The Bang and the Clatter (24/36)
Jul. 29th, 2013 11:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - The Bang and the Clatter (24/36)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Moriarty
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 - Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU.
Author's Notes - Many, many thanks to arctacuda, for helping with the writing and for uncomplainingly beta-ing when I whine.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
The champagne was flowing a bit too liberally. Sherlock, suspecting that a drunk John was a John who would try to nibble on his neck in public, stayed out of John’s way. Sherlock tried not to make it look like outright avoidance—he thought that would look almost as suspicious as a public snog at this point, honestly—but he circled along the edges of the crowd, watching John in the center of it out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock knew that it was suspicious he was even there, that a wiser move on his part would have been to go back to the hotel. But John had been giddy and already half-drunk on delight, and he had cornered Sherlock and begged, Come just have one drink, it’ll be brilliant, and how could Sherlock ever have said no to John in such a state? John was happy, and keeping John happy had become Sherlock’s primary preoccupation. So Sherlock found himself at a bar full of baseball players, and he thought nothing could more blatantly scream to the universe, Sherlock Holmes is in love with John Watson.
Sherlock had one eye on John and one eye on Moriarty, who was brooding into a glass of whisky. When he finally came up to Sherlock, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and said, “I’ve been waiting all evening.”
“I like to play hard to get,” he said, and leaned against the bar and looked at John. Sherlock deliberately did not follow his gaze, but he knew where John was in the room, and he knew Moriarty was looking straight at him. “An injury rumor is so pedestrian, Sherlock.”
“Rather like a gay rumor,” rejoined Sherlock, evenly.
“Not when one is true and one is not.” Moriarty’s eyes flickered momentarily from John to Sherlock. “I expect better of you, my dear.”
“What can I say? I had better things to do than think of…you.” Sherlock put deliberate emphasis into the word and was pleased when Moriarty reacted, eyes narrowing as he turned fully to Sherlock.
“John Watson’s fairy tale season,” Moriarty spat out. “All-Star Game MVP. I bet you’re thinking that you couldn’t write yourself a better story. Do you know what you’re forgetting?” Moriarty took a step closer. “Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain. And I owe you a fall.” Moriarty smiled silkily. “You’ve been keeping one person safe all this time. You’re about to discover how much more difficult it is to keep two people safe.”
Sherlock refused to be baited. As if he hadn’t seen all of this coming; as if he hadn’t been braced for it from the moment Moriarty had come upon them at the instant that John was teasing him and he had been laughing in response; as if he hadn’t known immediately that, seeing that, Moriarty would make it his mission in life to destroy it. Sherlock had been ready for this. Sherlock wasn’t just going to war. As far as he was concerned, it had already been declared, he’d fired the first volley and dug out his trenches. Moriarty was still engaging in diplomatic conference intrigue, not yet in receipt of the full intelligence about the state of affairs. Sherlock was pleased.
“Is that why Moran isn’t here tonight?” he asked, blandly.
Moriarty looked extremely unamused, which gave Sherlock a vicious amount of pleasure. “I’ll be seeing you very soon,” he promised, as he walked away.
Sherlock smiled and inclined his head a bit in farewell, and Moriarty looked fuming, and John suddenly said, sounding decidedly drunk, “Sherlock,” as he slid onto the bar stool next to him.
Sherlock looked at him, feeling a strange mixture of fondness and terror all at once. “You’re slurring,” he said.
“Sherlock has a built-in slur,” John told him, making sure to pronounce his words very carefully. “So does champagne. That was clever of whoever named champagne, don’t you think? Clever of whoever named you, too.” John’s eyes lingered on the errant curl Sherlock could feel tumbling over his forehead. “You have fantastic hair,” said John. Then, looking back at Sherlock’s eyes, “Did your mother name you?”
“I have no idea. I never asked.”
“Your mother is terrible,” said John. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I can wait a very long time for you to meet her,” replied Sherlock, dryly.
“Do you think people are reading our lips?”
