Chapter Text
John was sleeping like the dead when his phone rang and he was thrust from a fitful sleep into abrupt consciousness. He shot a hand out towards the phone vibrating across the bedside table, and knocked the clock clumsily onto the ground in his haste to silence the noise.
'What the hell?' John thought. Who in their right mind would call him in the middle of the night?
'Mike S.' The name flashed bold and bright within the otherwise pitch dark room, illuminating John's pinched features.
He'd stayed up all night studying for final exams and writing long, boring papers about topics he couldn't give two shits about. Just when John had finally fallen off to sleep, his flatmate decided it was a good time to give him a ring.
"Mike?" He grumbled into the phone, voice deep and raspy from disuse. "Everything alright?"
John could hear as his friend shifted on the other end of the line and the dry, staticky sound of fabric sliding together. A scraping wheeze emanated from Mike's throat upon each breath. "John, thank God you answered, I thought you'd be dead to the world."
'I was,' John thought irritably. He cleared his throat, hoping it would urge Mike to get on with it. If John was lucky, he might be able to go back to sleep.
"I'm awake now," he stated and sat up on the bed, holding the phone to his ear with one hand, and running slow circles over his temple with the other. "Where are you?"
"I'm at Kate's," Mike said, "I hadn't planned on staying, but I developed a bit of a fever today and she insisted I do. You know women, they don't think we can take care of ourselves."
"Uh-huh," John grunted a half-arsed acknowledgement. He hoped that Mike wasn't feeling chatty. "Sorry to hear that, mate, but... did you need anything in particular?" He enquired.
Mike coughed again, a tad louder away from the receiver, before he spoke again, short of breath. "I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but I need a huge favor."
John fought to hold back a sigh. He'd already begun to feel the pull of exhaustion the words caused. "What do you need?"
"I've finally managed to get an interview with Sherlock Holmes, of Holmes Pharmaceuticals, and this is one I can't cancel on."
Mike paused and John closed his eyes, praying that Mike wasn't asking for what John thought he might be. But alas...
"Let me guess," John began slowly. "You're sick and you want me to do the interview." He didn't bother stating his hypothesis in the form of a question. John knew Mike and also knew exactly what he was trying to ask without saying as much.
Mike didn't waste a moment to plead his case. "Please John, I really can't go like this." As if to provide proof, Mike loudly blew his nose and the sound carrying unpleasantly through the receiver. John wrinkled his nose in pity and disgust, and waited for Mike to proceed.
"I need it for my final med paper, and if it's good enough, Professor Loughton said he'll get it published in the Daily Scientist."
John groaned and fiercely suppressed the urge to throw himself backward into his pillow like an aggravated child. He scraped a hand through his tousled hair. "I know nothing about this Holmes, Mike, what am I supposed to ask him?"
"Don't worry," Mike sniffled, "I've got all my questions ready. They're on the kitchen table, where I put them this morning.” He coughed. “If I miss this interview, Holmes will never agree to meet with me again!"
John finally gave in and flopped onto his back with a huff. "Alright, alright, I'll do it."
Mike let out a sigh of relief that tapered off with a pitiful cough. "I owe you big time, John, you're a lifesaver."
"Yes, yes, now let me get back to sleep, thank you. And text me the time and location, if you will."
Mike sneezed and huffed his agreement. With this, John rang off, considerably less drowsy than he'd been a minute ago. He wondered exactly how this entire thing would pan out.
John was convinced that this interview was going to be a fiasco. Mike obviously was not in the right frame of mind if he was asking John to conduct his meeting with Sherlock Holmes, the notoriously icy CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals. His personality was really all John had heard about the man, and none of them were very good things. Of course, John wasn't the type of person to judge someone based on hearsay. But if the rumors were true, John was definitely out of his league in being the one to interview Holmes.
John raised his phone and peered at the screen with solemnity. 04.54. He would have to get up in two hours anyway, so any hope of sleep was a wasted wish.
His phone gave a soft ping a few moments later, indicating a text message notification.
