Spare Change - Ermerness - Sherlock (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

“Why are you in Paris again?” Mycroft snapped down the phone as Sherlock lay on the sofa in the hotel's penthouse suite, a bottle of expensive wine next to him on the floor and a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower out the window.

“They have better croissants here than Tesco and you know how I hate to go to the supermarket and deal with the self check-out.”

Mycroft sighed heavily down the phone in obvious irritation and Sherlock rolled his eyes, gripping the mobile to his ear. “You could have asked any of the staff to go and get you some croissants instead of flying to a different country.”

“This conversation is boring me, Mycroft.”

“Fine. I know why you've gone and it won't help. Mummy is incredibly motivated to get you settled down. You have enough wealth and status to attract only the best sort of people, Sherlock. Maybe marrying or at least meeting someone new would help. I hear Jackson Levinson would be interested.”

“Levinson is American, all oil money and judging by the amount of luxury yachts he buys, clearly trying to over-compensate for his small penis.”

Mycroft let out another sigh. “Come home and we will throw a lavish affair and you can meet a lot of prospective men and women who would enjoy your company.”

Sherlock snorted and looked at his nails on his free hand. “Nobody enjoys my company.”

“Considering the world's population, there must be one person who can bear to be around you.”

“What if that person is a hairdresser on minimum wage?” Sherlock asked innocently, hoping to provoke his brother.

There was a long pause on the end of the phone and Sherlock smirked, counting it as a win.

“We will expect to see you tomorrow morning at the latest. Don't make me come and get you.” The line went dead and Sherlock stared at the blinking 'Call Ended' on the phone screen before throwing it on the floor where it bounced on the soft, luxurious carpet. His fingers wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle and he lifted it to his lips, taking a long swig, before lowering it and looking around the large suite, feeling completely and utterly alone.

…

Sherlock swanned into the main Holmes residence which sat in the leafy suburbs of London, ignoring the staff that flurried around him, taking his coat off him and folding his scarf carefully. He strolled through the large corridors before pushing a large pair of double doors open and walking into the second sitting room. His mother and Mycroft were sat on one of the sofas by the windows, drinking tea and softly talking to one another.

“Sherlock,” his mother said, a smile widening her mouth as she gently set the teacup down with her perfectly manicured hands and stood up, adjusting her cream pencil skirt. “How was Paris?”

“Fine. No doubt you got the bill,” Sherlock said, shoving one hand in the pocket of his trousers and glancing at Mycroft with a smirk.

“Why you needed another four outfits is beyond me,” Mycroft said pointedly, looking at the new purple shirt his brother wore and perfectly tailored black trousers.

“Shopping stops me from noticing how dull the world is. I was thinking of getting another car. Thoughts?” Sherlock stated, raising a challenging eyebrow at Mycroft.

“Stop baiting your brother, Sherlock. If you want another car, perhaps you could actually use the three you already have first.”

“Tedious,” Sherlock said, collapsing onto the sofa opposite them, his long legs stretching out across the seat.

His mother cleared her throat and smiled indulgently at her youngest son. “Now you're here, maybe we could discuss your future a little. You're twenty five which is a good age to start meeting some powerful people and making good connections to further our family's reach. You're so lonely, Sherlock. A nice girl on your arm would help surely?” Sherlock snorted and stared at the ceiling, not being able to think of anything worse than a boring, stupid woman who's only on his arm due to his wealth. “May I remind you that you do vaguely approve of Mycroft's wife Anthea. Perhaps they'll be another woman or man out there like that.”

“Yes, being partnered with someone I vaguely approve of for the rest of my life sounds wonderful,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

“Mycroft and I have put together a folder of possible matches we deem... appropriate for you.”

“Any hairdressers in there?” Sherlock shot at Mycroft. Mycroft just hardened his gaze, not willing to play Sherlock's game.

“Hairdressers? Oh heavens no. Can't have a Holmes marrying someone of that sort,” his mother said, shaking her head with a look like the very thought offended her. “Now, I have my favourites of course, but the decision is yours. We're going to throw such a big event for you my darling and you can have your pick.”

He watched wearily as his mother picked up an light blue folder and walked over to him, holding it out. Sherlock snatched it off her and turned so he was sitting straight on the sofa before opening the folder and flicking through the various pictures and profiles.

“Easy to tell who you want.”

“Jackson Levinson is perfect for you. He leads the same lifestyle as you and looks to be very attractive,” his mother tried, eyes lighting up hopefully as Sherlock lifted his pinky finger and wiggled it at Mycroft pointedly. His mother carried on, ignoring him. “If not, there's a few more people in there that would also be good. Maria Marcus is the heir to several five star hotel chains and I think her father owns half of a country, but I can never remember which country.”

Sherlock shut the folder with a snap. “I have no intention of marrying anyone. As you are well aware.”

His mother gave an anxious sigh and fiddled with her pearls around her neck, glancing at Mycroft for help.

“This is not your choice to make, especially if you want to remain in the lifestyle you've become accustomed to,” Mycroft started, a threatening edge to his voice. Sherlock knew that Mycroft would cut him off financially without a second thought. “There is no reason this has to be an ordeal or change your life in any way. You can continue to do what you do now and if you marry well they'll most likely leave you alone. It's a business arrangement, Sherlock,” Mycroft said calmly. Sherlock huffed.

“It would be nice if you could at least like this person though. Maybe go on trips to Paris together,” his mother tried, eyes hopeful.

Sherlock stood up, the folder forgotten next to him. “I'm going.”

“Where?” Mycroft snapped.

“I hear Antarctica is beautiful this time of year,” Sherlock said, adjusting his shirt and shooting a look at them.

“This event will be in two weeks. By all means enjoy Antarctica but Sherlock, I will personally drug you and bring you back here myself if I have to. Don't make me,” Mycroft threatened, eyes dark and dangerous.

Sherlock stuck up his chin and walked out of the room and down the corridor where he passed Anthea. “Off somewhere nice?” she asked.

