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earlgreytea68Title - John Watson's Twelve Days of Christmas (10/?)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - It's the holiday season. John Watson needs money. Sherlock Holmes needs something else.
Author's Notes - Thank you to dashcommaslash for poking through this for me!
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9
Sherlock had been quite capable of gathering enough willpower not to seduce John. It turned out, however, that he was thoroughly incapable of gathering enough willpower not to be seduced by John. It hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that John might kiss him. John had been the one who seemed to be resisting the idea, John had been the one to call a halt that night under the mistletoe, John had been the one who had seemed uncertain that it was a good idea. And Sherlock didn’t blame him: John was intelligent and practical and anyone who was intelligent and practical would have second thoughts about getting involved with Sherlock.
Which led Sherlock to conclude that John must have decided that he could shag Sherlock without getting involved with Sherlock. And that made perfect sense. It was an excellent conclusion for John to have reached. They were meant to be fake boyfriends, the shagging added a bit of verisimilitude, and they already knew that they were going their separate ways in a short week’s time. No, Sherlock didn’t blame John at all.
And if Sherlock was getting only one week with John Watson, now that he’d succumbed to the idea, he was going to enjoy every single bloody second of it. Starting with this, right now. Sleeping with John. He felt no desire to kick John out of bed, no dread that he might stay until the morning, only a deep-seated thrill that he was there with Sherlock, a happy anticipation that he was still going to be there in the morning. And not only was Sherlock looking forward to his being there in the morning, but he thought John wouldn’t mind it, either. John might not be in love with him—it would be nonsensical of Sherlock to ever hope otherwise—but John gave every appearance of tolerating him, and he didn’t think John would wake up in the morning filled with regret that all this had happened.
Sherlock was looking forward to this week with an alarming eagerness. It was all going to be a disaster at the end no matter what he did; he might as well enjoy everything he could now.
To that end, once he was sure John was fully asleep, he shifted carefully down to the optimum place from which to stare at John, there, in his bed. Sherlock had no intention of wasting any of this magic time sleeping. He lay there, watching John sleep. He heard Mother and Mycroft come home and then settle down in their own beds. He watched the room gradually lighten as the sun arrived, and then he experimentally nudged himself closer to John, until his head was leaning against John’s chest. He wasn’t quite daring enough to settle himself entirely on John, but he thought this was close enough. He closed his eyes. From this new position, he could hear John’s heart beating steadily. John’s slow, even breaths brushed against him. It was almost like being part of him.
He was still lying like that, matching his breaths to John’s, when John woke up. John twitched, his breathing hitching momentarily, and then took a deep breath and stretched a bit.
“Good morning,” Sherlock said, not shifting away from where he was nestled against John.
And John didn’t push him away. John said, sounding lazy and content, “Good morning.” And then, sounding amused, “Oh, look, some helpful fairies have put condoms and lube on the nightstand.”
Sherlock hoped he didn’t blush. He’d never blushed before in his life. Was he going to start blushing now? What was wrong with him?
“I thought—” he began.
“You are a genius,” said John, jostling Sherlock as he sat up, and then rolled half on top of Sherlock. “But then, you know that.” John disappeared under the duvet.
Sherlock blinked in surprise. How could he ever have expected that John would wake up and immediately pounce on him? He’d hoped, of course, but he’d never expected… “What—” he began, a word that ended on a strangled, bitten-out noise when John changed Sherlock’s mind entirely about the necessity of that question. “Oh…you…don’t…have…to…oh,” said Sherlock, forgetting everything—what he had been saying, why he had been surprised, the ticking clock in the background of his time with John—everything except for John. When thoughts rushed back into his head after the orgasm, one of them was astonishment that it was the first time, really, that anything other than cocaine had managed to wipe his brain so blessedly clean.
He struggled to push the duvet away, off of John, so he could pull him clumsily up his body and capture his mouth in a kiss.
“Mmph,” said John, into his mouth, because apparently he’d been saying something when Sherlock had kissed him, but Sherlock didn’t care about that, what he cared about was that John kissed him back.
“Happy New Year,” John said finally, when he pulled back.
“You’re a genius,” Sherlock panted at him, turning John’s words back on him.
“Flattering,” said John, with a smile.
Sherlock felt utterly befuddled. John, still in bed with him, sprawled on top of him, smiling at him. How was he supposed to respond to this? He had never had sex with anyone who had ever smiled at him so openly, so delightfully, afterward. “Let’s stay in bed all day,” he heard himself say.
John’s smile turned to a full-fledged grin. Sherlock decided that had been the proper response. “Won’t we scandalize your mother and brother? Then again, I suppose it will shore up your story some more, won’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, trying to sound like he meant that. “Yes, that’s what it will do.”
He apparently didn’t do a good enough job, because John said, “You okay?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” replied Sherlock. And, because he meant that with every fiber of his being, John believed him.
***
John complained, eventually, that he was hungry.
“But you said we could stay in bed all day,” Sherlock pouted, tucked up as tight against John as he could get. Sherlock had spent the entire day testing exactly how much he could cling to John before John would push him away. John had not yet pushed him away.
“I didn’t, actually. You proposed that we stay in bed all day, and I said it would scandalize your family. And then you changed the topic of conversation in an unfair manner.”
“There was no further conversation,” Sherlock corrected him lazily, smiling at the memory.
“That’s what was unfair about it,” said John, and Sherlock, still smiling, pressed his nose into John’s skin. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Boring.”
“Well, if you don’t let me eat and get some more energy, then yes, you are going to have a very dull evening indeed.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock. “It wouldn’t be boring if you’d let me eat it off you. I’d eat an entire feast off your skin.”