It was Mike with an address that John recognized as an address in Canary Wharf, about thirty minutes, give or take, from his flat. Mike had better be reimbursing cab fare as well.
Another ping from his phone.
Mike S.
I knw u hve classes this morning. The interview is scheduled for the aftrnoon. 14.00, dnt b lte!
John heaved a weary sigh and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Well, might as well make the most of the early morning. He yawned and made his way to the kitchen, happy, at least, to be able to make himself a full English if nothing else.
---
John loathed coming to the Wharf. He loved London, but the sheer number of people always left John jittery and paranoid. He should be used to this by now. London is one of the most populated cities in the world, yet the crowds always irritated John. Every time someone bumped into him with their ridiculously expensive briefcase, he was on the brink of snapping.
He stopped at a building that towered high above the rest, easily between thirty and thirty-five floors; a large steel, modernistic structure that appeared as sleek as it did imposing. At the very top, the words Holmes Pharmaceuticals stood out in bold white letters, leaving no doubt as to where John had arrived.
He stood on the pavement, resisting the urge to scratch his head, confounded by the situation he found himself in. Mike always found a way of convincing John to do things he would never do otherwise. The year before, Mike was due to record a lecture given by the world's leading neuroscientist, and he'd begged off at the last minute citing familial obligations. Mike begged him to go, and although John was currently in medical school, these lectures did a better job of lulling him to sleep than enlightening him.
Needless to say, John ended up on the front row along with the other journalists, falling asleep while recording the lecture for Mike. His friend could be so damnably persuasive sometimes!
John took a deep breath and packed away his thoughts and gathered his courage before he stepped inside.
The interior was just as elegant as the architecture suggested. Everything was all clean, sharp lines and monochromatic colours. John was scared to touch anything. Even though he had put on his best clothes—a deep, blue cashmere jumper and his least worn, but most expensive trousers—John still felt shabby and inadequate.
The place was swarmed with businessmen in tailored suits and manicured women in their smart suit jackets and pencil skirts, all lost in their phones and clipboards, pushing past John as he observed in dread.
On the other side of the lobby, against the far wall, a large mahogany desk stretched from wall-to-wall. One woman sat directly in the centre, ignoring a man as he attempted to dazzle her with a charming smile and a gleaming row of straight, white teeth. It was obvious that she was used to the attention and paying the man no mind as she typed away, olive eyes glued to her, thin, sleek monitor. John walked up to the desk, fingering the voice recorder in his pocket, while the other hand tightly clutched the paper of questions he was meant to ask Sherlock Holmes.
The woman looked up. Her sleek, black bob stayed perfectly in place, while her vermillion lips pulled into a polite smile that failed to reach her eyes. "Welcome to Holmes Pharmaceuticals, where may I direct you today, sir?" Her voice was deeper than John had expected for a woman as tiny as she, throaty and completely professional much to the disappointment of John and his libido.
"Yes, hello. I have an appointment with Sherlock Holmes for an interview." The woman showed no surprised as she held up one manicured nail and picked up the phone, swiftly pressing two buttons. "May I have your name please?" The secretary asked as she waited for an answer on the other end.
"Uh, John Watson, here on behalf of Michael Stamford?" John responded carefully.
She nodded, then tilted her head as she listened. John assumed there was an answer on the other end as she began speaking lowly into the receiver. The conversation was brief, and shortly after, John was directed towards a row of lifts to the left of the desk.
"Up to floor thirty-four, Mr Watson. Good day." The woman offered him a winning smile, and John nodded a thank you. He pivoted and headed in the direction she pointed to where a small group had already assembled to wait for the next lift.
A man in a three piece suit that John was sure cost more than his rent, gave John a sweeping once-over, probably wondering what he was doing in a place like this. John wondered the same thing. He had never felt so out of place in his life.
The lift returned and they all packed in. John reached past a woman speaking rapid Mandarin into her mobile to press the button for the thirty-fourth floor. The woman paused, eyes flicking from the highlighted ‘34’ and back to John's slowly reddening face. Was Holmes one of those elusive bosses that rarely left his office, he wondered. What would warrant her bafflement?