Sherlock whirled around to look at her. She was dressed impeccably and stood tall even though her face was focused on the phone she constantly had in her hands. She was a CEO of a major corporation abroad and took no prisoners which was why Sherlock actually tolerated her to an extent. Mycroft had thought Christmas and all of the food that came with it had come early when he had been introduced to her at a small co*cktail party in Chelsea. She refused to be at all flattered or won over by him which Mycroft took as a challenge which he then won. They were engaged three months after they met and six months after that they were married and Mycroft had become even more powerful.

“You could do better than my brother.”

“Uh huh,” she replied, still tapping away on her phone before looking up with a small smile. “Like you? Although, you're not really a ladies man, are you?”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, flicking his head back to get his black curls away from his eyes. “Was than a thinly veiled hint to my hom*osexuality?”

“Take it however you want,” she said giving him another brief look before going back to her phone and wandering slowly toward where Sherlock had just come from, probably to see Mycroft.

Sherlock walked toward the main entrance where a butler moved to put his long coat on him and wrap his royal blue scarf around his neck. Sherlock strode outside and stared at the well landscaped gardens and grounds that surrounded the large house.

“Bored,” he muttered under his breath before shoving his hand in his coat pocket and retrieving his Aston Martin car keys.

He drove to Baker Street at a speed that would have gotten him arrested if not for the fact his brother practically owned the government and so the police often chose to look the other way from such things like Sherlock going fifty in a thirty area. He drew up to the kerb by his town house, shutting the engine off and jumping out the car. His town house was large and the only place he could make a mess and shoot the walls without anyone annoying him. It was his haven.

He strode up the small steps and opened the set of double doors, walking into the spacious main lobby.

“Sherlock! How was Paris?”

Sherlock turned toward the voice and saw his housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, walking toward him with a yellow duster in her hands.

“Boring.”

She looked at him critically. “Have you eaten young man?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I'm going upstairs. Don't disturb me.” Mrs Hudson gave a small tut but left him to it.

He took the stairs two at a time and walked into the main living area which was bright and airy and smelled of antibacterial spray. He wrinkled his nose as he walked into the kitchen, checking that none of his experiments had been disturbed.

He glanced at his post sitting on the table but ignored it in favour of taking off his coat and collapsing onto the sofa, stretching himself out and propping his fingers underneath his chin in thought.

….

“You look beautiful,” his mother said two weeks later as she faffed and moved about his body, making sure he looked perfect as he stood in the middle of his bedroom at his mother's house, one hand clutching a glass of champagne as he was dressed and fiddled with like a prize pony.

“He does,” said one of their staff who was moving a lint roller down the side of his trousers.

“Does your wife know you have a gambling problem?” Sherlock muttered casually to him and the lint roller stopped in his tracks.

“Sherlock, stop it. We have rules about making observations about the staff. And perhaps tonight you can try and not break up any marriages or uncover any major scandals. This night should be about you networking and meeting a potential wife or husband. Do you know that every single person we invited is coming? Everyone is so excited. You're the last unattached Holmes left-”

“Can you stop your endless blathering, Mother,” Sherlock snapped, taking a sip from his glass and feeling the expensive champagne slide down his throat.

“Don't be rude. This is a big occasion and you need to live up to the Holmes name.”

“I'll be sure to mention my millions and where we have homes abroad in every conversation,” Sherlock said dryly, picking a bit of fluff off his suit jacket and throwing the man who'd supposed to have gotten rid of it all a look like he was dirt under his finger nails. His mother rolled her eyes and turned, leaving the room quietly to get ready herself. He continued to be prodded and turned to ensure he looked respectable. He knew what he looked like and he was generally seen as the far more attractive brother but then Mycroft had the power and connections that meant most eligible women used to flock to him first. And then Mycroft got married and suddenly Sherlock became everyone's favourite.

Sherlock stared blankly at his reflection in the large mirror at one end of the room, wishing that the night was already over.
…

“OK, you will stick with the current rotations. No deviations at all. Do not attempt conversation with any of the guests. You're here to work, not become best buddies with these people. If I catch any of you mingling or chit chatting away with guests, you will be sent home immediately. If a guest asks for something directly, do not carry on your rotation but fulfil their request straight away. Does anyone have any questions?”

John Watson listened intently as he leant back against one of the large cookers in the middle of the industrial sized kitchen, chefs already in the middle of making hors d'oeuvres as his supervisor talked to them about their duties for the evening as waiters. He looked around casually at the other waiting staff who he was working with for the night and felt decidedly out of place as he tried to hide his limp from any of his supervisors by using the cooker to stabilise himself. The only reason he had taken the job was because money was tight on an army pension and his friend Mike had set him up with it as a favour and told him he'd earn a large amount of money just to hand out food to posh gits all night. Easy money.

“Right, Watson and Barks, go over there to see what food you will be handing around. Ask the chefs any questions you have quickly as no doubt guests may ask about what you have on offer. Go.”

John pushed himself away from the cooker and walked as steadily as he could over to the large preparation area where silver trays sat, each with food being carefully placed on it in different, intricate patterns.

“Looks nice,” John remarked as one of the sous chefs leaned over one of the trays and did something fiddly to ensure the mouthful of food looked perfect. She cast him an annoyed glance like he was putting her off. He just put up his hands and backed away, waiting to be told when to start.

He was already looking forward to the night being over.

- - -

The ballroom at the Holmes residence in London was incredibly large and had white doors running the length of the large room which all opened to a large balcony area with soft chairs and candles for guests to spread out onto. For the event there were a lot of flowers and the floor was so shiny you could use it as a mirror. The whole room buzzed as guests mingled and moved around, chatting away loudly.

Sherlock felt uneasy as Mycroft pulled him through all the various politicians and heirs, all of them looking at him with a predatory gaze like Sherlock was their next meal.

“Jackson,” Mycroft said with a smile, pulling Sherlock to stand next to him stiffly. Jackson Levinson greeted them with a well crafted smile that displayed perfectly straight, white teeth. Sherlock looked him up and down, taking in his thick blond hair and blue eyes that held a smug expression, like he thought he was the best person in the room. Sherlock knew different.