“Are you planning on saying something inappropriate to me?”
“I’d love to,” said John, wistfully. “Take me home.”
Sherlock considered that it would just be the latest in a long line of the day’s giveaway moments between Holmes and Watson. Luckily, it wasn’t like John did anything incriminating whilst they waited for a taxi, or even whilst they rode back to the hotel. He did drape himself over Sherlock and suck on his earlobe whilst Sherlock was opening the door to the suite, but the hallway was empty and Sherlock swung him easily inside.
“Mmm,” said John, contentedly, into Sherlock’s neck. “Would you play the violin?”
“Would you like me to?”
“We’d wake everyone up, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Then no. But if I said yes, would you?”
“This is your night,” Sherlock told him, truthfully, nudging him toward the bedroom. “I’d do anything you wished.”
“I love that you play the violin in front of me,” John said, allowing Sherlock to guide him onto the bed. He made a clumsy fist in Sherlock’s shirt to keep him from moving away. “Never play in front of anyone else, okay?”
“Okay,” Sherlock agreed. “I promise.” He kissed him quickly before setting about methodically undressing him.
“Everyone has terrible taste in music.”
“No, you have terrible taste in music.”
“Duran Duran are geniuses.”
“If that’s your definition of ‘genius’ then it’s no great compliment when you use the word for me, is it?”
“The Red Sox have good music. They have a good song. Austin needs a song. We need a song, Sherlock.”
Sherlock, having pulled John’s trainers, socks, and jeans off, had moved up to his shirt, giving John the opportunity to wrap his arms around his neck and pull him awkwardly down against him. “A song for what?” asked Sherlock, into John’s skin.
“For when we win. Can they have the Wagner?”
“No, they most certainly cannot, the Wagner is mine.”
“Are you undressing me so you can have your way with me?” John asked, as Sherlock pulled back and pulled his shirt off of him.
“No, I’m undressing you so you can sleep, because you are very drunk.”
“I’m not,” John protested, drunkenly.
“Very, very drunk,” said Sherlock, commencing to undress himself.
John yawned and stretched on the bed and closed his eyes. “Maybe a little bit,” he allowed, sleepily. “Not very. You know what’s fantastic, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shut off the lights and got into bed next to him. “Baseball,” Sherlock answered.
“Mmmmmmyes, baseball is fantastic. So pretty, so lovely. But that’s not what I meant.”
“No?” Sherlock humored him. “What did you mean?”
“I meant you. You’re fantastic. So pretty, so lovely. Like baseball. Better than baseball. You are better than baseball.”
Sherlock was silent for a second. He stared up at the ceiling and waited until he felt like he could speak without betraying the depth of his emotion over that. John Watson. Saying he was better than baseball. “Now I know how drunk you are,” he said, finally, trying to lighten the moment.
“No, I mean it.” John cuddled up against him. “You are the best. The best. The best pitcher, the best person. I waited my whole life for you. I never thought you’d come. What took you so long?”
Sherlock buried his head against him, feeling oddly like he was on the verge of crying. “You’re so very drunk, John,” he said, desperately. “Stop talking and go to sleep.”
“I mean it,” said John, but he sounded drowsier, and Sherlock thought he might finally be taking Sherlock’s advice. “Sherlock, when the season’s over?” He was definitely slurring his words a bit now, and Sherlock thought it was sleep creeping over him more than alcohol at this point.
“Don’t talk about it now, John,” Sherlock whispered. “Don’t worry about it now.”
“Can we go to London?” he asked, muzzily.
Sherlock stopped breathing.
John spoke in disjointed phrases, around soft, sleepy breaths, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “Bet you love London… Bet you’re…spectacular…in London…take me…we’ll…” John faded entirely.
Sherlock took a careful breath. Words crashed together in his head, his synapses too overloaded to even form a sentence. Let’s move to London, let’s get a flat, a cozy one, with a fireplace, and a dog, and wallpaper, and a back garden for catch. Those were the words whirling through him but when he spoke into John’s slumber, the words he whispered up to the dark ceiling above him were, “I love you.”