There was a moment of silence. “Oh,” said John, his voice that pitch that Sherlock was coming to recognize as oh-bloody-hell-in-two-minutes-I’m-going-to-shag-you-through-this-mattress. Sherlock smiled, pleased. “Hold that thought,” John continued.
Sherlock turned more toward John, fully onto his stomach, because if John’s voice had reached that particular pitch, then Sherlock thought he could convince him to forget about eating with just a few well-placed—
“Stop it,” said John, hand on Sherlock’s head, lightly pushing him away from making contact. “You think I haven’t yet realized what a manipulative bastard you are?”
“Merely observant,” Sherlock defended himself.
“Manipulatively observant.”
“You weren’t complaining about it an hour ago.”
“And—and frankly, astonishingly—I wouldn’t be complaining about it five minutes from now if I let you get your way. But I’m not going to let you get your way. It’s good for you not to get what you want every once in a while. I’m going to take a shower.” John slid out of the bed.
Sherlock curled into the space John had vacated and tried not to let John’s words drum into his head. It’s good for you to not get what you want every once in a while. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think, John, John, I want John, and I’m not going to get him, and I don’t care about everything else I have, there isn’t anything else I want the way I want John. And it was all worse now that he’d had this last golden little while with him. This could be his life: all this playful, fantastic sex interspersed with John being tolerant of Sherlock’s household demands and helping out with his crime-solving. This could be his life, and he wasn’t going to get it, because John was amazing and could do so much better than a life with Sherlock Holmes.
“Hey,” came John’s voice from the en suite.
Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to sound perfectly normal when he called back, “Yes?”
“Aren’t you joining me? I thought you’d insist upon it.”
Sherlock had never been invited to shower with anyone before. He rolled over a bit so that he could see John and asked, “Really?”
“Yes, really, don’t be daft,” said John, and threw him the towel that he had been wearing around his hips.
***
“So kind of you to join us,” said Violet at the supper table, but she gave them such a beaming smile of sunny approval that John forgot to be embarrassed and instead thought of how terrible it was going to be when Sherlock had to tell his mother that they’d broken up. Sherlock would probably blame John—that would make the most sense—and John found that he hated the idea that Violet would come to hate him for whatever lie Sherlock might tell.
“It’s a Watson family tradition,” said Sherlock jovially, as he sat. The shared shower seemed to have put him in a much better mood. Sherlock seemed naturally prone to melancholy, but John didn’t know what to make of the fact that he seemed especially prone to it in what should have been an afterglow.
“Interesting family,” remarked Mycroft drily, not looking up from his newspaper.
“Mycroft, not at the table,” Violet told him.
“It really isn’t safe for me to be away from the office so close to the Korean elections,” Mycroft informed her, and then, when John looked at him curiously, “Not that you need to know anything more about that.”
“I am unimpressed, Mycroft,” proclaimed Violet. “The Korean elections surely are not happening over supper tonight.”
Mycroft frowned a bit but folded the newspaper out of the way.
Violet turned back to John and Sherlock, smiling again. Sherlock looked lost in thought, not paying attention, so when she said, “Happy new year,” John responded for both of them, “And to you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Violet agreed, and her eyes rested on Sherlock for a moment, dazzlingly affectionate.
Sherlock appeared not to notice. For a genius, he noticed so very little about how people felt about him, John thought. For instance, he had not once brought up the problem that John was crashingly in love with him. Unless that was what he was brooding about after a good shag.
Mycroft said, “Do they have any other interesting New Year’s traditions, the Watsons?”
“How’s the diet going, Mycroft?” asked Sherlock, mildly.
“Fine,” answered Mycroft, firmly.
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.
“Now, now, boys. I was hoping for a pleasant evening. Sherlock, I thought you might play for us a bit.”
“Absolutely not,” said Sherlock. John noticed he was eating with great enthusiasm. Regardless of his denials, he had clearly been starving. “We have emerged only because John insisted we eat. After this, we are going directly back to bed.”
John felt himself blush to the tip of his ears. “Er,” he said. “Because it’s, er, very bad luck to be out of bed on New Year’s Day.”
“Would that we all had such entertaining New Year’s Days,” said Violet, gravely amused.
“I mean, because—not for—just, you know, leisurely, lounging around, relaxing activities. You should greet the new year…leisurely,” struggled John, wondering why he didn’t just stop talking.
Mycroft had an elbow on the table and his chin in his fist. “Leisurely,” he echoed.
“You know,” John said, lamely.
“Do I?” inquired Mycroft, innocently.
John decided this was a losing battle and he ought to shut up. And, anyway, what difference did it make? Sherlock had probably made the remark because he wanted to make sure his family was thinking about all the sex they were having up in the bedroom. Sherlock probably wanted him to say something about reduced refractory periods. Much better for the story they were weaving.
John found that, although he had been starving, he’d lost his appetite.
Sherlock noticed. Of course he did. John realized that Sherlock did usually notice the symptoms of John’s love-sickness, he just never connected the dots. Or maybe he just never acknowledged that he had connected the dots. Maybe he knew what a mess John was over him and simply didn’t care. Although that seemed more heartless than the Sherlock John had come to know (and love). John thought it more likely that the idea of John being in love with Sherlock was so ridiculous that Sherlock couldn’t even countenance it. John understood: Sherlock was way out of his league, impossibly unobtainable. It would have been irrational folly for John to fall in love with him, something John knew Sherlock would despise. John was a useless wreck of a man reduced to fake-dating someone for money. Sherlock was ridiculously attractive and painfully clever, with a job he clearly adored. In London, where his life was, John was sure Sherlock was relaxed and self-assured. It was only that he was out of his element here with his relatives, John thought, that gave any impression otherwise.