“Mycroft. You're looking well,” Jackson said, clasping Mycroft's hand warmly. “And Sherlock, it is an absolute honour to meet you.” Sherlock stood in shock as Jackson leaned forward and pulled him close in a tight hug like they'd known each other years. Sherlock's eyes widened in annoyance when he felt a hand sliding down to graze against his
bum.

Sherlock adjusted his clothing with a glare once Jackson had pulled away. “No.” Sherlock turned and strolled off, ignoring Mycroft hissing after him to come back and then loudly apologising to Jackson for his behaviour.

Sherlock moved through the crowd like he was on a mission, hoping it would dissuade people from trying to intercept him and make conversation. It worked for precisely 6.8 seconds.

“Hi, I'm Stephanie,” a tall, blonde woman said, putting her hand on his arm and smiling brightly at him. He looked at her, assessing her expensive red dress and the way she held herself.

“Socialite. Three lovers currently on the go but you did have four. I wonder why you got rid of the fourth. Ah. STI scare? Bingo. I'd rather remain free of sexual disease and my mother would murder me before I got a chance to kill myself if I lowered myself to even consider a socialite. Goodbye.” Sherlock walked off, grabbing a flute of champagne and downing it quickly, hoping it'd give him a buzz to carry on the evening without maiming anyone.

He dodged a few more people trying to introduce themselves and moved onto the balcony, breathing in the night air and quickly going to the small alcove at one end, pleased to find it was empty. He was pretty much hidden from anyone who came his way on the balcony so he immediately sat down on one of the plush chairs, staring out over the gardens, lit up with lanterns.

…

John was more than intimidated by the event, moving around several people he actually recognised as being incredibly high up in the government of several countries. He moved back into the kitchen, his silver tray empty of food and saw one of the other waitresses standing by the line of trays.

“I'm John,” he said, eyeing her quickly up and down.

She turned to him, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Sarah. How you finding it? Pretty beautiful setting.”

“It's... spectacular. People have way too much money.” He placed the tray on the metal table and waited for the next tray to be complete so he could take it out.

“These people certainly do. Apparently this whole thing is because this powerful family want to marry off their youngest son or something. They must be incredibly desperate to spend this kind of money and throw this kind of event just to settle him down.”

John's eyebrows rose. “All this for some guy to meet someone? He must be incredibly ugly or just really rich.”

“Very, very rich. I don't even think I've seen him tonight. He's probably hiding in a closet from all the gold diggers.”

“Who is he?”

“Sherlock Holmes. You've probably read about his brother in the news at some point. His brother is Mycroft Holmes and he's married to some billionaire CEO.”

John nodded. “Yeah, the name Mycroft rings a bell.”

“Tray Watson,” one of the chefs snapped, shooting him a glare and nudging a full tray of canapés his way. “Less gossiping, more working.”

John rolled his eyes and gave Sarah a small smile. He picked up the tray and felt his leg give a slight wobble but managed to keep the tray steady. He walked through the main kitchen doors and down the large hallway and into the ballroom where the murmuring was loud and it was clear people were getting more drunk. He'd just walked a few steps forward when he felt his leg give a sharp stab of pain and it jarred. He gave a small shout as he toppled forward, the tray of canapés clattering to the floor loudly as people around him stared at him in horror and disgust.

His supervisor was on him immediately, grabbing his arm roughly and hauling him out of the main ballroom and back down toward the kitchen.

“What the bloody hell was that? You created a scene and drew attention to yourself. Get your sh*t together or I will send you home. Take five minutes and then be back in the ballroom. Understood?”

John nodded, one hand on his thigh as the pain ebbed. His supervisor gave a shake of his head and strode off toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath about hopeless staff.

He gave a loud sigh in the empty hallway and walked toward one of the empty sitting rooms which wasn't being used for the event. He noticed an open door at the end that led onto a balcony and decided getting a bit of fresh air would be a good idea. He saw that one end of the balcony, the much larger end, was where guests were milling about in their evening wear, no doubt comparing the size of their yachts. John went in the opposite direction and noticed a small hidden alcove with a few chairs. He limped toward the area, hand still rubbing at his leg, trying to ease the throbbing.

He turned into the alcove but stopped short when he saw somebody already there.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Notes:

Many thanks for the kudos! Hopefully I'll start updating a little faster. :)

Chapter Text

“Oh sorry, didn't realise anyone was here,” John apologised, running his gaze over the immaculately dressed man who was lying length ways on a two seater chair. He turned around, ready to go back inside.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and looked him up and down. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John halted, swivelling around to look at him again, taking in the man's narrowed eyes and mop of black curls. He had a thin frame which was accentuated by the expensive, tailored clothing he was wearing which John was sure must be worth more than his rent for the next decade. The man was attractive in an unusual, interesting kind of way.

“Excuse me?” John asked, shifting nervously.

“You heard.”

“Afghanistan. How did you know?” John frowned, moving back toward the man who remained silently watching him. “And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John's eyes widened fractionally and he looked toward the other guests at the other end of the balcony, hoping he wasn't about to get shot for talking to someone clearly several classes higher than him. He'd been very wrong earlier when he suspected Sherlock would be ugly.

Sherlock smirked, sitting up on the chair and peering at John with keen interest. “So, you were a soldier in Afghanistan. Got sent home early due to an injury. You were holding your leg with a slight limp in your step when you approached suggesting that's where the injury lies but it's not. It's somewhere else considering the way you're standing right now. Ah, psychosomatic. Obvious. No, the injury is somewhere else and you're standing almost to attention right now, ever the soldier, but your left shoulder is not as high as your right so shoulder injury then. Most likely a bullet. This got you sent home back to London and as you're on an army pension, which pays next to nothing, you're taking any job that pays well, including this one. Got anything wrong yet?” Sherlock asked, standing up and raising an expectant eyebrow.