***
John woke to the sound of Sherlock’s violin in the other room and the awareness that he wanted to die. His head was pounding and his stomach was leaping all around and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and maybe, if he asked very nicely, Sherlock would put him out of his misery and kill him. Maybe, if he lay very still, he would start to feel better.
He did not feel any better. Eventually what he felt was the pressing need to go to the bathroom, which was inconvenient. With great effort, he forced himself out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. And did not die in the process. He brushed his teeth in order to try to get the aftertaste of champagne out of his mouth, and then, because he felt gross, he decided to give the shower a tentative try. He didn’t take a shower so much as the shower took him, frankly, as he just stood there and let the water pound at him and made very little effort toward washing up. But he felt marginally better when he stepped out of the shower, and he pulled on a T-shirt and boxers because that was about the level he was operating at, and then, because it felt like that kind of day, he pulled the duvet off the bed as well and wrapped himself in it as he stumbled queasily out into the living area.
Sherlock was still playing as John collapsed on the couch, his head and stomach protesting his being upright any longer, and John placed the song after a moment. Hungry Like the Wolf.
John pulled the duvet up over his head and said into the couch cushion underneath him, “I am going to kill you.”
Sherlock finished the song before saying, “I do hope you’re clever about it. I’d hate to be murdered in a boring way.”
“Of course you would,” mumbled John, and then he pushed the duvet away from his head and turned so he could see Sherlock. Sherlock was studying his violin in that way he sometimes had, the way other men might inspect a beloved car for nicks and scratches. “Sherlock, I had a fabulous dream last night.”
“Did you?” Sherlock asked it without interest. As a rule, John had discovered, Sherlock wasn’t interested in dreams. He found the subconscious unreliable and mistrusted it. If Sherlock dreamed, he never shared them with John, and he tolerated John’s discussions of dreams only in the most absent-minded way, or else with active dislike.
“I dreamed that I was named the most valuable player of the All-Star Game,” continued John.
Sherlock smiled at that and put his violin down.
“I also dreamed that I’m living with a magnificently talented pitcher,” John went on.
“None of that is a dream,” said Sherlock, and dropped a newspaper on John’s chest.
It was a photograph of the two of them from the night before, both of them standing at the pitcher’s mound looking out over Fenway. Their backs were to the photographer, Sherlock’s number 2 on the left and John’s number 21 on the right, side-by-side. The headline was Holmes and Watson Steal the Show.
John smiled. He couldn’t help it. “That’s a nice picture of the two of us.”
“Oh, there are so many more where that came from. We are all over the Internet, John. We have a devoted following.”
There was something about Sherlock’s tone that made John groan. “Oh, God. How bad is it?”
“We’ll have to do damage control quickly. Put a rumor like that in people’s heads and suddenly everything looks suspicious.”
“Because everything is suspicious,” said John, looking reluctantly at the laptop Sherlock handed him. “‘Johnlock’?” he read. “What’s that?”
“That’s us.”
“Huh,” said John, and scrolled along the blog Sherlock had open. It was, at least, a favorable blog, giddy in its joy over their relationship. It was full of photographs of the two of them, and Sherlock was right, every single one of them looked incriminating. At the top of the page was an animation of John sprinkling grass over Sherlock’s face. It played in endless repeat, and John winced as he watched it. Underneath were more photos from the night before: John and Sherlock leaning up against the dugout fence together, identical intent expressions on their faces; John and Sherlock in a conference on the mound; John and Sherlock deep in conversation at they crossed the Fenway outfield; John and Sherlock smiling at each other in the Fenway bullpen. And that was just from the All-Star Game. John couldn’t even imagine how many more there were.
“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about scrapbooking our relationship,” commented John, trying to make light of it. “Everyone else is doing it for us.”
“We can issue a denial of the rumors.”
“No. No denial. When we eventually confirm the rumors, we’d look like idiots.”
“What are we going to tell the team?”
