Work Text:
“What was it this time?” His breath stirs Sherlock’s hair as he finishes placing a few stitches to his left temple. Knowing Sherlock’s penchant for trouble, he can’t help thinking that today he’s got off lightly, admitted with just a few scrapes and a possible concussion.
“A rather unimaginative murderer with a fortuitously handy metal pipe. He didn’t really get a good blow in, though, I dodged at the last minute and he just barely grazed me.”
“Oh, right, and here I was bothering with stitches and overnight observation. What was I thinking of?”
Sherlock gives him a withering look “Yes, thank you for that attempt at wit. Now kindly get on with it.”
John just smiles affectionately at his scowling face as he continues tending his injuries.
“Yeah, alright. Just try to be a bit more careful next time and, here’s a thought, wait for the police before tackling some crazy murderer.”
“Dull.”
“Seriously, one of these days I won’t be able to put you back together, Humpty Dumpty.”
As John turns away to rummage among his supplies for a dressing, he misses Sherlock watching him carefully.
“Worried?”
John looks back at him, gives an exaggerated eye roll together with a surprisingly passable imitation of Sherlock’s oft voiced ‘obviously’, and then adds with a cheeky smile –
“And anyway, you would be depriving me of your truculent company and the met of a very valuable yet irritating resource.”
Sherlock huffs in a disparaging manner, whether directed at the mention of his company or the met is not clear. His ministrations over, he gives Sherlock the once over to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.
“You have to stay overnight for observation, and no” – as Sherlock gets up and puts his coat back on – “you’re not getting out of that, even if I have to tie you down to the bed.”
He suddenly realises what he just said and turns his back to the detective, feeling the blush making its inexorable way up his neck and hoping despite experience that Sherlock won’t notice. Of course the insufferable git doesn’t need to see his face to know what is passing through John’s mind, but still, the sultry reply takes him completely by surprise.
“Really, doctor, you only had to ask.”
John freezes for a moment, temporarily stunned. Surely he has misheard, or maybe Sherlock is just ribbing him. That’s it, he must have deduced that John’s slip had embarrassed him and was just enjoying making him squirm. He turns with a half smile, ready to play along, when he catches Sherlock’s distinctly predatory look. Ok, concussion could affect someone’s normal behaviour, although what passes as normal with Sherlock could make that very difficult to assess. His attempts to follow this train of thought are derailed yet again by the unmistakeably flirtatious look the detective is sending him.
What the hell is happening? Sherlock has never ever flirted with him. He’s pretty sure. Fairly sure. He would have noticed. Wouldn’t he? Or maybe he hadn’t noticed, and here was Sherlock being utterly blatant about it making up for all the times John had been stupidly oblivious. The detective always seemed to enjoy his company but at no stage had initiated anything, although John had the feeling of having been somehow studied and assessed throughout. John sighs. This is one of those twilight zone moments, and frankly he’s too tired to analyse it. He can’t help feeling that this would be so much easier if only the gigantic twat wasn’t so utterly attractive.
“Uhm, I have to go. Try not to drive the staff crazy this time, ok?” He needs to get back to the sombre reality of his flat, and filter this latest weirdness through the comfort of a cuppa.
Sherlock’s pout is almost endearing if John were not completely aware of how manipulative he can be.
“I was hoping you’d be the one checking up on me. I don’t trust any of the others, they’re all idiots.”
“Sherlock!” He’s aiming for stern and rebuking, but just manages to sound fondly exasperated. He looks over at him and knows immediately that the irritating berk has no intention of staying unless John attends him.
“Fine!”
He attempts to frown at Sherlock’s triumphant smile but he’s sure it comes across as mock serious at best. As he organises his overnight stay John keeps telling himself Sherlock’s weird mood will blow over, it’s all fine.
***********
This works really well up until two days later, when Sherlock asks him out on a date. It’s not like his mind and libido have never gone down that path and enjoyed the invigorating walk. But there are other issues at play and John would rather not voice them. He needn’t have worried on that score. If there is anything Sherlock is particularly good at is gouging out people’s insecurities and issues. Oh, joy.
He just needs a few moments to gather his wits for the inevitable argument, so the first thing out of his mouth is an automatic response that has served him well in the past, but that he knows Sherlock will treat as the excuse it is.
“I’m your doctor, Sherlock. It would be inappropriate for me to date a patient.”