“That was... amazing,” John said after his brain had caught up.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”

“That was excellent.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and prowled toward him, coming so close they were only a foot apart. John had to tilt his chin up to keep eye contact as Sherlock stared back, eyes deep and thoughtful. “That's not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off. Although I have been slapped on three occasions.”

John swallowed, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's as they stared at each other like they were animals eyeing one another up at a zoo, seeing who was going to make the next move and go in for the attack. Sherlock's pale eyes bored into Johns, trying to read his expression. John should have felt uncomfortable or weird to be this close to a complete stranger but there was something about this strange man that made him curious and interested and even a little excited.

John cleared his throat and took a step back, feeling less affected by Sherlock now he had room to breathe. He got himself together and stood tall. “I'm, err, John Watson by the way. Nice party.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, eyes still fixed on John, the party completely forgotten. “Oh yes. That. Boring and full of people who want me purely for my money and little else.” Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face like the whole thing was a tedious ordeal.

“Yeah, they did all seem like snobby pricks to be fair,” John said before his eyes widened and he realised he was talking about Sherlock's family and friends and he had no right to have an opinion on it. “Sorry. That wasn't right for me to say.”

“Hmm. Still accurate though.” Sherlock just continued to stare at him with a look that John couldn't place. It was like he was a small insect under a microscope and it was making him nervous so he shifted to his better leg. Sherlock's lips twitched. “Still psychosomatic I'm afraid.”

“Doesn't stop it hurting like a bugger though.”

There was a loud clearing of throat behind them and John turned to find a tall man, slightly taller than Sherlock, standing there in a pinstripe suit with a look of annoyance on his face. He'd seen his face before in the papers, recognising the man as Sherlock's brother Mycroft.

“Sherlock. I think it's time you stop hiding and come and do the rounds with me again. Lots of people have yet to meet you.”

“I'm surprised you left the buffet table long enough to come and find me,” Sherlock shot back. Mycroft's face hardened into a scowl.

“Go back inside now.”

Sherlock sighed and took one more look at John as he passed him and it sent a small shiver up John's spine. John expected Mycroft to follow his brother back inside but he remained standing where he was, his annoyed gaze now turned on him. “And you would be?”

“John Watson,” John replied, head held high.

“As I suspected. A nobody. Shouldn't you be working rather than mingling with people above your station?”

John snorted before he could help it and Mycroft's scowl deepened. “Above my station? This isn't a Jane Austen novel.”

Mycroft took a heavy, threatening step forward toward John. “You have no place talking to my brother in any capacity. Go and do your job.” With that, Mycroft turned away and stalked back inside, leaving John to take a few deep breaths and think about Sherlock and the way he'd been looking at him. The look had been similar to a bored child who'd just discovered something fascinating for the first time in their life.

John took one more deep breath and walked back inside, trying not to limp.

...

Sherlock put on a fake smile as he met yet another potential marriage candidate. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. He had no expectation of actually finding someone who could become important to him or a companion in life. Mrs Hudson may put up with his mess and anti-social attitude but she was paid to do it. No unsuspecting oil tycoon's daughter was going to put up with that.

Sherlock managed to duck away for a few moments, picking up yet another glass of champagne as his eyes scanned the crowd briefly, settling on John who was still ever so slightly hobbling. If you weren't looking for it though, you wouldn't notice.

“Sherlock.” He turned to find himself face to face with Jackson Levinson. Again.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped abruptly, turning back to look at the crowd, his eyes searching for John but unable to locate him.

“Just to chat.”

Sherlock turned back to him with a annoyed scowl. “Why?”

“Thought it'd be good to get to know one another. Look, I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable earlier. I just think hugging is a good way of putting people at ease.”

“I'm British. Hugging is for funerals and no other reason,” Sherlock snapped, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a long swig.

“Ah. Sorry then. I'm very outgoing you see. How about you ask me some questions, anything at all, and I'll be happy to answer them for you. Get to know each other a little better, that kind of thing.”

Sherlock snorted at the idea he had to ask anyone questions to find things out about them. He could deduce almost everything from just a look.

Sherlock put on a mock thinking face before leaning in to Jackson, his mouth going close to his ear. He felt Jackson grin.

“How big is your penis?”

Jackson's grin dropped as Sherlock pulled back, a smirk on his face as he took an innocent sip of champagne.

“Who told you?” Jackson hissed, his cheeks red.

“No one told me. But perhaps stop buying such ostentatious yachts. It's the equivalent of walking around with a neon sign pointed at you saying 'I have a small penis.'”

“Size isn't everything you know,” Jackson snapped, looking around in panic like he was scared someone would look at them and know exactly what they were talking about. Sherlock just gave him an innocent look. Jackson looked around them one more time before leaning in. “From what I hear, you're a virgin anyway. So why do you care?”

Sherlock almost laughed but instead shook his head like Jackson was a lost cause and walked away, leaving him seething behind him.

“Stop burning bridges,” Mycroft snapped, appearing at his side almost instantly.

“But it's the only fun I can have at this dull party. Did you know the Ambassador for Greece has a thing for whips and chains?”

Mycroft gently took the glass of champagne from his brother with an exasperated look. Sherlock caught sight of John again, weaving in and out of small circles of people with a tray held high, pausing to allow people to take food from it. Mycroft followed his gaze. “Don't even think about it or I will cut you off by tomorrow morning, is that understood?”

Sherlock huffed like the spoilt brat he was and folded his arms over his chest like Mycroft had just refused to buy him a toy at a toy shop.

“Ah, Maria. Come and meet Sherlock. He's been dying to meet you,” Mycroft said, shooting a warning glance at Sherlock before plastering a smile on as she approached.

Sherlock sighed heavily.

The party continued on until the early hours and Sherlock was three seconds away from throwing himself off the balcony when his brother told him he looked tired and gave him permission to go to bed with an ominous “we'll discuss your choice in the morning and arrange for them to visit one on one.”