When they got back up to the bedroom, Violet giving up her quest to get Sherlock to play something (“Really, darling, not even Auld Lang Syne? Fine, good night, then”), Sherlock said, immediately, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said John, looking at the bed. “Who changed the sheets?”
“Harrison, of course.”
“I have to ask: Is Harrison a wizard?”
“You said you were starving, and then you barely ate.”
John collapsed backward onto the bed and put his arm over his eyes to avoid Sherlock’s all-seeing gaze. “I…ate enough. I just wasn’t as hungry as you clearly were.”
Sherlock made a skeptical sound. “You’ll be wanting to eat again in a few hours.”
“That’s how the human body works, Sherlock.”
Sherlock made another skeptical sound, followed by a line of winding, supple notes on his violin. The music continued, stretching over John, and John gradually felt the residual tension from supper leak out of him. Sherlock’s violin was magical, John thought. More magical than Harrison. Truly magical. John could listen to Sherlock play violin forever. It was wildly seductive and madly addictive. Like Sherlock himself. And John had never been one for classical music. He had never been one for blokes like Sherlock, frankly. At least, had never dated or even shagged any like him. Then again, he amended, he’d never met any blokes even remotely like Sherlock.
John rolled onto his stomach, opened his eyes, and watched Sherlock play. Sherlock had his eyes closed, caught up in the music he was coaxing, his fingers sure and true against the strings, his arm sinuous as it moved the bow up and down. John’s breath caught, a spike of adrenaline bursting through him, blood pounding in his ears. That’s how gorgeous Sherlock was, John thought. Just looking at Sherlock made John feel as alive as he had while ducking away from gunfire in Afghanistan. He had gone half the world away in a quest to feel alive, when all the while he could have solved that problem so much more easily, just by meeting Sherlock.
Sherlock opened his eyes as he played the final notes, meeting and holding John’s gaze.
“That was beautiful,” John managed, finally. It came out as a hoarse rasp. Say something utterly prosaic, John told himself. Break this spell. “Your mother would have enjoyed that, too, I’m sure.”
“That was for you,” Sherlock said, which certainly didn’t help break the spell. He put the violin and bow down and sat on the bed by John’s head, looking down at him. “It was Swan Lake,” he explained.
John was momentarily confused. Had he ever expressed some sort of fondness for Swan Lake? Why would Sherlock play him Swan Lake?
And then he realized. “Seven swans a-swimming.”
“Exactly,” said Sherlock, and kissed him.
***
John was in the library reading the local history he’d given Sherlock the day they toured the town, which seemed an impossibly long time ago. So much had happened since then. So much…ill-advised and utterly marvelous sex, thought John, and just like that he was no longer reading the history but staring into the fire and thinking that as soon as Sherlock returned from wherever he’d gone, John would pounce on him and tug him back up to their bedroom.
And he would never hear the end of it, because he had been the one insisting that they not spend the rest of the holiday in the bedroom.
“Do you know where Sherlock is?”
John looked up from the fire and pulled himself away from indecent thoughts, focusing on Mycroft, who was walking into the library, his hands clasped behind his back, looking deep in thought.
“No, actually,” John replied, honestly. Sherlock had disappeared a few minutes earlier, characteristically without saying a word to John.
Mycroft stood in front of the fire and regarded John with a close seriousness that made John sit up a little straighter. “He’s pouring you eight glasses of milk,” Mycroft informed him.
There was a moment of silence. John realized that maybe Mycroft was waiting for John to clarify this activity. “Eight maids a-milking,” he said, helpfully.
“I know what it means,” Mycroft countered immediately, sounding annoyed.
“Okay,” said John, hoping that his judgment of Mycroft’s touchiness was showing on his face.
Mycroft peered at him closely. John looked back at him, eyebrows slightly raised, wondering what this was all about. “You don’t seem very afraid of me,” Mycroft pronounced, finally.
“You don’t seem very frightening,” John pointed out.
Mycroft scowled. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”
John hoped that his panic at that question didn’t show on his face. He didn’t think it did, as Mycroft just continued to look at him steadily. Plan to continue it? No. Not likely. Not once Sherlock finished the transaction. Want to continue it? That was another question entirely.
John chose his words carefully. “I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business, really.”
Mycroft’s gaze stayed even and calm. “I’d be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis.”
What was it with the Holmes brothers paying him to maintain personal relationships?, thought John, incredulously. “For what?”
“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”
“Why?”
“Because I worry about him,” answered Mycroft. “Constantly.”
John gazed across at him. He was serious. Mycroft worried about Sherlock. A great deal. In a roundabout way, somewhere underneath everything, this was probably Mycroft’s odd version of a break-my-little-brother’s-heart-I’ll-break-you speech. He is my little brother. I worry about him constantly. You had better not cause him any pain. “He’s fine,” asserted John.
Mycroft looked dubious. “Is he, though? So easy for you to say. You’re very loyal, very quickly.”
“No, I’m not,” John denied, because he typically wasn’t. He had never thought of himself as the sort of person who made friends easily, who fell in love swiftly. He didn’t know what any of this was that he was doing over this holiday.
“You know, really, so little about him. I don’t suppose he’s mentioned the drugs at all.”
“The drugs?” echoed John, too surprised to pretend that he wasn’t.
“No, he wouldn’t have, would he?” continued Mycroft.
“Him? A junkie?” said John, the idea of it almost absurd.