“Nothing, unless it becomes an issue. I only care if it becomes an issue.”
“I still think one of us should start dating someone. And since you’re a terrible actor—”
“And you’ve got a line of women wrapped around the block eager to get you into bed, it should be you,” finished John, dryly.
“Unless we just don’t and let this go the way it’s going.” Sherlock gestured to the laptop.
John sighed, put the laptop on the floor by the sofa, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we talk about this when I don’t have a hangover?”
“I take it you’re hung over now.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Then no, we can’t talk about it when you don’t have a hangover, because we need to talk about it now.”
John knew Sherlock was right and hated that Sherlock was right. “Can we issue a statement that says something like, ‘Go to hell, this is none of your business’?”
“We can issue a statement saying whatever you like.”
John sighed again. “You’d love to issue a statement telling everyone to sod off. That would be precisely your style. I don’t want to talk about us at all. If you start dating someone, would that allow us to not talk about us, just for the rest of the season?”
“It would probably allow us to talk about us less,” said Sherlock.
John considered, looking up at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch.
Sherlock said, eventually, “Are you up for company?”
“Company?”
“Your family will be coming by to congratulate you.”
“Oh,” he realized. “Right. Of course.” John sighed and frowned and Sherlock’s face suddenly swam into his vision.
“Don’t,” said Sherlock.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make that little unhappy face, I can’t stand it.” Sherlock sounded honestly distressed at the sight of it. “Tell me more about the magnificent pitcher you were shagging in your dream,” he prompted.
John laughed, because he couldn’t help it, and Sherlock looked pleased, so John knew that had been Sherlock’s objective and loved him desperately. “I didn’t say I was shagging him in my dream, I said I was living with him.”
“Was he attractive?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” John said, hooking a finger into the collar of Sherlock’s shirt.
“Then don’t be an idiot, John, shag him.”
“I am not quite up to it at the moment. Perhaps he’d settle for a kiss,” suggested John, pulling Sherlock down for one.
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, contentedly, and nuzzled underneath John’s jaw. “He might.”
“I love you, too,” John said, feeling terrible that he’d been too discombobulated to say it back the night before.
Sherlock froze, his head popping up so quickly that he might as well have been in a jack-in-the-box. He stared down at John and said, sounding strangled, “What?”
John drew his eyebrows together quizzically, puzzled by this reaction, but before he could respond, a knock sounded on the door. His family, John thought, as predicted.
Sherlock had been leaning over him, but he half-rolled off the couch at the knock. John sat up, watching as Sherlock opened the door and said, briskly, “Sorry, can you come back later?” and closed it again.
John blinked. “Sherlock—” he began, in surprise.
“Why would you say that to me?” Sherlock demanded, stalking back to the living area. He didn’t come back over to John. He paced swiftly up and down in front of the windows.
John stared at him. “I… What is going on here? Didn’t you say it to me last night?”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that. Or remember it. Why don’t you ever just do what I think you should be doing? Why do you have to keep surprising me?”
John watched his frantic pacing, confused. “I’m not sure I understand what the crisis is here. I said it back—”
“Don’t just say it back because you feel obligated—”
“Do you think that’s why I said it back?” John interrupted, sharply.
Another knock sounded on the door.
“Oh, bloody hell,” said Sherlock, and then raised his voice to shout, “Go! Away!” He turned back to John. “I didn’t intend to say anything at all to you last night. I was just…trying it out.”
The knocking on the door was persistent and steady. John was torn between wanting to shake Sherlock and wanting to shake his family for not taking the hint.
Sherlock did not seem to be suffering indecision over who to shake. He stalked over to the hotel room door, saying, “Did you not hear me? I said—Oh.” Sherlock swallowed whatever his words were on something like a hiccup, and John tried to turn more fully on the couch to see what was happening by the door.
A woman walked confidently into the hotel room, tall and dark and handsome, and John knew without even needing the confirmation of her saying, to the gaping Sherlock, “Sherlock, is that any way to greet your mother?”
