiven. With Maggie, he'd felt horrible as a man, from an outer perspective, because he'd been a dick. But with Sherlock... with Sherlock he didn't care about the outer perspective. He just couldn't lose him.
"Please forgive me," he implored as their eyes locked. "I'm on edge, I don't know what I'm saying."
His grip on Sherlock's arm tightened with fervour. He regretted his words so much. Sherlock had been happy like a cat on a hot tin roof, and now the fire in his gaze had died out. John would have done anything to light it up again.
As he was staring in John's beseeching pupils, Sherlock was thinking. Hard. John truly did seem to be on edge, and the detective could see the desperation in his eyes. He must have cared more about Maggie than he had thought at first, if this affected him so much. In which case, what could be done? Sherlock did not like the idea, but if John really was in love with Maggie, he had no choice: they had to find a way to make her understand. Sherlock hated that distressed expression on John's face even more than the idea of him leaving Baker Street. He tried not to think too much about how the flat would feel without John. He didn't exactly know why or how, but it would be different. Everything would.
He swallowed with some difficulty. He knew perfectly well what should be done, it was quite evident. But it would still be a huge sacrifice on his part, for he felt ridiculously possessive of John in manul form. However, if he indulged John and did not interfere in his relationship with Maggie, perhaps he would stay longer. Perhaps he would visit him more often, too, when he'd gone.
"If you want, next time you transform, I can call her and invite her over for the night."
"...What?"
"So she can spend the night in the room and see you transform back. She'll understand, then."
But John shook his head vigorously, appalled, as he let go of his friend's arm.
"I never want her to see me in that form!" he cried out. "This is such an absurd idea, do you think she'd wait the whole night watching you hugging an ugly cat?"
"You're not ugly," Sherlock protested.
"That's beside the point! I've never heard you suggest anything so absurd."
This time, Sherlock had enough.
"Fine. Just stay there and brood, then. I'm off."
And with those words, he turned and left effectively. John just stood there in shock, at a loss. The sound of the door closing downstairs snapped him out of his torpor, and he slammed his fist against the wall.
"Damn this!"
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
The cringing little man named Breckinridge whom Sherlock found at Covent Garden appeared to be more than annoyed with his questions.
"What is it with you people and my geese? I keep being pestered about the geese I sold recently! Would anyone care to explain what is going on?"
Sherlock internally scoffed and showed the man Lestrade's badge.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland yard. I am currently investigating a theft that involved one of the geese you sold. One with a black bar on its tail."
"Do you think I look at the geese's tails?" Breckinridge snorted.
Sherlock frowned.
"I recommend you be a little more cooperative, Mr. Breckinridge. Do you remember a middle-aged man with grizzled hair and a hat to whom you sold a goose on Christmas Eve?"
Breckinridge gulped at the grave tone, not wanting to have any problems with the police.
"Yeah, that's a regular customer, Mr. Henry Baker. Don't know where he lives, though."
"Regular customer? Has he come since?"
"No."
"I see. Just another question: is this the man who came and asked questions about the geese too?" Sherlock inquired, showing the man a picture of James Oakshott on the screen of his phone.
"It is," Breckinridge answered, baffled.
"Thank you for your time."
Sherlock did not stay to listen to the little man's obsequious apologies, and ran to the main road to hail a cab.
"To the Hotel Cosmopolitan," he announced.
His phone vibrated and he took a look. Three messages.
From Lestrade: The case of the Countess of Morcar is solved. Don't need you on it anymore.
Sherlock smirked.
From Mycroft: Back to London, my dear brother?
Sherlock scowled.
From John: Where are you?
Sherlock smiled - almost imperceptibly. As he was typing an answer, he received another one.
I'm dressed now.
Then a second later, before he'd even pressed the 'SEND' button.
I want to come.
This time, his grin broadened. Too bad John wasn't there to see he had managed to light up the detective's face again, after all.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
"Why are we going in there?" John asked as they walked up the steps of the luxury hotel.
"Because this is where the Countess was robbed."
"Oh... And?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Hello," he said with a charming smile to the woman at the counter, showing her the D.I.'s badge," I am investigating a robbery that took place in your premises a while ago. I am sure you know what I am referring to."