“Ah, Sherlock doesn’t prefer terms like that to refer to it,” remarked Mycroft. “How can you possibly function in a relationship with him when you know so little about him? Your therapist says you have trust issues.”
John flinched. He couldn’t help it. “How do you know that?”
Mycroft didn’t answer him. “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock? Of all people?”
“Look,” John began, but Mycroft cut him off.
“You’ve been lost for quite a little while, haven’t you, Dr. Watson? Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, but she’s got it the wrong way around. You’re not haunted by the war; you miss it. You miss feeling alive. You miss having something wild and unpredictable in your life. You miss something Sherlockian. And, luckily for you and your psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in your left hand, you met something just the right size and shape to fill that hole, didn’t you? He’s given you what you were missing. You owe him quite a lot for that.”
John didn’t need to be told any of this. It wasn’t helping, at all, to be told this. He knew this. He knew this so keenly and acutely that if he thought about it too much, he’d lie awake at night worrying about it. He had lain awake at night over it, when Sherlock wasn’t in bed with him. When he was in bed with Sherlock, Sherlock never gave him a chance to catch his breath enough to brood about it.
He didn’t need Mycroft to remind him how empty his life was going to be once this whole thing was over. He didn’t need to be reminded of the enormous Sherlock-shaped gap that was going to loom over his days. He was dreading it with every fiber of his being. “Are we done here?” John asked, trying and failing not to sound too curt.
“I’m sure it is no surprise for you to learn that my brother does not make friends easily. That my brother has trust issues of his own. He has chosen you. Be sure you deserve him.”
He hasn’t chosen me! John wanted to shout at him. All he’s doing is paying me! But he didn’t say anything at all.
Mycroft strode out of the room, murmuring, “I do wonder what he’ll do for twelve drummers drumming.”
John looked into the fire and tried to shake the encounter off. It had been idiotic of him to shag Sherlock in the first place; he had known it would drag him deeper into the mess he’d created for himself. But there was just something about him John could not resist, especially not after hearing him threaten Moriarty on John’s behalf. Sherlock was better than Moriarty, John knew this with unerring faith, but Sherlock had stooped to Moriarty’s level because of concern for John, and that had triggered something in John that had led him to, well, this. Whatever this was.
Sherlock entered the room, carrying a tray with eight glasses of milk and looking very pleased with himself. And then he drew to a halt in front of the sofa and frowned.
“Mycroft was here,” he proclaimed.
John thought it was pointless to try to deny that. “Yes. He told me you were pouring me eight glasses of milk.”
Sherlock peered suspiciously at John. “Hmm,” he said.
“What’s that for?”
“No good ever comes of Mycroft being in a place. Look at the state of the nation,” said Sherlock. He put the tray on the side table and crawled onto the sofa with John, snuggling tight up against him, head on his shoulder. He plucked up the local history on John’s lap. “You’re not going to finish your terrible mystery novel?”
“Not necessary, since you told me how it ends,” John reminded him.
“I don’t know how you didn’t already know how it was going to end. It was obvious from the image on the cover.” Sherlock opened the local history, to the page on which John had scrawled his inscription. With Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, John couldn’t see his expression, but he wished he could. Then he closed the book abruptly, let it slide to the floor, and settled more heavily against John, turning his head into him contentedly. “Eight maids a-milking,” he said.
“I know,” said John.
“Let’s just sit like this for a while,” Sherlock suggested.
We can sit like this forever if you want, thought John. But would you ask me for forever? Is this because you want to? Or because this is a nice, public room where someone might wander in and catch us in a convincing embrace? “Sure,” he said, and held Sherlock close.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - It's the holiday season. John Watson needs money. Sherlock Holmes needs something else.
Author's Notes - Thank you to dashcommaslash for poking through this for me!
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9
Sherlock had been quite capable of gathering enough willpower not to seduce John. It turned out, however, that he was thoroughly incapable of gathering enough willpower not to be seduced by John. It hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that John might kiss him. John had been the one who seemed to be resisting the idea, John had been the one to call a halt that night under the mistletoe, John had been the one who had seemed uncertain that it was a good idea. And Sherlock didn’t blame him: John was intelligent and practical and anyone who was intelligent and practical would have second thoughts about getting involved with Sherlock.
Which led Sherlock to conclude that John must have decided that he could shag Sherlock without getting involved with Sherlock. And that made perfect sense. It was an excellent conclusion for John to have reached. They were meant to be fake boyfriends, the shagging added a bit of verisimilitude, and they already knew that they were going their separate ways in a short week’s time. No, Sherlock didn’t blame John at all.
And if Sherlock was getting only one week with John Watson, now that he’d succumbed to the idea, he was going to enjoy every single bloody second of it. Starting with this, right now. Sleeping with John. He felt no desire to kick John out of bed, no dread that he might stay until the morning, only a deep-seated thrill that he was there with Sherlock, a happy anticipation that he was still going to be there in the morning. And not only was Sherlock looking forward to his being there in the morning, but he thought John wouldn’t mind it, either. John might not be in love with him—it would be nonsensical of Sherlock to ever hope otherwise—but John gave every appearance of tolerating him, and he didn’t think John would wake up in the morning filled with regret that all this had happened.
Sherlock was looking forward to this week with an alarming eagerness. It was all going to be a disaster at the end no matter what he did; he might as well enjoy everything he could now.