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Teen
Characters - John, Sherlock, Moriarty
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 - Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU.
Author's Notes - Many, many thanks to arctacuda, for helping with the writing and for uncomplainingly beta-ing when I whine.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
The champagne was flowing a bit too liberally. Sherlock, suspecting that a drunk John was a John who would try to nibble on his neck in public, stayed out of John’s way. Sherlock tried not to make it look like outright avoidance—he thought that would look almost as suspicious as a public snog at this point, honestly—but he circled along the edges of the crowd, watching John in the center of it out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock knew that it was suspicious he was even there, that a wiser move on his part would have been to go back to the hotel. But John had been giddy and already half-drunk on delight, and he had cornered Sherlock and begged, Come just have one drink, it’ll be brilliant, and how could Sherlock ever have said no to John in such a state? John was happy, and keeping John happy had become Sherlock’s primary preoccupation. So Sherlock found himself at a bar full of baseball players, and he thought nothing could more blatantly scream to the universe, Sherlock Holmes is in love with John Watson.
Sherlock had one eye on John and one eye on Moriarty, who was brooding into a glass of whisky. When he finally came up to Sherlock, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and said, “I’ve been waiting all evening.”
“I like to play hard to get,” he said, and leaned against the bar and looked at John. Sherlock deliberately did not follow his gaze, but he knew where John was in the room, and he knew Moriarty was looking straight at him. “An injury rumor is so pedestrian, Sherlock.”
“Rather like a gay rumor,” rejoined Sherlock, evenly.
“Not when one is true and one is not.” Moriarty’s eyes flickered momentarily from John to Sherlock. “I expect better of you, my dear.”
“What can I say? I had better things to do than think of…you.” Sherlock put deliberate emphasis into the word and was pleased when Moriarty reacted, eyes narrowing as he turned fully to Sherlock.
“John Watson’s fairy tale season,” Moriarty spat out. “All-Star Game MVP. I bet you’re thinking that you couldn’t write yourself a better story. Do you know what you’re forgetting?” Moriarty took a step closer. “Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain. And I owe you a fall.” Moriarty smiled silkily. “You’ve been keeping one person safe all this time. You’re about to discover how much more difficult it is to keep two people safe.”
Sherlock refused to be baited. As if he hadn’t seen all of this coming; as if he hadn’t been braced for it from the moment Moriarty had come upon them at the instant that John was teasing him and he had been laughing in response; as if he hadn’t known immediately that, seeing that, Moriarty would make it his mission in life to destroy it. Sherlock had been ready for this. Sherlock wasn’t just going to war. As far as he was concerned, it had already been declared, he’d fired the first volley and dug out his trenches. Moriarty was still engaging in diplomatic conference intrigue, not yet in receipt of the full intelligence about the state of affairs. Sherlock was pleased.
“Is that why Moran isn’t here tonight?” he asked, blandly.
Moriarty looked extremely unamused, which gave Sherlock a vicious amount of pleasure. “I’ll be seeing you very soon,” he promised, as he walked away.
Sherlock smiled and inclined his head a bit in farewell, and Moriarty looked fuming, and John suddenly said, sounding decidedly drunk, “Sherlock,” as he slid onto the bar stool next to him.
Sherlock looked at him, feeling a strange mixture of fondness and terror all at once. “You’re slurring,” he said.
“Sherlock has a built-in slur,” John told him, making sure to pronounce his words very carefully. “So does champagne. That was clever of whoever named champagne, don’t you think? Clever of whoever named you, too.” John’s eyes lingered on the errant curl Sherlock could feel tumbling over his forehead. “You have fantastic hair,” said John. Then, looking back at Sherlock’s eyes, “Did your mother name you?”
“I have no idea. I never asked.”
“Your mother is terrible,” said John. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I can wait a very long time for you to meet her,” replied Sherlock, dryly.
“Do you think people are reading our lips?”
“Are you planning on saying something inappropriate to me?”