"Indeed," she replied with a stiff lip. "The police have already come several time, though, and the case has been solved. Don't you know?"
"We believe that the inculpation of the plumber John Horner was a mistake," Sherlock replied evenly. John blinked in confusion. Who?
"Do you? Well, what can I do for you?"
"I would like a complete list of your staff."
She frowned.
"We already gave you one last week, and I believe everyone was cleared of all suspicion."
"Well, the situation has changed."
She did not seem very happy about it, but complied without a word. John's eyes fell on the list she handed them, and widened as he read the name of James Oakshott: upper-attendant.
"Why do you now believe you have made a mistake, if I may ask?" she inquired a little sharply.
"You may not," Sherlock retorted with a smirk, before turning and leaving. John stared, befuddled, stammered an apology to the woman, and ran after him.
"What was all that about?" he asked, having a hard time to match Sherlock's quick and huge strides.
"Read this," Sherlock commanded as he handed him his phone. It was an online newspaper article. John read.
Plumber John Horner, 26, had been brought up upon the charge of having stolen from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the precious blue gem. He had been led by the hotel staff to the countess' dressing-room the day of the robbery so as to solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He was left alone there was a certain amount of time, and when the Countess' made, Catherine Cucksack, had entered the room later in the afternoon, she had found the bureau had been forced open, and the jewel stolen, and she was the one who had set the alarm. Since no one else had had access to the room that day but the plumber, and considering that John Horner had already been convicted once for robbery, the police had come to the conclusion that he must be the culprit. The gem, however, had not been found, either on his person, or in his rooms.
John groaned.
"Poor bloke. He got completely framed."
"Indeed. And did you notice the maid's name?"
"What about it?"
"Catherine, John. Catherine."
"Oh!" John exclaimed when realization had dawned upon him. "So James' girlfriend..."
"... was his accomplice in this crime. They must have planned it together, in fact. It was stupid of the police not to think that a plumber would have no idea where the jewellery was hidden: he would've had to rummage through the whole room in order to find it, but only the bureau had been forced open."
"They probably just wanted to find a culprit as soon as possible."
"Most likely."
They exchanged an amused, knowing smile, and John felt like everything was back to normal.
"So what do we do, now?"
"Send a text to Lestrade," Sherlock replied as he did so. "James Oakshott was an idiot. He let Breckinridge see his face, as well as Henry Baker, the poor man who was unlucky enough to buy a goose with a black bar on its tail."
"But what does he have to do with anything?"
"Nothing, exactly. James put the gem in a goose when he was at Emily's, remembering it was the one with a black bar on its tail. He probably did not notice there were two. He knew Emily sold her geese to Breckinridge, and did not think of the one she gave their sister Maggie: he just went to Breckinridge, asked about the goose with a black bar on its tail, and was told it had just been sold. He ran after Henry Baker, surely scared him to death, but didn't catch him in time, and it was Molly who ended up with the goose. James must have thought the gem was lost forever, but then he was told the whole story by Emily. That is probably why Catherine did not come that day, too."
"You're brilliant," John laughed. "Really brilliant."
"Don't be stupid. This case was so easy to solve, anyone could've done it."
"Obviously, the police didn't."
"They lacked data."
John shook his head, smiling.
And so they returned to 221B, John deep in thought as to what he should do with Maggie, and Sherlock deep in thought as to what he should do with John. Consequently the cab ride was rather silent.
Soon they got to their destination and paid the cabbie. As they walked up the stairs to the flat, John finally mustered the courage to speak, and began:
"You know, Sherlock, I..."
He stopped in mid-sentence as he saw his friend hold his hand up, requesting that he kept quiet. Sherlock was frowning, a glare threatening to fill his eyes that had turned to slits. John tilted his head to the side, confused. But when Sherlock finally pushed the door open, and they saw a tall man with an umbrella by his side leisurely reading a newspaper in their living-room, he understood, and emitted a groan.
"Hello, Sherlock. Dr. Watson. How have you been?" Mycroft inquired in an unctuous tone.
Sherlock glowered.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
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tbc
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