To that end, once he was sure John was fully asleep, he shifted carefully down to the optimum place from which to stare at John, there, in his bed. Sherlock had no intention of wasting any of this magic time sleeping. He lay there, watching John sleep. He heard Mother and Mycroft come home and then settle down in their own beds. He watched the room gradually lighten as the sun arrived, and then he experimentally nudged himself closer to John, until his head was leaning against John’s chest. He wasn’t quite daring enough to settle himself entirely on John, but he thought this was close enough. He closed his eyes. From this new position, he could hear John’s heart beating steadily. John’s slow, even breaths brushed against him. It was almost like being part of him.
He was still lying like that, matching his breaths to John’s, when John woke up. John twitched, his breathing hitching momentarily, and then took a deep breath and stretched a bit.
“Good morning,” Sherlock said, not shifting away from where he was nestled against John.
And John didn’t push him away. John said, sounding lazy and content, “Good morning.” And then, sounding amused, “Oh, look, some helpful fairies have put condoms and lube on the nightstand.”
Sherlock hoped he didn’t blush. He’d never blushed before in his life. Was he going to start blushing now? What was wrong with him?
“I thought—” he began.
“You are a genius,” said John, jostling Sherlock as he sat up, and then rolled half on top of Sherlock. “But then, you know that.” John disappeared under the duvet.
Sherlock blinked in surprise. How could he ever have expected that John would wake up and immediately pounce on him? He’d hoped, of course, but he’d never expected… “What—” he began, a word that ended on a strangled, bitten-out noise when John changed Sherlock’s mind entirely about the necessity of that question. “Oh…you…don’t…have…to…oh,” said Sherlock, forgetting everything—what he had been saying, why he had been surprised, the ticking clock in the background of his time with John—everything except for John. When thoughts rushed back into his head after the orgasm, one of them was astonishment that it was the first time, really, that anything other than cocaine had managed to wipe his brain so blessedly clean.
He struggled to push the duvet away, off of John, so he could pull him clumsily up his body and capture his mouth in a kiss.
“Mmph,” said John, into his mouth, because apparently he’d been saying something when Sherlock had kissed him, but Sherlock didn’t care about that, what he cared about was that John kissed him back.
“Happy New Year,” John said finally, when he pulled back.
“You’re a genius,” Sherlock panted at him, turning John’s words back on him.
“Flattering,” said John, with a smile.
Sherlock felt utterly befuddled. John, still in bed with him, sprawled on top of him, smiling at him. How was he supposed to respond to this? He had never had sex with anyone who had ever smiled at him so openly, so delightfully, afterward. “Let’s stay in bed all day,” he heard himself say.
John’s smile turned to a full-fledged grin. Sherlock decided that had been the proper response. “Won’t we scandalize your mother and brother? Then again, I suppose it will shore up your story some more, won’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, trying to sound like he meant that. “Yes, that’s what it will do.”
He apparently didn’t do a good enough job, because John said, “You okay?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” replied Sherlock. And, because he meant that with every fiber of his being, John believed him.
***
John complained, eventually, that he was hungry.
“But you said we could stay in bed all day,” Sherlock pouted, tucked up as tight against John as he could get. Sherlock had spent the entire day testing exactly how much he could cling to John before John would push him away. John had not yet pushed him away.
“I didn’t, actually. You proposed that we stay in bed all day, and I said it would scandalize your family. And then you changed the topic of conversation in an unfair manner.”
“There was no further conversation,” Sherlock corrected him lazily, smiling at the memory.
“That’s what was unfair about it,” said John, and Sherlock, still smiling, pressed his nose into John’s skin. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Boring.”
“Well, if you don’t let me eat and get some more energy, then yes, you are going to have a very dull evening indeed.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock. “It wouldn’t be boring if you’d let me eat it off you. I’d eat an entire feast off your skin.”
There was a moment of silence. “Oh,” said John, his voice that pitch that Sherlock was coming to recognize as oh-bloody-hell-in-two-minutes-I’m-going-to-shag-you-through-this-mattress. Sherlock smiled, pleased. “Hold that thought,” John continued.
Sherlock turned more toward John, fully onto his stomach, because if John’s voice had reached that particular pitch, then Sherlock thought he could convince him to forget about eating with just a few well-placed—
“Stop it,” said John, hand on Sherlock’s head, lightly pushing him away from making contact. “You think I haven’t yet realized what a manipulative bastard you are?”
“Merely observant,” Sherlock defended himself.
“Manipulatively observant.”
“You weren’t complaining about it an hour ago.”
“And—and frankly, astonishingly—I wouldn’t be complaining about it five minutes from now if I let you get your way. But I’m not going to let you get your way. It’s good for you not to get what you want every once in a while. I’m going to take a shower.” John slid out of the bed.
Sherlock curled into the space John had vacated and tried not to let John’s words drum into his head. It’s good for you to not get what you want every once in a while. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think, John, John, I want John, and I’m not going to get him, and I don’t care about everything else I have, there isn’t anything else I want the way I want John. And it was all worse now that he’d had this last golden little while with him. This could be his life: all this playful, fantastic sex interspersed with John being tolerant of Sherlock’s household demands and helping out with his crime-solving. This could be his life, and he wasn’t going to get it, because John was amazing and could do so much better than a life with Sherlock Holmes.
“Hey,” came John’s voice from the en suite.
Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to sound perfectly normal when he called back, “Yes?”
“Aren’t you joining me? I thought you’d insist upon it.”
Sherlock had never been invited to shower with anyone before. He rolled over a bit so that he could see John and asked, “Really?”
“Yes, really, don’t be daft,” said John, and threw him the towel that he had been wearing around his hips.
