Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes lay in bed, propped up on one elbow, his eyes fixed on the golden length of John Watson’s naked body. The doctor was asleep, face down, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. He made a slight snuffling noise every time he breathed. Sherlock was memorizing it.
He’d gotten in trouble once before for watching John sleep, but that was before their relationship had altered fundamentally, and now it was allowed. Sherlock had checked, just to make sure, on the first night they’d spent in bed together, eight days ago, after what Sherlock had taken to thinking of as the Change. John had laughed and mumbled sleepily that he couldn’t see why Sherlock would want to do that, but if he did, it was okay with him.
Sherlock didn’t understand why John didn’t think he would be interested in watching him sleep. He was interested in everything about John, every last detail, especially the ones no one else had ever noticed before. Now that he knew John welcomed this interest, Sherlock had taken his “John” notebooks and spread them page by page across the wall of his bedroom, tacking up new ones at unprecedented speed. He hadn’t shown John yet, but he would eventually, when the wall was magnificent enough, fitting proof of Sherlock’s extraordinary devotion to the man. When John saw them, he would understand that Sherlock loved him in a way that no one else ever had or ever could. He would see that Sherlock was incredible, and he would never, ever leave.
The “John”pages were extremely useful in another sense, in that they recorded information that Sherlock was now employing daily in order to keep John here in the meantime. For instance, there was an entire column of them, floor-to-ceiling and three pages wide, that detailed what Sherlock had learned about John’s sexual preferences so far. Precise diagrams of the doctor’s body bore annotations concerning points of particular pleasure; various charts measured arousal levels corresponding with various acts, based on pupil dilation, shortness of breath, pulse rate, etc. It was Sherlock’s goal to provide John with the most exceptional sex of his life, often and in perpetuity. And it didn’t hurt that nothing aroused Sherlock more than making deductions about John.
Many of the “John” pages had to do with food, as John was particularly fond of the stuff. Sherlock had been recording the doctor’s preferences and habits in that arena almost since the day they had met, so it was a satisfyingly comprehensive collection of data. More difficult was figuring out exactly what to do with it. Sherlock was not about to start making John tea or cooking his favorite meals; any idiot could manage that—Sherlock knew for a fact that some of John’s ex-girlfriends had managed it, actually, and he absolutely refused to do anything another lover was capable of accomplishing. Sherlock was not like John’s former lovers. Sherlock was exceptional, and he needed John to see that.
Eventually, he had hit on a brilliant idea: on the third day since the Change, while John was at the clinic, Sherlock ordered John’s favorite dish from every single one of their regular eating places—thirteen in total, if you included the baklava from the Greek diner down the road—and when John returned, they sat arrayed on the table, steam rising from the foam cartons. John had stood gaping in the doorway, and then, understanding what he was seeing, had swiftly crossed the room and kissed Sherlock fiercely on the mouth. Then, laughing uncontrollably (Sherlock hadn’t quite seen what was funny), he’d sampled each dish in turn.
It had been one of Sherlock’s more brilliant ideas.
They had spent the fourth day (like the first and the second) almost entirely in bed, and on the fifth, Sherlock had solved a locked-room murder in record time, positively sparkling as John watched with undisguised admiration. That, at least, was something Sherlock knew none of John’s former lovers could have done. On the sixth day, Sherlock learned the entirety of the White Album on the violin while John was at the clinic, and gave the doctor a concert when he got home. That had been very good, too.
Yesterday, the seventh, Sherlock had been sneaky and removed fibers from each of John’s favorite jumpers while John was asleep, then employed Mrs. Hudson to distract the doctor while Sherlock visited a number of department stores, searching for a jumper that would combine all John’s preexisting jumpers into what Sherlock had taken to calling the super-jumper. Sherlock had calculated everything from thickness to texture to size to color (though he had to admit that he’d failed to be strictly scientific as far as the last factor went—there was only so far he would cater to John’s bad taste) until he had the image of the super-jumper in his head; all he’d had to do then was find it.
That had been harder than Sherlock had anticipated. He’d gotten thrown out of Harrods almost immediately, reduced not one, not two, but three salespeople to tears, and found himself so overwhelmed by the sheer number of screaming babies in Marks & Spencer that he’d had to leave. Eventually, however, he had triumphed, finding the super-jumper on a clearance rack at Debenhams, of all places. It wasn’t precisely perfect—next time he was having it handmade, he promised himself—but it was near enough. He’d hidden it under his floorboards (no point taking risks, though Sherlock doubted John would even be able to deduce that Sherlock had bought him something in the first place, let alone where it was) and suppressed all curious questions about his whereabouts during the day with a well-placed hand up John’s shirt.
Now, on the morning of the eighth day since the Change, Sherlock tore himself away from a sleeping John, and retrieved the super-jumper from its secret location.
“John,” he whispered, prodding the doctor with one long finger. “You’re cold.”
He had read once that the sleeping brain responded with particular pliancy to suggestions, accepting them as truth once the sleeper awoke. He hadn’t had time to make a scientific study of it, but he tried it now in case it was accurate. John burrowed into the pillow and Sherlock prodded him again.