As he expects, Sherlock brushes this off with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Nonsense, John. You can just pass me onto another doctor. I know that is not the reason why you won’t date me.”
Right. Time to fess up and get this painful conversation over with.
“Ok, it’s your drug history. Yes, Sherlock, I’m not an idiot, and I am a doctor. I know what those scars mean.”
“I’m not using, John! I have been clean for three years. Do you think Lestrade would let me in to crime scenes if I were high?”
“Well, I’m not the one who is always claiming they are all idiots. And as I don’t know them, I’m not in a position to judge how accurate your opinion of them is. But I do know you, a little, and if anyone can pull the wool over their eyes I’d wager it would be you.”
“If you think I’m lying you can do tests.”
“You know it’s not as simple as that. All that would tell me is that you don’t have anything at present in your system.”
“I see. This is what your experience with your sister has taught you, that just because one addict keeps falling off the wagon, all addicts are unreliable and deceitful liars.”
“Keep my sister out of this.”
“You’ve brought her into it. Admit it, it’s your experience of her addiction that is stopping you.”
Just as John is about to rebut this, Sherlock stalks towards him, his voice low and sultry.
“I know you are attracted to me, John.”
And really, how can John deny that, as Sherlock reaches for his hand, eliciting a delighted shiver at the contact. He is trying to school his expression, but the game is fairly up. Sherlock is stroking his thumb in small circles on the outside of his hand in a soothing mesmerising pace.
“And I want you. Tell me you don’t want this...”
John wants, very much. Sherlock is so close, he can feel his warmth, his breath, his desire envelop him, and can feel himself beginning to lean forward towards him. But even as he acknowledges this, he steps back towards the door, shaking his head.
“I... I’m sorry, I can’t do this” and flees the room.
***********
A very dapper man is standing outside the door to John’s flat, giving him the kind of intense scrutiny that Victorian lepidopterists must have bestowed on their specimens before ruthlessly pinning the blighters. This image is not in the least helped by the man’s smile. John suppresses the instinctive urge to slam the door back in his face.
“Hello, Doctor Watson. I’m Mycroft Holmes.”
“Holmes?”
“Yes, I’m Sherlock’s brother. In fact, I’m here to discuss his situation.”
John is somewhat thrown as he invites the man inside his modest flat. Sherlock has never mentioned a brother, or any member of his family. All sorts of possible reasons for his brother to come calling flit through his mind as he busies himself making tea. He is fairly sure the situation referred to is not Sherlock’s recent spell at the A&E. However, as he settles into his chair and they both take their first sip, he pursues that line first.
“Look, I’m sorry, but you must be aware that I cannot discuss any aspect of your brother’s medical history with you.”
“Of course not. I’m quite aware of that, doctor. I meant a particular predicament involving his attraction to you.”
“Ah, well, ehrm... you don’t need to worry. I’ve told him that it would be inappropriate for anything to happen between us.”
“So I understand. You see, Sherlock came to me when you so unreasonably turned him down, and asked for my help in trying to change your mind.”
“Wait, what?”
“My dear doctor, you must realise that my brother’s welfare is very important to me. I worry about him. Constantly. There have been... difficult times in the past, but he has recovered, his mind is active, he has purpose, but this consulting detective business has its risks, as his frequent visits to your establishment attest. He is only one man, and has a tendency to be reckless with his safety. I would be much happier to know he had someone such as yourself in his life, an ex army doctor who could help him in this dangerous work.”
“And what makes you think I would want to share that danger?”
Mycroft bestows on him a somewhat pained and patronising look.
“I can assure you, dear doctor, that my powers of observation are as good as or better than my brother’s, and he had the answer to that on your first meeting.”
John grips his mug and purses his lips. Great, now there are two people who can strip all his defences and see right into his core. Peachy.
“Mr Holmes, that still doesn’t answer my concerns, which I’m sure your brother has explained.”
“Ah, yes, I can assure you that my brother has indeed been clean for just over three years. As you can imagine, I have been keeping a very close eye on him since that unfortunate period in his life, and I would have been immediately aware of any relapse. Hence my presence here today. My brother has indeed an addictive nature, and you, Dr Watson, are his latest addiction. And much as I can claim that I don’t understand it” – giving him a somewhat critical and supercilious visual scouring – “it is certainly a much healthier one, I’m pleased to note. The more pertinent question here is whether you can set your trust issues aside and give my brother a chance. In order to facilitate that I’ve taken the liberty to book you a reservation at a quaint little restaurant that Sherlock likes, Angelo’s, for tonight at 8 o’clock. You can pick up my brother from 221b Baker Street. I’ll text you the details.”