As Sherlock lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind brought forth the image of John. Boring, plain, soldier John and he decided that he wasn't done with him quite yet. The trick to seeing him again and getting away with it was misdirection. He smirked, deciding he'd play Mycroft's game if it was only to keep him off the scent as he tracked John down.

…

“Jackson Levinson,” Sherlock announced over breakfast as they sat around the large table the next morning.

His mother clapped her hands once in joy but both Mycroft and Anthea turned to look at him with suspicious expressions on their faces.

Mycroft buttered his toast, glancing over at Sherlock. “Odd choice considering last night you insulted his manhood.”

“Sherlock, you didn't,” his mother scolded.

Sherlock slumped back on his chair and played with a small bit of jam on the side of his plate with his index finger, swirling it around. “I decided I can overlook his... shortcomings.”

Anthea laughed before stopping abruptly at the look her husband sent her. Sherlock gave her a wink.

“Please don't encourage him,” Mycroft said tiredly.

“So, Jackson. We'll call him immediately. Have him come over and give you some alone time to get to know one another before announcing the engagement,” his mother said hurriedly, mind clearly already thinking about what centre pieces to choose for their wedding.

“Mother, do not get ahead of yourself,” Sherlock snapped, throwing his napkin on the table and pushing his chair out so he could stand. “You wanted a name. I gave you one. That is all.”

Sherlock left the room, his fingers curling around the keys he had in his pocket as he walked through the large house and outside to where all the cars were kept.

...

“I need a favour,” Sherlock announced as he walked into the large end office at Scotland Yard to look at Gregory Lestrade. The detective inspector was bent over his desk, reading a file and barely acknowledged Sherlock's entrance.

“I'm not your personal police officer, Sherlock. Go away.”

Sherlock sat down heavily in the chair across from Lestrade and smiled. “Yes you are. I have a name. I need you to run it through the system and give me the personal information in a file right now.”

“I'm in the middle of a murder investigation.”

Sherlock reached over the desk and grabbed the file Lestrade has been reading, pulling it onto his lap to look it over. “I'll solve this whilst you go and get me the information I need,” Sherlock said, eyes roaming the paperwork and peering at the pictures of the deceased with interest.

Lestrade let out a long suffering sigh. “Name?”

“John Watson. I want everything you have on him. Address, phone number, weight, career history, everything. He's an soldier recently back from Afghanistan which should help in locating the right John Watson.”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know why you need this information?”

“No,” Sherlock stated, glancing at the police report and swinging his legs up to the desk and crossing them at the ankles. “I'll wait.”

Lestrade pushed himself up wearily and walked around the desk toward the door.

“When you get back, I'll tell you who to arrest. Really Lestrade, this was easy,” Sherlock said smugly, chucking the folder onto the desk and glancing over his shoulder at Lestrade with a smirk.

Lestrade shook his head and left, leaving Sherlock to look at a few more police reports.

After about twenty minutes Lestrade returned, a pink folder in his hands with newly printed paper stuffed in it. “Here we go. John Hamish Watson. He's a doctor, served in Afghanistan before being sent home due to a bullet wound in left shoulder. He was part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He has a sister and played rugby at school. No problems with the law. He got suspended at school for one day after being found in the toilets with a fellow rugby player doing... something. It doesn't say what but I'm assuming drugs.”

“Only one day suspension for drugs? No. It was sex. Obviously. Carry on.”

“OK, as I was saying, suspended once. Did his medical training at Barts and then joined the army where he completed his training and became a medic. He's 30 years old and currently living in a bedsit near Hackney.” Lestrade threw the folder into Sherlock's lap and walked back around the desk. “Now, who do I need to arrest?”

“The brother,” Sherlock said in a distracted tone as he flicked through the folder of paper detailing John Watson's life. “Drug deal gone wrong and he got angry. Manslaughter rather than murder as he just intended to teach her a lesson. You know, if you actually let me onto your crime scenes, I could solve everything ten times faster than the idiots you use.”

“We're fine as we are thanks. No way I'm letting you run around a crime scene. Your brother would kill me.”

Sherlock swung his legs back onto the floor and stood up, folder clutched tightly in his hand. “See you later.”

Lestrade was cut off from replying as Sherlock walked out of his office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

...

John put his shopping down on the small stone step in front of his front door as he rummaged in his pockets for his keys.

A loud roar of an engine drew his attention and he straightened to see a silver Aston Martin drive down the road in his direction. John frowned, the car painfully out of place in the suburb of London he was living in. The car drew up right beside where he was standing, engine shutting off, and John put his hand up, blocking the sun to see if he could see inside. He assumed it was some rich asshole who'd gotten lost in London and was about to ask him for directions.

The driver's door opened and John watched as Sherlock Holmes climbed out of the car, pulling off his sunglasses as he looked at John. He was dressed in a tight blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and smart tailored black trousers.

There were many things John was thinking at that moment in time, but the one thing that he actually verbalised was, “You shouldn't park on a double yellow.”

Sherlock rounded the car looking like some vain model from the magazines his sister used to buy as he approached and stared down at the two yellow stripes by the kerb. “No police officer who wants to keep his job would ticket this car.”

“Money talks,” John said dryly before shaking his head. “Sorry, but what are you doing here?”

“Is this where you live?” Sherlock asked, his lips curling into disgust as he looked up at the dilapidated building and ignored John's question.

“Yeah. Army pension, remember?”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.

“So, what exactly did you want other than to look down on my choice of accommodation and throw your nice car in my face.”

Sherlock smiled and looked back at the DB9. “Like her?”

John nodded. “Not many people wouldn't. I've never even seen this kind of car in person.”

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets. “Want to try driving it?”

John opened and shut his mouth like a fish before gathering himself. “Seriously?” Sherlock just nodded in reply and looked at him expectantly. “Umm, alright, well I just have to put my shopping away first,” John stuttered out.

Sherlock leant back on the car as he inspected his nails on one hand and waved him off. “Don't take forever.”