“Whassit?” he asked blearily, turning onto his back, granting Sherlock with the sight of his glorious nakedness full on. “Sherlock?” He blinked a few times and then, out of habit born in the army, sat up straight, fully awake.
“Did you just wake me up?” he demanded.
“I missed you,” Sherlock said, which he knew would be effective, but which was also the truth.
John looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or scold. He settled for something in between, his face taking on a delightfully wrinkled expression that Sherlock immediately committed to memory.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” John said, reaching for the blankets, and though it wasn’t conclusive, Sherlock made a mental note of the tentative success of his experiment in suggestion.
“Here,” he said helpfully, proffering the super-jumper. “Try this.”
John blinked. “What’s this?”
“A jumper,” Sherlock said with some impatience. “Obviously.”
“Yes, but…is it yours? I’ve not seen it before.”
Sherlock puffed his chest out proudly. “I bought it for you. It is a nearly precise amalgamation of the qualities you like most about each of your favorite jumpers. Approximately three-quarters of an inch thick, sixty percent wool and forty percent cotton, cable-knit; the color’s a bit off, too much yellow in the yarn, but given the atrocities that pass as clothing in today’s department stores I was lucky to find one that wasn’t neon green.”
John reached out and fingered the fabric. “Those…are the qualities I like most in my favorite jumpers?”
Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”
“Not of course, Sherlock, I didn’t even know that.”
He didn’t look quite right—not happy enough, and he wasn’t kissing Sherlock yet, which was a bad sign. Sherlock felt suddenly worried—had he done something not good again? But what could John possibly object to about a jumper?—and frowned to cover up his anxiety.
“I haven’t miscalculated,” he said, an edge in his voice.
“What? No, no, I’m sure you haven’t. It’s just…” John hesitated, searching for words. “You don’t have to. Well. Do this, Sherlock. You don’t have to, I don’t know, impress me or convince me that—it’s just, first there was the food, then the violin, and—god, yes, they’re lovely, they’re perfect, but they make me…I can’t…I don’t know how to respond, Sherlock.”
Sherlock felt his insides shriveling up. “Ah,” he said, voice suddenly cool. “Very well, then.” He took the jumper out of John’s hands, folding it away in his lap.
“No, Sherlock, I don’t—hey. Sherlock. Look at me.”
Grudgingly, Sherlock acquiesced.
“It’s perfect. The jumper is perfect.” John kissed him, very sweetly, and Sherlock felt himself melting, just a little. “I only meant that sometimes I don’t know how I’ll ever live up to the things you do for me.”
That was absurd, Sherlock thought, John didn’t have anything at all to live up to. Sherlock shook his head, frustrated at his inability to express this properly. John, meanwhile, grabbed the jumper from Sherlock’s lap and pulled it over his head.
“You’re right,” he said, chuckling. “This is the perfect jumper.”
Sherlock felt happiness and relief rush through him. He reached forward and pulled the blankets back, baring the lower half of John’s body again. Interesting: John, wearing a jumper and nothing else. This circumstance required further investigation.
Judging by John’s muffled noise of surprise and delight as Sherlock lunged forward, John agreed.
Later, after John had eaten breakfast and Sherlock (under protest) had eaten a bite of toast, they sat in companionable silence in the living room. John was working on his laptop, and Sherlock was attempting to deduce based on his posture and the speed of his typing whether or not he was going to put something in his blog about the Change. Sherlock disapproved of John’s blog as a rule—it was so sensational at times that it was practically fiction—but on the other hand, he would enjoy seeing the expressions on the faces of people at Scotland Yard once they’d found out; they would look even more idiotic than usual, probably, bug-eyed and mouths hanging open. Hm. Perhaps he’d better ask John to wait and tell them in person.
There was a knock on the door.
“Boys, somebody left a letter for you on the doorstep!” Mrs. Hudson called out. “Are you decent?”
Mrs. Hudson, in a feat of deduction that Sherlock had found mildly impressive, had known the Change had happened almost immediately. Since then she’d taken extra care to knock before entering, usually asking if they were clothed as well, which never failed to make John blush; Sherlock found it quite practical of her, however—he didn’t much care about being seen naked with or without John, so if she wished to avoid it he was glad she was taking the necessary precautions herself.
“We’re fine, yep, thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” John called out, face distinctly pink.
Their landlady opened the door. “Look at you two,” she said, beaming fondly, though Sherlock and John were doing nothing at all unusual. Mrs. Hudson pulled an envelope from her housecoat and gave it to Sherlock.
“Found this on the doorstep when I went out to check the weather. The man on the telly said it was meant to be sunny today but my hip’s been acting up, which always means rain, and sure enough when I looked outside it was cloudy and grey. I always say that there’s no better barometer than my old hip—”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you can go now,” Sherlock interrupted, putting the envelope up to his nose and sniffing.
“Sher—sorry, Mrs. Hudson, he’s only had one case this week,” John apologized. “Think he’s been a bit bored.”
Sherlock looked up, suddenly outraged—bored? How on earth could he have been bored when there was so much uncharted John territory to explore?
Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. “Well, somehow I doubt that,” she said knowingly. “But that’s very kind of you to say. You’re always very kind, John.” She looked at Sherlock as she said this, but her reprimanding tone was belied by the affection in her eyes. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
She bustled away. Sherlock turned his attention back to the envelope. Carefully, he opened it—sealed with tape, not glue and saliva—and extracted the letter from inside. Plain white paper, folded in three sections. “Handwritten,” he murmured, “whoever wrote this pushed the pen hard into the paper, it’s made deep grooves—probably indicates anxiety, but also determination; not just a casual inquiry, this one—the “i’s” are dotted ahead of the letter, the writer was in a hurry…The printing is almost unusually standard otherwise, it could have come straight out of a primary school textbook: the writer is likely either unimaginative or neurotically precise or, just possibly, wished to disguise his or her handwriting.”
“And what does it say?” John asked, looking at him with undisguised interest—oh. John was interested in Sherlock, not the letter. In watching Sherlock deduce every last detail of the letter. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and Sherlock shuddered.
“Dear Mr. Holmes,” he read, “Please help me. I believe my husband may be poisoning me. I cannot come to Baker Street, as it is too far from my home and my husband is very suspicious when I am absent for long (he works from home). I managed to sneak this letter to my sister, who said she would deliver it to you. If you meet me this afternoon, Thursday, at 2 p.m. in the Sainsburys in Holborn, in the bakery aisle, I will be eternally grateful. Sincerely, a woman in need.”
Sherlock rattled off a string of deductions about the woman’s marriage, economic status, husband’s line of work and preferred cigarette brand, and sister’s fondness for jam doughnuts, and John looked at him with increasingly blatant hunger. Sherlock felt his mind grow fuzzier as John walked over and stood in front of Sherlock’s chair, his knees brushing Sherlock’s, looking down at the taller man for once as Sherlock’s final deduction caught in his throat.
“Finished?” John asked softly.
Sherlock looked again at the letter. Something snagged in his mind, something elusive, and he frowned, drawn in again despite John’s fingertips resting lightly on his leg.
“There is something…I think there’s something else, something not quite…”
Sherlock’s voice faltered as John slid into his lap, bringing his lips an inch from Sherlock’s.
“Yeah?” John said, voice low. “Something not quite?”
John rocked gently against him, once, and Sherlock whimpered despite himself. John slipped his left thumb under Sherlock’s collar, stroking his collarbone.
“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re being brilliant,” he growled, breath hot on Sherlock’s ear.
“I’m always brilliant,” Sherlock managed, keeping his voice as steady as possible.
“Well then,” John said, his tongue slipping out to trail along Sherlock’s neck, “it’s a wonder I can ever keep my hands off you.”
Sherlock let the letter fall to the floor as John slipped his hand into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, and any further thoughts about it were lost in the warmth of John’s fingers and the roaring in his ears.
At two p.m.—clean and crisp once again, though the memory of John’s mouth and fingers still lingered hazily in Sherlock’s mind—the detective stood alone in the Sainsburys bakery aisle. He’d left John asleep on their sofa; the doctor would be irritated about it later, but Sherlock hadn’t been able to bear the thought of waking him. He allowed himself a small smile as he pictured John’s chest rising and falling as he slept, then flicked his eyes back and forth, looking for a woman of below-average height and oft-mended clothes, probably with long sleeves to hide the marks of an abusive marriage. Instead, as he feigned interest in a malt loaf, he caught a glimpse of someone very tall and very out of place at one end of the aisle. Slowly, a low hum of warning filling his head, and he straightened up, looking out of the corner of his eye towards the other end of the aisle. Another tall man stood there, subtly muscled below an expensive black suit.
Sherlock put his hand to his pocket to reach for his mobile and the two men were upon him. They didn’t say a word, but one of them slid his jacket aside for a brief moment to show Sherlock the gleaming butt of a gun.
It occurred to Sherlock that he had made a slight miscalculation.
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice cool, ignoring his quickening pulse.
“I think you’ll want to come with us, Mr. Holmes,” the taller of the men said softly.
Sherlock weighed his options. Irritating, the whole situation. He could make a run for it, but he couldn’t guarantee that that wouldn’t end in injury for someone. And he couldn’t deny that he was a little bit curious as to the identity of his kidnappers, considering how neatly they’d managed to trap him. It didn’t smell like Moriarty—not quite aesthetic enough, the business with the letter—but it was possible, wasn’t it?
Sherlock felt a jolt of adrenaline pulse through him. Oh, yes, he was ready.
“Convenient of you to leave your doctor at home,” one of the two men said conversationally as they walked Sherlock out of the busy store and into a waiting car.
Sherlock’s eyes widened. Oh, no, he thought, stomach sinking. John. John was going to be furious.
And then it hit him: what it was about the letter that had seemed wrong. Idiot, he was an idiot, how could he possibly have missed it? But he had. He’d sat right there in front of John and made a mistake. He’d sat right there in front of John and failed to be brilliant.
John wasn’t going to be angry. It was much worse than that. John was going to be disappointed.