It was over as fast as it began, then the woman was murmuring into her phone as she exited at her stop on the fifteenth floor. John exhaled in relief, glad that the odd moment was over. He spent the better part of his ride watching people get on and off. Unfortunately, there was a stop on every floor on the way up.
John glanced at his watch. 13.45. He still had fifteen minutes until he was due. The closer John got the top floor, the more curious the looks he received from his passengers, possibly wondering what business he might have there. Five minutes later, the light above the doors dinged and opened to the thirty-fourth floor. John was the only person left to depart.
The doors slip open to reveal a posh office suite, all chrome and a startling amount of white. Behind another desk—ivory, but smaller and more sensible— sat a dark haired woman in a smart black dress that stopped at the knees, and kitten heels that showed off her lavender toenail polish. Her hair was pinned up in an elegant chignon and not a strand out of place. Lastly, simple silver stud earrings polished off her understated ensemble.
John had to hand it to Holmes. The man had fantastic tastes.
The woman flashed him a beatific smile, genuine, unlike the lady before her. "Welcome to Holmes Pharmaceuticals. How can I assist you?"
It wasn't the smile that did John in, but the subtle irish intonation to her words.
John bit down on a few errant naughty thoughts and reminded himself that he was there for one reason. Mike counted on him to conduct his interview and the last thing John wanted to do was get thrown out for harassing Holmes' PA.
"Yes, I'm John Watson, here on behalf of Michael Stamford. I have an appointment with Mr. Holmes."
The woman inclined her head and gestured to an L-shaped ebony sectional across the room, pushed against the far wall. "Of course, please have a seat while I inform Mr. Holmes of your arrival. Would you like anything to drink?"
John swallowed, more nervous now that it was almost time to meet the notorious Sherlock Holmes. "Um, water please, if you have it."
The woman reached behind her desk and came out with a bottle of chilled water, and handed it to John before she spun on her heels and rounded a corner out of sight.
John uncapped the bottle and took a sip, suddenly feeling thirsty and overheated. He pulled at his collar, wanting nothing more than to leave this swanky building, go home to his flat and cram for his finals. Which is what he really should have been doing.
He should just turn and walk out, tell Mike he couldn't do it, say no to him for once. His friend would probably be angry for a little while, but John didn't belong here. He didn't know what he was doing. This was a mad idea-
The sharp click of heels over marble tile pulled John from his fretful revelry. The woman came to stand a bit away from him, gesturing to the corner that she had turned into a few moments before. "Mr Holmes will see you now, Mr Watson."
John stood and clutched the interview questions with both hands to stop them trembling. He followed the woman down a hall to a set of heavily polished wooden doors with large, chrome-plated handles.
"Right through here. You don't have to knock, he's expecting you," she said, stepping off to the side and facing John. A tiny secretive smile curled the edge of her lips, as if she knew something he didn't. "Oh, and Mr Watson, don't look so frightened. Trust me, his bark is worse than his bite." With that cryptic statement, the woman turned and sauntered back to the front of the office.
He was sure that the woman meant to be reassuring, but her attempt at mollification had the opposite effect. His insides quivered and his thoughts grew more irrational as John pondered his imminent encounter with the huge question mark that was Sherlock Holmes.
John shouldered one large door open with what seemed all of his body weight, grunting in annoyance. Who the hell needed doors this heavy?
The room was painted in darker colours and lit with natural light, fortunately for John's eyes. The whole back wall was a window that boasted an extravagant view of Canary Wharf and beyond. There was another large desk pushed sideways so that one's back wouldn't be facing the floor-to-ceiling glass. There were no mementos or family photos displayed on the desk, just piles of paper, a box of nicotine patches and a Rubik's Cube, already solved.
"Well are you going to come in, or just stand there," a deep, orotund voice rang out from the other side of the room. John's head almost swiveled off his shoulders, it turned so fast. He had completely overlooked the charcoal leather couch occupied by a mile-long man.