“I’d love to,” said John, wistfully. “Take me home.”
Sherlock considered that it would just be the latest in a long line of the day’s giveaway moments between Holmes and Watson. Luckily, it wasn’t like John did anything incriminating whilst they waited for a taxi, or even whilst they rode back to the hotel. He did drape himself over Sherlock and suck on his earlobe whilst Sherlock was opening the door to the suite, but the hallway was empty and Sherlock swung him easily inside.
“Mmm,” said John, contentedly, into Sherlock’s neck. “Would you play the violin?”
“Would you like me to?”
“We’d wake everyone up, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Then no. But if I said yes, would you?”
“This is your night,” Sherlock told him, truthfully, nudging him toward the bedroom. “I’d do anything you wished.”
“I love that you play the violin in front of me,” John said, allowing Sherlock to guide him onto the bed. He made a clumsy fist in Sherlock’s shirt to keep him from moving away. “Never play in front of anyone else, okay?”
“Okay,” Sherlock agreed. “I promise.” He kissed him quickly before setting about methodically undressing him.
“Everyone has terrible taste in music.”
“No, you have terrible taste in music.”
“Duran Duran are geniuses.”
“If that’s your definition of ‘genius’ then it’s no great compliment when you use the word for me, is it?”
“The Red Sox have good music. They have a good song. Austin needs a song. We need a song, Sherlock.”
Sherlock, having pulled John’s trainers, socks, and jeans off, had moved up to his shirt, giving John the opportunity to wrap his arms around his neck and pull him awkwardly down against him. “A song for what?” asked Sherlock, into John’s skin.
“For when we win. Can they have the Wagner?”
“No, they most certainly cannot, the Wagner is mine.”
“Are you undressing me so you can have your way with me?” John asked, as Sherlock pulled back and pulled his shirt off of him.
“No, I’m undressing you so you can sleep, because you are very drunk.”
“I’m not,” John protested, drunkenly.
“Very, very drunk,” said Sherlock, commencing to undress himself.
John yawned and stretched on the bed and closed his eyes. “Maybe a little bit,” he allowed, sleepily. “Not very. You know what’s fantastic, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shut off the lights and got into bed next to him. “Baseball,” Sherlock answered.
“Mmmmmmyes, baseball is fantastic. So pretty, so lovely. But that’s not what I meant.”
“No?” Sherlock humored him. “What did you mean?”
“I meant you. You’re fantastic. So pretty, so lovely. Like baseball. Better than baseball. You are better than baseball.”
Sherlock was silent for a second. He stared up at the ceiling and waited until he felt like he could speak without betraying the depth of his emotion over that. John Watson. Saying he was better than baseball. “Now I know how drunk you are,” he said, finally, trying to lighten the moment.
“No, I mean it.” John cuddled up against him. “You are the best. The best. The best pitcher, the best person. I waited my whole life for you. I never thought you’d come. What took you so long?”
Sherlock buried his head against him, feeling oddly like he was on the verge of crying. “You’re so very drunk, John,” he said, desperately. “Stop talking and go to sleep.”
“I mean it,” said John, but he sounded drowsier, and Sherlock thought he might finally be taking Sherlock’s advice. “Sherlock, when the season’s over?” He was definitely slurring his words a bit now, and Sherlock thought it was sleep creeping over him more than alcohol at this point.
“Don’t talk about it now, John,” Sherlock whispered. “Don’t worry about it now.”
“Can we go to London?” he asked, muzzily.
Sherlock stopped breathing.
John spoke in disjointed phrases, around soft, sleepy breaths, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “Bet you love London… Bet you’re…spectacular…in London…take me…we’ll…” John faded entirely.
Sherlock took a careful breath. Words crashed together in his head, his synapses too overloaded to even form a sentence. Let’s move to London, let’s get a flat, a cozy one, with a fireplace, and a dog, and wallpaper, and a back garden for catch. Those were the words whirling through him but when he spoke into John’s slumber, the words he whispered up to the dark ceiling above him were, “I love you.”