***
“So kind of you to join us,” said Violet at the supper table, but she gave them such a beaming smile of sunny approval that John forgot to be embarrassed and instead thought of how terrible it was going to be when Sherlock had to tell his mother that they’d broken up. Sherlock would probably blame John—that would make the most sense—and John found that he hated the idea that Violet would come to hate him for whatever lie Sherlock might tell.
“It’s a Watson family tradition,” said Sherlock jovially, as he sat. The shared shower seemed to have put him in a much better mood. Sherlock seemed naturally prone to melancholy, but John didn’t know what to make of the fact that he seemed especially prone to it in what should have been an afterglow.
“Interesting family,” remarked Mycroft drily, not looking up from his newspaper.
“Mycroft, not at the table,” Violet told him.
“It really isn’t safe for me to be away from the office so close to the Korean elections,” Mycroft informed her, and then, when John looked at him curiously, “Not that you need to know anything more about that.”
“I am unimpressed, Mycroft,” proclaimed Violet. “The Korean elections surely are not happening over supper tonight.”
Mycroft frowned a bit but folded the newspaper out of the way.
Violet turned back to John and Sherlock, smiling again. Sherlock looked lost in thought, not paying attention, so when she said, “Happy new year,” John responded for both of them, “And to you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Violet agreed, and her eyes rested on Sherlock for a moment, dazzlingly affectionate.
Sherlock appeared not to notice. For a genius, he noticed so very little about how people felt about him, John thought. For instance, he had not once brought up the problem that John was crashingly in love with him. Unless that was what he was brooding about after a good shag.
Mycroft said, “Do they have any other interesting New Year’s traditions, the Watsons?”
“How’s the diet going, Mycroft?” asked Sherlock, mildly.
“Fine,” answered Mycroft, firmly.
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.
“Now, now, boys. I was hoping for a pleasant evening. Sherlock, I thought you might play for us a bit.”
“Absolutely not,” said Sherlock. John noticed he was eating with great enthusiasm. Regardless of his denials, he had clearly been starving. “We have emerged only because John insisted we eat. After this, we are going directly back to bed.”
John felt himself blush to the tip of his ears. “Er,” he said. “Because it’s, er, very bad luck to be out of bed on New Year’s Day.”
“Would that we all had such entertaining New Year’s Days,” said Violet, gravely amused.
“I mean, because—not for—just, you know, leisurely, lounging around, relaxing activities. You should greet the new year…leisurely,” struggled John, wondering why he didn’t just stop talking.
Mycroft had an elbow on the table and his chin in his fist. “Leisurely,” he echoed.
“You know,” John said, lamely.
“Do I?” inquired Mycroft, innocently.
John decided this was a losing battle and he ought to shut up. And, anyway, what difference did it make? Sherlock had probably made the remark because he wanted to make sure his family was thinking about all the sex they were having up in the bedroom. Sherlock probably wanted him to say something about reduced refractory periods. Much better for the story they were weaving.
John found that, although he had been starving, he’d lost his appetite.
Sherlock noticed. Of course he did. John realized that Sherlock did usually notice the symptoms of John’s love-sickness, he just never connected the dots. Or maybe he just never acknowledged that he had connected the dots. Maybe he knew what a mess John was over him and simply didn’t care. Although that seemed more heartless than the Sherlock John had come to know (and love). John thought it more likely that the idea of John being in love with Sherlock was so ridiculous that Sherlock couldn’t even countenance it. John understood: Sherlock was way out of his league, impossibly unobtainable. It would have been irrational folly for John to fall in love with him, something John knew Sherlock would despise. John was a useless wreck of a man reduced to fake-dating someone for money. Sherlock was ridiculously attractive and painfully clever, with a job he clearly adored. In London, where his life was, John was sure Sherlock was relaxed and self-assured. It was only that he was out of his element here with his relatives, John thought, that gave any impression otherwise.
When they got back up to the bedroom, Violet giving up her quest to get Sherlock to play something (“Really, darling, not even Auld Lang Syne? Fine, good night, then”), Sherlock said, immediately, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said John, looking at the bed. “Who changed the sheets?”
“Harrison, of course.”
“I have to ask: Is Harrison a wizard?”
“You said you were starving, and then you barely ate.”
John collapsed backward onto the bed and put his arm over his eyes to avoid Sherlock’s all-seeing gaze. “I…ate enough. I just wasn’t as hungry as you clearly were.”
Sherlock made a skeptical sound. “You’ll be wanting to eat again in a few hours.”
“That’s how the human body works, Sherlock.”
Sherlock made another skeptical sound, followed by a line of winding, supple notes on his violin. The music continued, stretching over John, and John gradually felt the residual tension from supper leak out of him. Sherlock’s violin was magical, John thought. More magical than Harrison. Truly magical. John could listen to Sherlock play violin forever. It was wildly seductive and madly addictive. Like Sherlock himself. And John had never been one for classical music. He had never been one for blokes like Sherlock, frankly. At least, had never dated or even shagged any like him. Then again, he amended, he’d never met any blokes even remotely like Sherlock.
John rolled onto his stomach, opened his eyes, and watched Sherlock play. Sherlock had his eyes closed, caught up in the music he was coaxing, his fingers sure and true against the strings, his arm sinuous as it moved the bow up and down. John’s breath caught, a spike of adrenaline bursting through him, blood pounding in his ears. That’s how gorgeous Sherlock was, John thought. Just looking at Sherlock made John feel as alive as he had while ducking away from gunfire in Afghanistan. He had gone half the world away in a quest to feel alive, when all the while he could have solved that problem so much more easily, just by meeting Sherlock.
Sherlock opened his eyes as he played the final notes, meeting and holding John’s gaze.