John had never seen a picture of Sherlock Holmes. The man guarded his privacy fiercely, and kept his lifestyle discreet unlike the CEO's of other large 'reputable' companies. He certainly hadn’t expected him.
John scrambled to get in and close the door behind him, feeling foolish for the way his cheeks burned in embarrassment.
"Sorry," John mumbled and turned to face the man once again, wishing he had been more prepared to come face-to-face with Holmes.
The man was nothing like he pictured. Where John envisioned a middle-aged, heavy set man with a pipe, instead he was faced with a young, twenty-something, tall and oddly striking man. A mass of dark, S-shaped curls framed a thin, pale face with cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
Okay, maybe that was a little cliché, but all the thoughts in his head had gone mum. John found no other way to describe how aesthetically pleasing he found the man. He didn't fancy himself a homosexual man, nor could he honestly identify as straight, but that didn't mean he actively sought out male companions. Despite himself, John couldn't deny that the warmth in his belly was anything but a spark of interest.
Cupid's bow lips pressed together into a smile so forced, John couldn't help the tiny snort that escaped his lips, causing that straight, narrow nose to lift a tad higher. It was the deep-set eyes, though, that captured John's attention. They were a variegated blue, grey, green—John couldn't tell. His gaze was aflame with incomparable intelligence and glinted coolly in the light from the windows.
"M-Mr Holmes, my name is John Watson." He stepped forward and thrust out a hand, which the older man grasped briefly in his own.
"So it seems,"Holmes replied drily and motioned to two wide, leather chairs that sat on either side of a low, glass table, facing one another in front of the windows. "Months of haunting my blog and boring my secretaries to death with platitudes, and Stamford couldn't be bothered to show."
John cleared his throat as he sat and forced his eyes away from the fit figure the man cut in his bespoke suit. It was tailored to accentuate long legs, broad shoulders, and a thin waist. John hoped to God he wasn't drooling.
Holmes sat down across from him. He crossed his legs and leant back to gaze at John imperiously.
"Actually, Mike was not well, so he asked me to conduct the interview for him. I hope that's alright with you."
Sherlock peered at John, his elbows resting on the arms of his seat as his long fingers dropped to twine in his lap. "It's neither here nor there."
John nodded and leant to the side to dig the recorder from his pocket. "Do you mind?" He asked Holmes to which he received only an arched eyebrow in response. "Okay, let's begin." John fumbled with the voice recorder, flustered under Holmes' intense scrutiny. He sat it on the table and clicked the red button to begin recording.
God, Mike owed him so much for this.
Looking down at the paper, John scanned the first question. "Now Mr Holmes, you have amassed quite a fortune at such a young age. To what or whom would you credit your success in your entrepreneurial endeavours?"
Holmes brought his hands up under his chin and steepled them, acquiring an expression that landed between bored and pensive. "If you're asking if there was anyone that helped me through the process, then no, I credit no one." The man's eyes narrowed as he paused, chewing over his next words. "I'm not what you would call a man of the people; I am a man of science. I simply took something that interests me and hired like-minded people. The work did the rest."
John nodded, going off script to acknowledge a statement he thought was peculiar. "And when you say, you're not a man of the people, what exactly do you mean?"
Holmes shifted in his seat, a sardonic smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "It is exactly as it sounds, Mr Watson. People are not my area; I don't have friends, mainly because I don't suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately, the earth is overpopulated by them."
John grimaced, not at all surprised that the man didn't have any friends. He came off at prickly and arrogant, and in John's opinion, pretentious. "Noted."
Holmes' smile softened from cynical to light amusement for a fraction of a second before it faded back to nonchalance once again.
"Do you have any siblings, Mr Holmes?" John asked, watching as the man heaved an enormous put-upon sigh and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.
"Boring. That's a matter of public record. Next."
"Bit tetchy, aren't we," John mumbled. He scanned the next question, his cheeks most likely burning an incandescent shade of pink in embarrassment.
'Damn you, Mike, couldn't think of anything better?'