John picked up his carrier bags and shoved the key in the lock and quickly went in, shutting the door behind him and taking a number of calming breaths. He hurriedly went into the bedsit, straight over to the small kitchenette and chucked the milk into the fridge and other items into the cupboards, rushing through it like he was scared Sherlock would take off. He still didn't quite understand why Sherlock of all people was there but being back in London was proving to be lonely and isolating so he decided to dive head first into whatever it was he about to do.

He went back outside and found Sherlock exactly where he left him. “Here,” Sherlock said, throwing the car keys at him and opening the passenger side door and sliding in.

John walked around the car in a daze, opening the door and getting in slowly, his hand running along the cream leather upholstery slowly. He stretched his legs forward and felt his cheeks flush when he realised he couldn't reach the pedals. “Err, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed one of the many buttons on the dash board and his chair made a low buzz as it moved forward and up.

“Thanks. So, if I crash this car, will my body be found in some river?” John asked as he looked to see where to put the key in to start the engine.

“You think I'd murder you over some car?”

“Some car? It's an Aston Martin. This isn't some car.”

Sherlock just waved him off, like that fact meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

He quickly turned on the engine on, his left hand going to the gear stick and shifting it into first as his foot found the clutch. “Where we going?”

Sherlock settled back in his seat, looking like he was on a sun lounger sunbathing. “Wherever.” He put his sunglasses on and waited.

John revved the engine quickly to judge the clutch bite point before pulling away from the kerb. He caught his own expression in the rear view mirror and saw a massive grin on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd truly smiled.

...

“So,” John started as he drove out of London. “Am I allowed to ask why any of this is happening? Why you turned up out of no where to my address? How did you even find me by the way?”

“I know people.”

John shot Sherlock a quick sideways glance. “So why don't you tell me what you rich people do with your time.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, watching the trees out the window whiz by. “Travel, drink, shop, try and topple governments if you're my brother.”

John shifted into sixth gear as they got onto the motorway, merging into the traffic carefully. “What do you do?”

“Travel the world looking for things to occupy my time.”

“Not a bad life.”

“It's boring. Do you realise how ordinary and boring the human race is? I can go to the other side of the world and discover that Australians have the same capacity for idiocy as Brits.”

John smiled. “Maybe you're not meeting the right people or moving in the right circles. There's plenty of really interesting people. There was some guy in the Daily Mail the other day that eats coins and clothes pegs.”

“Being idiotic and crazy is not the same as being interesting. Every human being believes they're special in some way but almost no one is. People are idiots, John.”

John gave a wry smile. “You honestly believe you're superior to everyone else, don't you?”

“Not because of money, but because I'm a genius. People spend so much time focusing on the inane stuff in life that they miss everything that's truly important. Finding something that interests me is near impossible. Although, you're vaguely interesting in a strange kind of way.”

John wrinkled his face in confusion at the almost compliment. “I wouldn't say I'm interesting.”

“And that is what makes you interesting. On the outside you're some ordinary man who is vaguely attractive but short and only sort of clever. Underneath boring, ordinary John Watson is a man with a sense of adventure and danger. You didn't go into a war zone just to help people. You went into a war zone because you craved the danger and excitement that came with it and no boring London based doctor job will ever live up to that. You'll spend the rest of your life missing that thrill you got and desperately doing anything to recreate it. And that is one of the reasons today you got into a high powered car with a man you don't even know and drove out of London with him. You crave the risk and excitement and it makes you just a little bit more interesting.”

John opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out. He felt a warmth settle in his stomach as he continued to drive in silence, mind replaying Sherlock's assessment of him. And he wondered if perhaps he'd managed to meet someone who was just as lost and alone as he was.

John drove on into Surrey, noticing the roads getting barer and enjoying the way the car handled.

“Go faster if you want,” Sherlock said, throwing a smirk his way, like it was a dare.

John pushed the car into sixth gear and he felt his heart hammer in his chest as the car roared faster, the trees becoming green blurs out the window. He almost laughed with the exhilaration and caught Sherlock's eyes for a split second, meeting Sherlock's smile with one of his own.

John was so busy pushing the car faster that he barely noticed the blue flashing lights in the rear view mirror until they were right behind him. “Oh crap.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see a police car pulling them over. “Don't say a word, John. I'll deal with it.”

John pulled the car to a slow stop by the side of the road, turned the engine off and breathed in and out a few times. “I'm not even insured,” he hissed, feeling his palms get slightly sweaty as he imagined himself declaring bankruptcy the next day. He lowered the window as the police officer approached.

“Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”

John opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock got there first. “102 miles per hour.” Sherlock leaned over the console and handed over his driving licence. “Run that through the system before you waste any more of our time.”

The police officer looked set to argue before conceding and walking away, back to his car with the licence.

John watched anxiously in the mirror as the police spoke to someone on his phone, the licence held up. A few moments later the police officer returned and handed John Sherlock's licence.

“This is a nice area, boys. Keep the speed down in future, yeah?” The police officer gave them a quick nod, a small appreciative look at the car before returning to the police car.

“What the bloody hell? I was going twice the speed limit,” John hissed.

Sherlock just smirked and tucked his licence back into his shirt pocket. “When you're as rich as I am, you can't be arrested for anything, even murder.”

John's eyes widened. “Murdered someone then, have you?”

“Not this month,” Sherlock said sarcastically with a smirk.

John laughed as he turned the engine back on, shaking his head in absolute disbelief as he pulled out onto the road, checking the dash constantly for his speed.

“So, that party that was thrown, does that mean you're engaged?”John asked.

Sherlock grimaced slightly. “There's a possibility but I doubt I'll see it through.”

“She nice?” John enquired.

“It's a man.”

“Oh, well, that's fine.”

“I know it's fine.”

“So, a possible husband then. He some power hungry billionaire?”

“Pretty much. I don't want to talk about it,” Sherlock said, sounding worn down as his pinched the bridge of his nose.

John nodded understandingly and gave Sherlock a brief, supportive smile. “Back to London?”

Sherlock nodded once and John smiled, revving the engine a few times and enjoying the noise.