***
John woke to the sound of Sherlock’s violin in the other room and the awareness that he wanted to die. His head was pounding and his stomach was leaping all around and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and maybe, if he asked very nicely, Sherlock would put him out of his misery and kill him. Maybe, if he lay very still, he would start to feel better.
He did not feel any better. Eventually what he felt was the pressing need to go to the bathroom, which was inconvenient. With great effort, he forced himself out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. And did not die in the process. He brushed his teeth in order to try to get the aftertaste of champagne out of his mouth, and then, because he felt gross, he decided to give the shower a tentative try. He didn’t take a shower so much as the shower took him, frankly, as he just stood there and let the water pound at him and made very little effort toward washing up. But he felt marginally better when he stepped out of the shower, and he pulled on a T-shirt and boxers because that was about the level he was operating at, and then, because it felt like that kind of day, he pulled the duvet off the bed as well and wrapped himself in it as he stumbled queasily out into the living area.
Sherlock was still playing as John collapsed on the couch, his head and stomach protesting his being upright any longer, and John placed the song after a moment. Hungry Like the Wolf.
John pulled the duvet up over his head and said into the couch cushion underneath him, “I am going to kill you.”
Sherlock finished the song before saying, “I do hope you’re clever about it. I’d hate to be murdered in a boring way.”
“Of course you would,” mumbled John, and then he pushed the duvet away from his head and turned so he could see Sherlock. Sherlock was studying his violin in that way he sometimes had, the way other men might inspect a beloved car for nicks and scratches. “Sherlock, I had a fabulous dream last night.”
“Did you?” Sherlock asked it without interest. As a rule, John had discovered, Sherlock wasn’t interested in dreams. He found the subconscious unreliable and mistrusted it. If Sherlock dreamed, he never shared them with John, and he tolerated John’s discussions of dreams only in the most absent-minded way, or else with active dislike.
“I dreamed that I was named the most valuable player of the All-Star Game,” continued John.
Sherlock smiled at that and put his violin down.
“I also dreamed that I’m living with a magnificently talented pitcher,” John went on.
“None of that is a dream,” said Sherlock, and dropped a newspaper on John’s chest.
It was a photograph of the two of them from the night before, both of them standing at the pitcher’s mound looking out over Fenway. Their backs were to the photographer, Sherlock’s number 2 on the left and John’s number 21 on the right, side-by-side. The headline was Holmes and Watson Steal the Show.
John smiled. He couldn’t help it. “That’s a nice picture of the two of us.”
“Oh, there are so many more where that came from. We are all over the Internet, John. We have a devoted following.”
There was something about Sherlock’s tone that made John groan. “Oh, God. How bad is it?”
“We’ll have to do damage control quickly. Put a rumor like that in people’s heads and suddenly everything looks suspicious.”
“Because everything is suspicious,” said John, looking reluctantly at the laptop Sherlock handed him. “‘Johnlock’?” he read. “What’s that?”
“That’s us.”
“Huh,” said John, and scrolled along the blog Sherlock had open. It was, at least, a favorable blog, giddy in its joy over their relationship. It was full of photographs of the two of them, and Sherlock was right, every single one of them looked incriminating. At the top of the page was an animation of John sprinkling grass over Sherlock’s face. It played in endless repeat, and John winced as he watched it. Underneath were more photos from the night before: John and Sherlock leaning up against the dugout fence together, identical intent expressions on their faces; John and Sherlock in a conference on the mound; John and Sherlock deep in conversation at they crossed the Fenway outfield; John and Sherlock smiling at each other in the Fenway bullpen. And that was just from the All-Star Game. John couldn’t even imagine how many more there were.
“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about scrapbooking our relationship,” commented John, trying to make light of it. “Everyone else is doing it for us.”
“We can issue a denial of the rumors.”
“No. No denial. When we eventually confirm the rumors, we’d look like idiots.”
“What are we going to tell the team?”