Before John met Mycroft, he would have confidently attested that Sherlock could be insufferably smug at times, but this was clearly Mycroft’s default state, and whereas Sherlock could pull it off (admittedly aided by John’s bias), Mycroft could not. That by itself is hardly recommending him to the doctor, and considering his obvious partiality towards his own brother, John also finds it very hard to trust anything coming out of his mouth. He wonders that with all his vaunted ‘powers of observation’ the man can’t tell that, no matter how well meaning his intentions are, he is coming across as a condescending controlling arse. He resists the irrational and childish urge to pour his hot tea into the man’s lap. Reason prevails. It’s a bloody good cup of tea.
“Well, you are going to have to cancel that, aren’t you?”
There is a flicker of uncertainty, only caught because John was specifically looking for a reaction. Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
John gives Mycroft the smile that translates as ‘I’m being polite. Please leave my flat before that changes’ and the other man picks up the hint. As John shows him the door, Mycroft shoots him one last assessing look and smiles insincerely.
“Goodbye, doctor, see you very soon.”
***********
Two days later, and John’s life is being thoroughly flushed down the U bend. He has just found out that his credit rating has mysteriously plummeted and his landlord has given him notice. Thank god his job seems unaffected. At least for now. He is not being paranoid. Really. There is actually someone out to get him, and he is pretty sure who that is. And speaking of the devil...
“Hello, Dr Watson.”
John scowls. “How did you get into my flat?”
Such a transgression sounds so trivial compared to the rest, and yet it’s all he can channel his anger through. There is the very faint possibility, after all, that his problems and Mycroft’s presence are mere coincidence, though judging by the assured confidence of his unwanted guest that possibility seems quite remote.
Mycroft ignores this, like it’s an irrelevant detail, and considering what has just happened in his life, it really is, and frankly he’s not really surprised. It’s just another bloody example of his helplessness in the face of this man’s power, and he wants very much to wipe that smug smile off his face.
“I am aware of your unfortunate situation, doctor, but it’s hardly an unusual one. Errors occur every day, and bureaucracy being what it is they take time to rectify. I’m sure in a few months it will all be sorted out.”
John grits his teeth. “You know full well that I cannot wait a few months. I have one month’s notice from the landlord, and I cannot get another flat with my current credit rating.”
“I would be more than happy to help you, doctor. I merely hold a minor position in government, but I do have connections, and I could arrange for all this” – he sweeps his arm languidly in an all encompassing gesture – “to go away by tomorrow.”
John glowers. He is frustrated and angry. But he is also very stubborn, and something inside him rebels. He is not going to cave in to this bastard. He still has options. He could start somewhere else. Maybe he could join Médecins Sans Frontières. Get away from this crazy situation. The thought of not seeing Sherlock gives him an odd pang of emptiness, and he can't help the bitter thought that it is his brother who is driving him away.
He utters a very determined “No”.
“No?”
John has the satisfaction of seeing Mycroft taken aback, but the man quickly recovers. He pretends to smooth down his already impeccable suit.
“Well, you know best, of course. I really should be off. I am taking Sherlock out for lunch. I know he could do with some cheering up.” – He pauses and pointedly looks at John – “It’s important to be there for your family, don’t you think, doctor?”
John stares at Mycroft with a horrible dawning comprehension of where this conversation is going. Mycroft’s mouth twists in the mockery of a smile.
“Your sister... she works in an NHS office, doesn’t she? These are tough times, and there are sadly redundancies planned for non primary staff. I do hope she will be spared that.”
John knows what that would do to Harriett. She has just begun to piece her life back together, and is still occasionally phoning him when she has fallen off the wagon. It did not bear thinking how losing her job would affect her. He closes his eyes with a resigned sigh, ruthlessly suppressing the impulse to punch Mycroft’s complacent look from his face. When he opens them a few seconds later, he glares at him and grinds out –
“8 o’clock at Angelo’s was it?”
“Excellent, doctor. I’ll make the reservation. Good day.”