They arrived back at John's bedsit late in the evening after getting stuck on the M25 long enough for Sherlock to start twitching and tapping his foot impatiently.

John got out of the car and Sherlock handed him a small business card with a mobile number on it, ordering him to text him in a voice that left no room for discussion. John stuffed it into his pocket, waved Sherlock off before letting himself into his small bedsit and reviewing his day with a bit of crazed disbelief.

He opened his laptop and Googled 'Sherlock Holmes net worth' and the estimated number made him inhale sharply and shut his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

John stabbed the top of the convenience meal with a fork, taking out some of his day's frustrations on it. It had been a week since he'd spent his day with Sherlock and he'd found himself a small GP job which was proving to be very disappointing and unstimulating. Being slightly exposed to Sherlock and his life meant that sometimes John would wonder what it must be like for society's elite who spend their time racking up thousand pound cheques at restaurants and sunning themselves on yachts. They'd never understand what it was like to go into the supermarket and buy only supermarket-brand products and things on offer.

He'd exchanged a couple of texts with Sherlock but most of them were incredibly random and it never really reached a full conversation. The last text had been two days ago and read Flowers and hydrochloric acid don't mix. SH.

There was a loud knock on the door and he turned, brow furrowed in confusion and body tight on alert. He put his ready meal in the microwave and turned it on before walking over to the door warily.

He unlocked it slowly, his mind reminding him where he stored his gun and how long it'd take for him to get it. He shouldn't have been worried because the door swung open to reveal Sherlock, who was clutching his long, grey coat tightly around him as he looked at the hallway and into John's bedsit with disgust, his nose wrinkled like he was afraid he was going to catch something.

“You look like you should have brought protective clothing. What do you want Sherlock?”

Sherlock pushed past John into the bedsit using his shoulder, his arms still wrapped around himself as he surveyed John's living space critically. “My second bathroom is bigger than your whole bedsit. This is awful. How do you live like this?”

John felt his face flush with embarrassment before annoyance took over. “I didn't ask for you to come here or give me your opinion on where I'm staying, Sherlock. What the hell are you doing here?”

Sherlock's eyes were detailing everything as he looked around the small bedsit until eventually his eyes reached John's and then slid downward to take in John's ugly, thick red jumper with obvious distaste. The microwave gave a loud ping and Sherlock's attention snapped to look over it. He stalked toward the microwave, opening it immediately. “What is this?” He asked curiously as he pulled out the meal carefully so as not to burn himself, sniffing it.

“A ready meal. I went by Asda on the way home.”

Sherlock pinched the edge of the clear seal over the top and pulled it off, revealing a lasagne. “This is food? Humans eat this?”

John wanted to be annoyed or even just plain angry but Sherlock's tone lacked any judgement, instead he just seemed fascinated, like he'd never met someone who didn't have a personal chef at his beck and call.

“Yeah, we do. It's not great, but work makes me hungry and I haven't got the energy to cook so I make do.” John watched in bemusem*nt as Sherlock grabbed a fork and stuck it in the lasagne, steam rising into his face as he piled some on the fork, blew on it, and stuck it in his mouth.

“You can't just barge your way into someone's home and start eating their dinner, Sherlock, for crying out loud.”

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “John, this tastes awful and has a year's worth of sodium in it. Come with me and we'll go somewhere that serves proper food.”

John put his hands up. “No way. No. I have been coughed on, thrown up on and hit by a small child today. I am staying here with my ready meal and some crap telly, thanks.”

Sherlock looked around the small bedsit again. “I don't understand. Why would you want to stay here? Or even want to live here?”

“Well, I'm looking for somewhere else. This is just a temporary place for now,” John argued, tipping his meal onto a plate.

“I may know of somewhere.”

John snorted loudly. “Yeah, I'll just move my millions from my Swiss bank account so I can afford whatever place you're suggesting.”

“I'm sure you can afford it on a GP salary.” Sherlock looked at him hopefully. “It's in Baker Street. The landlord wouldn't ask for much rent.”

John narrowed his eyes. “I feel like there's a catch here. Is it a flatshare? Is my possible flatmate a former serial killer or something?”

“Don't be so dramatic. You'll like him. He's... eccentric.”

“Eccentric is another word for crazy.”

“What are your opinions on the violin? He plays it a lot when he's thinking and there are days where he doesn't speak at all, so hopefully that won't bother you. Also, experiments are normally around the flat but I'm sure you won't mind things like that considering there's a lot of space. He's away most of the time anyway.”

“So what does this guy do exactly? He a scientist? This doesn't sound promising, Sherlock.”

“You can't stay here and you said you wanted somewhere else, so this is my suggestion. If you don't like it, you can continue to live in this hovel.”

John sighed and leaned back onto the counter edge as he peered at Sherlock. “OK, fine, whatever. I'll go and look at this place but that's all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Good. I must leave here before I get some viral infection or become clinically depressed. Has this place even passed a health and safety check? Anyway, the address is 221b Baker Street. Meet me there tomorrow on your lunch break.”

John nodded, his mind reeling as Sherlock strode out of the room, shutting the door behind him. John tucked into his lasagne, screwing his face up at the taste as he turned the TV on and hoped something would pique his interest.

…

Sherlock took a long, loud sip of his tea as he sat in silence in one of the many sitting rooms at his mother's residence. He placed the teacup gently back in the saucer and put it down loudly on the small table next to where he sat in a large armchair. His eyes narrowed at Jackson Levinson who sat in an opposite chair, watching him warily.

Sherlock shrugged so his sleeve rode up and he could glance at his watch. “Thirty five minutes. I think that should be enough time that they'll leave me alone.”

Jackson smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. “So that's why I'm here. You needed to pretend to be interested in someone and I was the straw you picked. I could have been at a business meeting in Brussels right now but my father thought this should be my priority.”

“What kind of business? Oil?” Sherlock asked, his tone bordering on bored.