“Nothing, unless it becomes an issue. I only care if it becomes an issue.”
“I still think one of us should start dating someone. And since you’re a terrible actor—”
“And you’ve got a line of women wrapped around the block eager to get you into bed, it should be you,” finished John, dryly.
“Unless we just don’t and let this go the way it’s going.” Sherlock gestured to the laptop.
John sighed, put the laptop on the floor by the sofa, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we talk about this when I don’t have a hangover?”
“I take it you’re hung over now.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Then no, we can’t talk about it when you don’t have a hangover, because we need to talk about it now.”
John knew Sherlock was right and hated that Sherlock was right. “Can we issue a statement that says something like, ‘Go to hell, this is none of your business’?”
“We can issue a statement saying whatever you like.”
John sighed again. “You’d love to issue a statement telling everyone to sod off. That would be precisely your style. I don’t want to talk about us at all. If you start dating someone, would that allow us to not talk about us, just for the rest of the season?”
“It would probably allow us to talk about us less,” said Sherlock.
John considered, looking up at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch.
Sherlock said, eventually, “Are you up for company?”
“Company?”
“Your family will be coming by to congratulate you.”
“Oh,” he realized. “Right. Of course.” John sighed and frowned and Sherlock’s face suddenly swam into his vision.
“Don’t,” said Sherlock.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make that little unhappy face, I can’t stand it.” Sherlock sounded honestly distressed at the sight of it. “Tell me more about the magnificent pitcher you were shagging in your dream,” he prompted.
John laughed, because he couldn’t help it, and Sherlock looked pleased, so John knew that had been Sherlock’s objective and loved him desperately. “I didn’t say I was shagging him in my dream, I said I was living with him.”
“Was he attractive?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” John said, hooking a finger into the collar of Sherlock’s shirt.
“Then don’t be an idiot, John, shag him.”
“I am not quite up to it at the moment. Perhaps he’d settle for a kiss,” suggested John, pulling Sherlock down for one.
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, contentedly, and nuzzled underneath John’s jaw. “He might.”
“I love you, too,” John said, feeling terrible that he’d been too discombobulated to say it back the night before.
Sherlock froze, his head popping up so quickly that he might as well have been in a jack-in-the-box. He stared down at John and said, sounding strangled, “What?”
John drew his eyebrows together quizzically, puzzled by this reaction, but before he could respond, a knock sounded on the door. His family, John thought, as predicted.
Sherlock had been leaning over him, but he half-rolled off the couch at the knock. John sat up, watching as Sherlock opened the door and said, briskly, “Sorry, can you come back later?” and closed it again.
John blinked. “Sherlock—” he began, in surprise.
“Why would you say that to me?” Sherlock demanded, stalking back to the living area. He didn’t come back over to John. He paced swiftly up and down in front of the windows.
John stared at him. “I… What is going on here? Didn’t you say it to me last night?”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that. Or remember it. Why don’t you ever just do what I think you should be doing? Why do you have to keep surprising me?”
John watched his frantic pacing, confused. “I’m not sure I understand what the crisis is here. I said it back—”
“Don’t just say it back because you feel obligated—”
“Do you think that’s why I said it back?” John interrupted, sharply.
Another knock sounded on the door.
“Oh, bloody hell,” said Sherlock, and then raised his voice to shout, “Go! Away!” He turned back to John. “I didn’t intend to say anything at all to you last night. I was just…trying it out.”
The knocking on the door was persistent and steady. John was torn between wanting to shake Sherlock and wanting to shake his family for not taking the hint.
Sherlock did not seem to be suffering indecision over who to shake. He stalked over to the hotel room door, saying, “Did you not hear me? I said—Oh.” Sherlock swallowed whatever his words were on something like a hiccup, and John tried to turn more fully on the couch to see what was happening by the door.
A woman walked confidently into the hotel room, tall and dark and handsome, and John knew without even needing the confirmation of her saying, to the gaping Sherlock, “Sherlock, is that any way to greet your mother?”
Next Chapter