Holmes leant forward. His eyes flashed, frosted over and preternaturally pale from the light pouring through the windows. "Not ‘tetchy’, as you so eloquently put, Mr Watson, but I am a very busy man. Surely you understand." His words were short and clipped, spoken through tight lips. The effect was immediate. John felt ashamed, as if he'd been thoroughly reprimanded like an errant child.
John nodded, unable to meet that harsh, penetrating glare currently burning a hole through the crown of his head as he prepared for the next question. "Mr Holmes, you stated you're not a man of the people, yet you have over fifty thousand people in your employ. How does that affect your relationship with your employees?"
Holmes' eyes squinted as he thought, one abstracted finger tapping restlessly away on the armrest. "It can be difficult at times, however it helps that the employees I work closely with are all picked by myself. They are highly intelligent and capable people. Not on my level, but they are far from idiotic."
'Wow', John thought, 'he is so very humble.'
Holmes cut abruptly into his thoughts, voice crisp and precise as if he knew that John's attention had swayed briefly. "It's all about power as well. I have the livelihood of all these people in my grasp, and any moment, I can decide that I want to cut back on labour costs or that I simply don't need as many employees, and boom," he said, illustrating the sound with a vague hand gesture, "someone is out of a job."
John had to admit Holmes was intense. The man spoke about thousands of people losing their careers so nonchalantly, as if none of it mattered to him one way or the other.
He squirm in his seat as that sharp gaze bore into him. "Surely, that can be a bit in-intimidating," John stuttered.
Holmes’ inclined his head. "Perhaps," he replied softly. "That's why I must exercise control. The expansion of my company leaves me obliged to the people that work for Holmes Pharmaceuticals."
This guy was a nutter. He had the moral capacity of a bean; why would anyone find him inspiring. John silently questioned his friend's choice in interviewees, wondering if there was just no one else Mike could choose from the lot. There had to be another leading entrepreneur in the pharmaceutical field with a bit more humility.
"So you enjoy the power and control?" Another off script question that John blurted out awkwardly.
Holmes smiled, something other than humour darkening his eyes. "There is no other feeling like it." The man's voice lowered an octave deeper and John was certain there was a double entendre he missed.
The atmosphere grew tense and John pulled at his collar, trapped under Holmes' penetrating gaze and overheated.
A knock at the door severed the moment, and John nearly gasped in relief as the tension released from his shoulders. The lady from before strode into the room carrying a platinum tray with two steaming cups of tea and an array of digestives. "Ah, thank you, Janine."
Sherlock nodded at the woman and flashing a brief grin John didn’t know he was capable of as she placed the tray on the glass table. With a pseudo-curtsy, Janine strutted out and closed the heavy doors behind her.
"Tea?" Holmes offered and leant forward to take a cup for himself.
John grabbed the only other one and sat back, inhaling the aroma. Mm, English Breakfast, his favorite.
Once they were settled again, Holmes gestured for him to carry on.
John swallowed his mouthful and leant forward to place his cup back on the tray before he continued. "As the CEO of a rather large company, it's quite clear that you put in a lot of extra hours here, but outside of work, what are your interests?"
Holmes chuckled darkly, finally taking his eyes off of John and turning his head to survey the bustling activity on the streets below. "I have many interests."
'Can you be anymore vague,' John thought to himself in irritation. The man was as aggravating as he was intriguing.
"Anything in particular?"
An insincere smile forged its way across Holmes' lips, and John suddenly felt like the butt of a joke he wasn't privy to. "I have many hobbies I indulge in; I provide consult to the Met when they're out of their depth, which is most days, and I play the violin when I have the time... However, there is one thing I enjoy in particular, but, well, it's a bit easier to show than to tell, Mr Watson."
John was so sure there was an innuendo hidden in there somewhere, and the knowledge of it left John tongue-tied. Holmes didn't look away once as he spoke, keeping John ensnared in a calculating, predatory gaze that made his stomach do star jumps.