“That was beautiful,” John managed, finally. It came out as a hoarse rasp. Say something utterly prosaic, John told himself. Break this spell. “Your mother would have enjoyed that, too, I’m sure.”
“That was for you,” Sherlock said, which certainly didn’t help break the spell. He put the violin and bow down and sat on the bed by John’s head, looking down at him. “It was Swan Lake,” he explained.
John was momentarily confused. Had he ever expressed some sort of fondness for Swan Lake? Why would Sherlock play him Swan Lake?
And then he realized. “Seven swans a-swimming.”
“Exactly,” said Sherlock, and kissed him.
***
John was in the library reading the local history he’d given Sherlock the day they toured the town, which seemed an impossibly long time ago. So much had happened since then. So much…ill-advised and utterly marvelous sex, thought John, and just like that he was no longer reading the history but staring into the fire and thinking that as soon as Sherlock returned from wherever he’d gone, John would pounce on him and tug him back up to their bedroom.
And he would never hear the end of it, because he had been the one insisting that they not spend the rest of the holiday in the bedroom.
“Do you know where Sherlock is?”
John looked up from the fire and pulled himself away from indecent thoughts, focusing on Mycroft, who was walking into the library, his hands clasped behind his back, looking deep in thought.
“No, actually,” John replied, honestly. Sherlock had disappeared a few minutes earlier, characteristically without saying a word to John.
Mycroft stood in front of the fire and regarded John with a close seriousness that made John sit up a little straighter. “He’s pouring you eight glasses of milk,” Mycroft informed him.
There was a moment of silence. John realized that maybe Mycroft was waiting for John to clarify this activity. “Eight maids a-milking,” he said, helpfully.
“I know what it means,” Mycroft countered immediately, sounding annoyed.
“Okay,” said John, hoping that his judgment of Mycroft’s touchiness was showing on his face.
Mycroft peered at him closely. John looked back at him, eyebrows slightly raised, wondering what this was all about. “You don’t seem very afraid of me,” Mycroft pronounced, finally.
“You don’t seem very frightening,” John pointed out.
Mycroft scowled. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”
John hoped that his panic at that question didn’t show on his face. He didn’t think it did, as Mycroft just continued to look at him steadily. Plan to continue it? No. Not likely. Not once Sherlock finished the transaction. Want to continue it? That was another question entirely.
John chose his words carefully. “I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business, really.”
Mycroft’s gaze stayed even and calm. “I’d be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis.”
What was it with the Holmes brothers paying him to maintain personal relationships?, thought John, incredulously. “For what?”
“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”
“Why?”
“Because I worry about him,” answered Mycroft. “Constantly.”
John gazed across at him. He was serious. Mycroft worried about Sherlock. A great deal. In a roundabout way, somewhere underneath everything, this was probably Mycroft’s odd version of a break-my-little-brother’s-heart-I’ll-break-you speech. He is my little brother. I worry about him constantly. You had better not cause him any pain. “He’s fine,” asserted John.
Mycroft looked dubious. “Is he, though? So easy for you to say. You’re very loyal, very quickly.”
“No, I’m not,” John denied, because he typically wasn’t. He had never thought of himself as the sort of person who made friends easily, who fell in love swiftly. He didn’t know what any of this was that he was doing over this holiday.
“You know, really, so little about him. I don’t suppose he’s mentioned the drugs at all.”
“The drugs?” echoed John, too surprised to pretend that he wasn’t.
“No, he wouldn’t have, would he?” continued Mycroft.
“Him? A junkie?” said John, the idea of it almost absurd.
“Ah, Sherlock doesn’t prefer terms like that to refer to it,” remarked Mycroft. “How can you possibly function in a relationship with him when you know so little about him? Your therapist says you have trust issues.”
John flinched. He couldn’t help it. “How do you know that?”
Mycroft didn’t answer him. “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock? Of all people?”
“Look,” John began, but Mycroft cut him off.
“You’ve been lost for quite a little while, haven’t you, Dr. Watson? Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, but she’s got it the wrong way around. You’re not haunted by the war; you miss it. You miss feeling alive. You miss having something wild and unpredictable in your life. You miss something Sherlockian. And, luckily for you and your psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in your left hand, you met something just the right size and shape to fill that hole, didn’t you? He’s given you what you were missing. You owe him quite a lot for that.”
John didn’t need to be told any of this. It wasn’t helping, at all, to be told this. He knew this. He knew this so keenly and acutely that if he thought about it too much, he’d lie awake at night worrying about it. He had lain awake at night over it, when Sherlock wasn’t in bed with him. When he was in bed with Sherlock, Sherlock never gave him a chance to catch his breath enough to brood about it.
He didn’t need Mycroft to remind him how empty his life was going to be once this whole thing was over. He didn’t need to be reminded of the enormous Sherlock-shaped gap that was going to loom over his days. He was dreading it with every fiber of his being. “Are we done here?” John asked, trying and failing not to sound too curt.
“I’m sure it is no surprise for you to learn that my brother does not make friends easily. That my brother has trust issues of his own. He has chosen you. Be sure you deserve him.”
He hasn’t chosen me! John wanted to shout at him. All he’s doing is paying me! But he didn’t say anything at all.
Mycroft strode out of the room, murmuring, “I do wonder what he’ll do for twelve drummers drumming.”
John looked into the fire and tried to shake the encounter off. It had been idiotic of him to shag Sherlock in the first place; he had known it would drag him deeper into the mess he’d created for himself. But there was just something about him John could not resist, especially not after hearing him threaten Moriarty on John’s behalf. Sherlock was better than Moriarty, John knew this with unerring faith, but Sherlock had stooped to Moriarty’s level because of concern for John, and that had triggered something in John that had led him to, well, this. Whatever this was.