Mycroft makes his way downstairs with a light step. The reservation had of course already been rescheduled, but he realised it would not do to let John know that. His previous display of confidence had merely helped to antagonise the good doctor, and he was not about to make that mistake again. He had achieved his goal, and made sure that John knew what his position was. No need to rub salt into the wound. Once in the car, he takes out the phone to ring his brother and give him the happy news.
***********
John is standing outside 221b. He can’t believe it has been less than a week ago that Sherlock asked him out. Before he can ponder too much on the strangeness that is now his life, the door is opened by a chirpy lady who looks him up and down like he is the best present under the tree.
“Oh, hello, you are Sherlock’s date, aren’t you? He has been ever so excited about tonight.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
He can hear that lovely voice from the top of the stairs, and then the owner of it is coming down to meet him.
Sherlock’s all black combo is making his beautiful complexion stand out even more, and his eyes are shining with excitement. He looks utterly gorgeous. John is staring a bit open mouthed. Sherlock drinks in his reaction and shoots him a sultry smile.
“And you look lovely too, John.”
He purrs, smoothly swoops down and places a gentle kiss on John’s lips.
“Erk...”
Sherlock slips his arm in John’s and pulls him along. Some part of his brain is finding it hard to complain about the situation. And being an essentially pragmatic chap, he cannot help feeling that things could have ended up a lot worse. For instance, it could have been Mycroft who had a thing for him. That thought makes him shudder inwardly. Instead, here is this gorgeous clever man who wants him and whom he had found fascinating from the start.
Before he is aware of it, they have arrived. They are quickly seated in a cosy and private table while the owner fusses over them. It is clear he is fond of Sherlock, and takes the opportunity to talk him up to his date. He finally goes off to prepare their order after a few pointed hints from the detective. Sherlock stares unashamedly at John for an uncomfortable few minutes. For his part, John decides he might as well stare back. It’s very hard not to.
“I am so happy you changed your mind, John.”
“Well, to be fair, your brother had something to do with it.” John answers diplomatically. He isn’t sure how aware Sherlock is of the extent of his brother’s interference, but Sherlock’s following comment clears up any doubt.
“Yes, he is very good at manipulation and blackmail.”
“You know what he did?”
“Not the details, no. But I know my brother, and how far he would go to ensure my happiness. He is very meddling, but he does care for me. And he got me you...”
He smiles and extends his hand across the table to take John’s in his. John is gawping again.
“And you don’t mind that he coerced me into this date? This does not strike you as, ooooh I don’t know, morally dubious in any way?” He is trying to rustle up some semblance of indignation but is finding Sherlock’s touch a bit distracting.
“I know you find me attractive, John. What does it matter how we start this relationship as long as we do? I know what I want, and I don’t care how I get it. And notwithstanding your tiresome moral issues about it, I know you want me too.”
John is stymied. Mostly because he finds it hard to object. He does want Sherlock. He is incredible, amazing, beautiful, and beyond anything he ever thought he would have. He also knows that at present he is thinking with his other head. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“What do you want from me, Sherlock? A relationship? Casual sex? What?”
Sherlock’s gaze is disconcerting in its intensity.
“I want everything. I want you to help with my work. Yes, yes,” – he waives away John’s incipient objection – “I know you have your tiresome part time job, and you may keep that,” – he adds magnanimously, ignoring the way the other man looks daggers at him – “but you will be helping me in mine.”
He leans towards John with a look of delighted impishness and excitement glowing from him as he breathes –
“It will be dangerous.” And John cannot help being carried away by Sherlock’s enthusiasm.
“Also, of course, you’ll be moving in with me.”
John sputters.
“What? There was no mention of that!”
“Really, John. Think about it. How can I possibly rely on you in my work if I can’t have you there, available, within minutes? So you’ll move in with me, obviously. And of course it will make it easier for our physical relationship, which by the way, and so we are completely clear on this” – and he leans over again, but this time with a dangerous and possessive look – “will be monogamous. You will not be seeing, dating, having sex, or flirting with anyone else. Do you understand?”
God, this really shouldn’t be sending such thrilling shivers down his back. What the hell is wrong with him? And yet, how could his ego not be seriously stroked at the thought of this man wanting him so much. With his looks and his brain he could have anyone. Although, of course, whether he could keep them once he opened his mouth was another matter.