John tore his eyes away and took a steadying breath. He cleared his throat, wishing he hadn't so foolishly agreed to do the interview. John swallowed and Holmes' eyes flicked down to his throat, tracking the movement. John read the next question and blanched.
The corner of his eyelid twitched in annoyance, but he planted his metaphorical feet and forged ahead like the great friend that he was. Mike would pay dearly later on. "You have yet to make any public appearances with a date. Is there a secret lady in your life?" John bit out.
Sherlock paused. His body tensed and whatever warmth he’d attained quickly drained away.
"Women are not my area." The words were curt and to the point, and John heard the warning behind the words. They were on dangerous territory.
John nodded and continued anyway. "Boyfriend? It's all fine, really."
Sherlock narrowed his opaline eyes and replied tersely through gritted teeth. "I know it's fine."
John lifted his hands up and faced his palms out in appeasement. "Sorry, just reading from the paper."
Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. "These aren’t your question?" he enquired. His eyes darted to the paper in John’s hand. Without waiting for an answer, he muttered to himself " Of course, they aren’t. I should have been aware by the way your eyelid twitched every time you looked at the question, and your obvious lack of preparation. Stupid," he hissed.
'Okay, what?'
"I beg your pardon," John asked, offended. His back straightened in his chair, pulse racing as he bristled.
The man's attention returned to John instantly. A look of pure annoyance distorted his otherwise pleasant features. "No, not you... Well, yes you, but I'm referring to myself at the moment."
'Yes,' John thought, baffled.'This man is barmy.'
"Did... Did you just call me stupid?"
Holmes scoffed in exasperation, "Of course not. I meant you and almost everyone else."
'Arrogant arse.'
"Lovely," John dead panned.
Holmes leant forward with intent, his gaze unapologetically intrusive. "Well, now this is interesting."
'Shit,' John felt his cheeks flame under the man's full attention. 'Just what is he onto?'
Holmes reached forward and clicked the stop button on the recording, wishing, John assumed, to continue speaking off the record. "Quite a large favour for a friend, one whom you aren't romantically attached to. This isn't the first time he's asked you to do something like this. In fact, Mr Stamford has asked you for multiple favours throughout your friendship." The man flashed a wolfish smile. "Blackmail?"
John snorted and repressed the urge to scratch his head, confused as to how Holmes knew all of this. "Mike is my friend. He'd do the same for me."
"How sweet," Holmes derided. "How about this: I'll allow you to ask me anything you'd like, as long as it's one of your own questions."
John didn't know why, but he found the idea attractive, even though the interview hadn't really been for his benefit to begin with. John shrugged and bit his lip thoughtfully. Holmes followed the movement with his eyes, his expression inscrutable.
"And why would you do that, Mr Holmes?" John was puzzled. All of this would be off the record, so there would be no point to the exercise. But for some reason, John wanted to know everything he could about the man.
Holmes shrugged. "Because I have the time and Stamford's questions are tedious."
John hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. Holmes' head tipped forward and his pale eyes sparkled with mischief. John was riveted as those sinful lips parted. "Come now, John. You're burning with curiosity."
A sharp knock on the door again, and Janine was poking her head through. "Pardon the interruption, Mr Holmes, but you have five minutes before your next appointment."
Holmes placed his teacup on the table and leant back into the cushion of his chair, re-crossing his legs and smoothing a long-fingered hand over his suit jacket. "Please reschedule, Janine, Mr Watson and I are not yet finished here."
Janine paused, her shining, espresso eyes widening, before her features smoothed easily back into the polished exterior. "Certainly, sir, I'll get right on that."
John waited until the door was fully closed before he spoke. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Sorry, I don't want to keep you."
Sherlock waved away his apology. "Don't be ridiculous. No one is really waiting for me." He stopped and John lifted an eyebrow to which Sherlock smirked. "Whenever meetings run over, it's Janine's means of extracting me, one might say."
John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out, because really, it was a brilliant idea, and not at all what he would expect from the millionaire CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals. Holmes chuckled lightly along with him, and the sound sent a thrum of desire straight to John's belly.