Sherlock entered the room, carrying a tray with eight glasses of milk and looking very pleased with himself. And then he drew to a halt in front of the sofa and frowned.
“Mycroft was here,” he proclaimed.
John thought it was pointless to try to deny that. “Yes. He told me you were pouring me eight glasses of milk.”
Sherlock peered suspiciously at John. “Hmm,” he said.
“What’s that for?”
“No good ever comes of Mycroft being in a place. Look at the state of the nation,” said Sherlock. He put the tray on the side table and crawled onto the sofa with John, snuggling tight up against him, head on his shoulder. He plucked up the local history on John’s lap. “You’re not going to finish your terrible mystery novel?”
“Not necessary, since you told me how it ends,” John reminded him.
“I don’t know how you didn’t already know how it was going to end. It was obvious from the image on the cover.” Sherlock opened the local history, to the page on which John had scrawled his inscription. With Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, John couldn’t see his expression, but he wished he could. Then he closed the book abruptly, let it slide to the floor, and settled more heavily against John, turning his head into him contentedly. “Eight maids a-milking,” he said.
“I know,” said John.
“Let’s just sit like this for a while,” Sherlock suggested.
We can sit like this forever if you want, thought John. But would you ask me for forever? Is this because you want to? Or because this is a nice, public room where someone might wander in and catch us in a convincing embrace? “Sure,” he said, and held Sherlock close.
Next Chapter
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Date: 2013-01-28 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 12:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-04 04:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-04 04:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-28 11:53 pm (UTC)...
Well, I know I can't!
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-28 11:58 pm (UTC)“No good ever comes of Mycroft being in a place. Look at the state of the nation,” said Sherlock.
That is an awesome, awesome line.
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 12:00 am (UTC)It's amazing how they are making their own predictions of how this relationship will end come true by just not saying anything of substance to each other.
I'm just about ready to lock them in the bedroom to force them come to terms with what is going on between them.
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-04 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-04 04:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 03:48 am (UTC)Mycroft had an elbow on the table and his chin in his fist. “Leisurely,” he echoed.
“You know,” John said, lamely.
“Do I?” inquired Mycroft, innocently.
DYING over here!! I read that in their exact voices too heheheh
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 05:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-04 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 07:57 pm (UTC)“You know,” John said, lamely.
“Do I?” inquired Mycroft, innocently"
Oh anything but innocent!!!
I hope it will be forever but unless the start a bit of direct communication, it seems impossible!
Lovely update; thank you. (Please say it won't end at the twelfth day? - I'm loving this story so much!!)
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:51 am (UTC)And it didn't end at the 12th day, because they hadn't yet sorted themselves, silly boys.
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Date: 2013-01-29 08:51 pm (UTC)That line is pure genius!
And I'm about ready to throw my hands up in defeat - the boys really need to talk!
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:52 am (UTC)And no! Don't admit defeat! Violet isn't!
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Date: 2013-01-30 05:16 am (UTC)Ha!
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Date: 2013-03-04 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-30 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-04 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 01:43 am (UTC)Oh, no...
John might not be in love with him—it would be nonsensical of Sherlock to ever hope otherwise—
OH, NO! You won't spare us any painful step of the misunderstanding, will you? Er, I mean "painful" for them obviously, because I can't say I complain. The more painful now the more satisfying at the end. :-)
He lay there, watching John sleep.
I have a soft spot for this image.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” replied Sherlock. And, because he meant that with every fiber of his being, John believed him.
Aww. For Sherlock's answer and for John's instinctive belief.
Sherlock had spent the entire day testing exactly how much he could cling to John before John would push him away. John had not yet pushed him away.
Did I say "Aww" before?
Sherlock had never been invited to shower with anyone before. He rolled over a bit so that he could see John and asked, “Really?”
*sighs happily* I LOVE your insecure Sherlock.
For instance, he had not once brought up the problem that John was crashingly in love with him. Unless that was what he was brooding about after a good shag. [...] John found that, although he had been starving, he’d lost his appetite. [...] John thought it more likely that the idea of John being in love with Sherlock was so ridiculous that Sherlock couldn’t even countenance it. John understood: Sherlock was way out of his league, impossibly unobtainable. It would have been irrational folly for John to fall in love with him, something John knew Sherlock would despise.
Oh, and your insecure John too. I want to hug them fiercely and shake them fiercely in the same time.
And then he realized. “Seven swans a-swimming.”
“Exactly,” said Sherlock, and kissed him.
[...]“He’s pouring you eight glasses of milk,” Mycroft informed him.
*doesn't say "Aww" because doesn't want to bore Earlgreytea but thinks the words hard*
We can sit like this forever if you want, thought John. But would you ask me for forever? Is this because you want to? Or because this is a nice, public room where someone might wander in and catch us in a convincing embrace? “Sure,” he said, and held Sherlock close.
It's bittersweet, sad but with a hint of hope. I love that. I just hope there will be more hope than sadness in the next chapters.
Great chapter. (Yes, I know I said that every time but I'm not the one to blame, am I?) I especially love the waking up scene, both funny and moving. Also, did john drink the eight glasses of milk? :D
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Date: 2013-03-06 04:34 am (UTC)I have a soft spot for that image, too. :-)
I love my insecure Sherlock, too. To a ridiculous extent. And my insecure John.
Eventually there was more hope than sadness. Eventually.
John did not drink the eight glasses of milk. But he appreciated the sentiment. :-)