Sherlock is still looking at him, reading all his tells no doubt, judging by the smug expression now suffusing his features. John really didn’t have a chance.
“Mycroft will arrange for your things to be moved tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow? I won’t have time to pack...”
“Oh, John, you won’t have to do any packing. Just make sure you are home after your shift” – he searches his trouser pocket and hands over a set of keys – “and we can have Chinese.”
John automatically reaches for the keys while still feeling completely concussed by the recent turn of events. Is this really happening to him?
***********
The next day he turns up at 221b after his shift, to find all his stuff already unpacked and neatly stored in his room. Although he doubts he’ll be using this room for much more than storage. It was very clear from yesterday’s conversation that Sherlock is expecting him to share his room and his bed, his rather large and comfortable looking bed, John can’t help noticing. Sherlock is simmering with barely contained energy, but John is tired after his shift and a bit grumpy adjusting to the new setup, and needs a cup of tea. Blessedly Sherlock understands his need for this ritual and they both settle on the couch, and start watching telly. Sherlock retires to his room soon after the tea is dutifully drunk and calls him a few minutes later. John sighs and calls back even as he is moving to the bedroom.
“Sherlock, dammit, I told you, I’m tired and need...”
The sight that greets him ensures that all logical thought plummets out the window and dies a possibly well deserved death on the pavement below.
Sherlock is enticingly revealed on the bed, a come-hither-and-while-you’re-at-it-ravish-me look all over his naked body. John gapes and can’t help giving Sherlock’s body the thrice over. His lover is looking at him with naked desire, his hand gliding slowly down his chest towards his very erect cock, and whispering his name in that dark luscious voice.
His tiredness forgotten, John watches the delicious display while he attempts inelegantly to reach the same unclothed state. Sherlock is smiling lasciviously at his efforts while continuing to stroke himself, which is not helping John’s coordination one little bit. At last he is free of his last sock and finds himself engulfed by his amorous detective.
He almost giggles at the initial feeling of too many hands between them, trying to touch everywhere at once, before he is thoroughly pinned down and explored at length with eyes and fingers, mouth and tongue. John knows how important research is to Sherlock, and selflessly submits to all explorations. They are both too keyed up to last, and soon there is panting and sweating, and hot hard flesh in slick hands. Then there is basking in post orgasmic haze, languidly threading their limbs together, sated smiles on their faces. John slowly succumbs to sleepiness whilst still longingly indulging his imagination with the serious shaggage he sees in his future, if Sherlock’s blissful promises of more, much more to come are even half answered.
Just as he’s beginning to drift off he hears the telltale chime of a mobile and a small chuckle from his beloved.
“Do you need to take that?”
“No, that will be my brother with his post coital congratulations.”
“Wait, how... I mean, we’ve just...”
“Cameras.”
“What?”
Sherlock seems to find this completely unremarkable.
“He likes to keep an eye on me.”
John swiftly covers both of them up in a sweaty sheet, while perfectly aware that the horse has bolted and that door is flapping precariously on one hinge.
“Yeah, well, there’s that and then there’s ... I mean, god!... really, cameras?”
Sherlock looks up at him from the comfy confines of John’s right shoulder. He is attempting to curb the amusement in his eyes at the ruffled look in John’s.
“Uhm, you should also expect a visit tomorrow, something in the region of ‘You can never leave my brother, John. Think what it would do to him.’ Which you can ignore, by the way, I’d never let him hurt you.”
By now John is well aware that both those statements translate as ‘Think what I would do to you’ and ‘I’m perfectly capable of hurting you myself.’ But oddly neither comment unnerves him. Possibly because his mind is still screaming ‘CAMERAS’ and his body is still blushing furiously. Sherlock is watching him with delighted fascination and that’s not helping either. Their eyes lock, and then suddenly Sherlock is chuckling.
“John, you are so endearing when you are outraged.”
“Yeah, well, forgive me for finding the idea of your brother watching us like this a bit creepy.”
“It would be if I hadn’t disabled the cameras before you joined me. Mycroft was simply deducing, correctly, the timing of our engagement.”
“Oh, well, that’s... better and yet at the same time also disturbing.”
Sherlock lightly pats John’s cock and smirks as it clearly shows renewed signs of interest.
“Well, shall we see if he deduces round two?”
“Oh, god, yes!”