Once their amusement abated, Holmes looked at him expectantly, and John steeled himself for what was to come.
"How old are you?" John asked, for lack of anything else to ask at the moment.
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Really Mr Watson, it's bad form to go into an interview without knowing anything about the individual."
John could feel the tips of his ears blooming with heat and knew they were flushed a deep rose colour. "I was informed-"
"This morning, obvious. In the middle of the night, going by the bags under your eyes. Lack of sleep and a callus on your middle finger from gripping your biro for a long period of time—I’d suggest investing in rubber grips for your writing utensils. All point to signs of exhaustion and your predilection for procrastination."
John's jaw went slack in outrage. "I do not procrastinate!"
Holmes looked skeptical but unwilling to argue the point. "Very well. I'm twenty-six."
'Finally,' John rejoiced. 'A straight answer from this enigma of a man!'
John smiled down at his lap and patted himself on the back for his small victory. "Okay, next question. Why are you so big on this control thing?"
Holmes sat up straighter, a slow smile lighting his eyes like twin bulbs. "You're getting warmer, John Watson, but you aren't ready."
His brows furrowed in confusion at this, wondering why everything with Sherlock Holmes had to be so cryptic. 'Ready for what?'
A little beep filled the tense silence, emitting from the expensive Cartier watch fastened to the man's wrist. Holmes uncrossed his legs, looking for all the world as if he were disappointed. "My apologies, Mr Watson, but I'm afraid I must cut our meeting short. However, I do have a proposition for you."
John had to hold back the urge to scratch his head. Instead he picked up the recorder from the table and shoved it into his pocket to keep his hands busy. "Proposition?" John enquired. "What sort?"
Holmes stood and John followed, struggling to keep his wandering gaze on Holmes' face. It was a hard thing to accomplish when those legs went on for days.
Holmes threw him a knowing look and clasped his hands behind his back. "In two weeks time, my personal assistant, Janine, will only be available to work for me two days out of the week. I will need someone reliable to stand in her absence." Holmes paused his words and walked a slow circle around John. He followed the older man with his eyes, determined to keep him in sight.
John frowned in bemusement. "Are you offering me a job?" John couldn't keep up with the bewildering man. One moment he was insulting John’s intelligence, and the next, Holmes was offering him a job.
Holmes stopped before him, an arm’s length away. "Consider it a paid internship. You can use it as credit towards your medical degree. I also know that your school funds are dwindling, so I will only offer this once."
John stared blankly back at him, unable to find his voice or anything to say that would be remotely comprehensible.
Holmes sensed this and strolled away, headed towards the heavy wooden doors. "I'll allow you two days to think on it, after which I will phone you and you will relay your answer to me."
John suppressed the urge to salute. The bossy, controlling side of Holmes was beginning to emerge. "Yes, sir," John replied.
It was meant to be sarcastic, but Holmes froze, turning towards John slowly, his peculiar eyes dark and ravenous. "Indeed," he said, low and guttural with an emotion John couldn't place. The sound sent sparks straight to John's groin.
The man's gaze trailed a heated blaze from the top of John's head to the tips of his toes in a way that made him giddy and high on some unnameable emotion.
Holmes took a deep breath and the shutter fell over his eyes once again. He turned and flung the doors open effortlessly.
John shadowed him back out into the opulent foyer where Janine sat, face first in a stack of paperwork. Holmes motioned for her to stay seated and walked John over to the lifts. Janine observed, perplexed.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes. Thank you for agreeing to this." John turned to face Holmes, who was regarding John intently as he spoke.
"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Watson. I do hope you consider my offer." Holmes slid a hand between them, a bland smile situated into place, though his eyes now regarded John more closely.
The lift dinged, and the doors opened. John stepped in, wondering why he felt so reluctant about leaving. "I will do, Mr Holmes."
"Goodbye, John." Then the lift doors were closing between them.
John released a long, slow breath and slumped back against the wall.
'Oh God,' he thought. 'What have I gotten myself into?'