“Perhaps,” Jackson said, crossing his legs and dusting his knee off with his hand, not looking at Sherlock. “I have a potential business partner who might be helping me further a few endeavours in the future. I have my eye on a few pipe line contracts but he's playing hard ball. I'll get the job done, I always do. And this, Sherlock, is something else I'd very much like to settle and agree on. We could be good together.”

Sherlock unfolded his own legs and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his steepled fingers. “So for the sake of interest. Say we got married. Where would you live? Where would I live?”

Jackson looked out the end window thoughtfully for a moment. “It would be business. You could stay in London, I'd live in Texas or LA where I have houses. We would fly to each other when certain important events arose and we needed the other person on our arm for appearances sake.”

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. “Interesting. What about sex?”

“Considering you seem unimpressed with what I offer – we'd do it once, on our wedding night, to ensure the marriage is legitimate and consummated. I'd then be free to sleep with whoever and you'd be free to do the same as long as we both keep it discreet.”

“Pre-nup?”

“Iron clad for both of us. We both bring a lot of assets and money to the table which needs to be protected.”

Sherlock stared at him, assessing and calculating. “You're not as painfully idiotic as I thought.”

Jackson smirked and brushed his trousers with his fingertips. “You think I'd have the power and money I do if I were stupid? I know your brother is pressuring you. If we marry, nothing changes for you or the lifestyle you lead except that Mycroft leaves you alone.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, watching him intently. “What's in it for you to marry me?”

Jackson's smirk turned into an outright smile. “Let's not pretend your family isn't connected to every CEO and heir in existence. I'd be able to use the Holmes name to further my causes and set up lucrative connections.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch again, noticing the time. “I have a pressing appointment I have to attend to.”

Jackson stood up, looking hopeful. “So, what can I tell my father when he calls and asks?”

“Tell him I'm interested. For now.”

Jackson had a look on his face similar to someone who'd just struck a multi-million dollar business deal.

“Good to hear, Sherlock. I won't hug you this time.”

Sherlock just looked him up and down once before standing and leaving the room without another word.

...

John looked at the address for the fourth time on his phone, checking there weren't any other 221b Baker Streets in all of London. He looked back up again at the large imposing building which had white pillars on either side of the front doors and large steps leading up to it.

“GP's salary. What a dick,” John muttered, shaking his head. He should have known better than to assume Sherlock knew anything about what the every day bloke could afford.

The double doors suddenly opened and a small, older looking woman in a purple blouse peeked out. “Yoo-hoo. You must be John. Come in.”

John looked up and down the street a few times, just to ensure she wasn't speaking to someone else. He walked up the wide steps and walked slowly into the building. The foyer was large and richly decorated in dark red shades which contrasted against the clean, white floors. It felt like a five star hotel lobby area.

“I think there's been some kind of mistake.”

“Mistake?” The woman asked, looking confused. “You're John Watson, aren’t you? I'm Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper. Sherlock is running late as he had some appointment back at his mother's place he had to attend to. I'm so thrilled Sherlock is having someone move in. He gets so lonely and it'll be nice to share the burden of trying to make him eat. Now dear, you look a bit exhausted so I'll show you around and then we'll have a cuppa and a biscuit.”

John's frowned, his mind catching up. “This is where Sherlock lives?”

“Yes, dear. Didn't he say? Oh, that boy is so mysterious sometimes and for no reason at all.”

John stared at her dumbly. He then looked up at the cream ceilings with ornate fixtures on them and a large, expensive chandelier hanging down above their heads.

The front doors behind him burst open and Sherlock strode in, pulling off his long coat and throwing it onto a small table by the door. “Ah, already here. Good.”

John shifted around to face him. “You didn't tell me you'd be my potential flatmate and by the way, your view of what is affordable on a GP salary is way, way off.”

“Small detail. I don't actually need any rent but I know what kind of man you are and you have pride which dictates you would want to pay your share so you can pay whatever it is you're paying for that disastrous bedsit.”

John smiled dryly in disbelief. “Sherlock, this place is... big. And expensive. I can't just move in with you. We barely know each other and you're going to get married-”

“That won't affect you living here.”

“-and lets face it, we move in very different circles. I mean, you hadn't even seen a ready meal before.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes like John was being painfully tedious. “John, if you want to eat your ready meals here, I promise to only comment using tutting and disapproving stares. OK? Good. Let's show you all the possible rooms you can have.”

The next hour was spent with John's mouth hanging open in shocked awe as he was shown four different bathrooms and three bedrooms that he was told to pick from. He barely said a word as he trailed behind Sherlock who was a force of nature and seemed to dictate any and all attention toward him. Sherlock would move in to a room, talking a mile a minute about what he used it for or whether it was an empty room that John could have for his own stuff. John could clearly see that Sherlock had way too much space considering many of the rooms looked brand new, like no one had ever stayed in them even for a night.

When John finally sat down in the main sitting room with a cup of tea and two biscuits on the small table next to him, he finally felt able to breathe. The sitting room was very clearly Sherlock's main space. The rest of the house seemed modern and well put together but the sitting room and kitchen areas were so different they looked like they belonged in a different house. The tables and furniture seemed cheap and tatty compared to the expensive furniture he'd seen in other rooms and the wallpaper was in a Victorian style which didn't really fit in. The walls also looked like they'd been shot at several times and there was clutter everywhere, on every surface imaginable, with books and papers. And yet, in the whole house, it was already his favourite room.

“You like this room best. Interesting,” Sherlock said opposite him as he lounged in a low grey chair, watching John like a hawk. “Your body language is telling me you're most at ease in this room compared to the others.”

“Well, it's the most... normal looking room. Looks lived in and cosy.” He pointed toward the wall above one of the sofas. “Are those bullet holes in the wall?”

Sherlock waved him off with a hand, not answering. “You don't find my mess upsetting? The lack of order? There's currently an experiment involving slugs and human eye lashes on the dinner table, thoughts?” Sherlock leant forward, his eyes narrowed as his took in every single reaction that John's face displayed. John was fairly sure he was being tested.

John screwed up his face in confusion. “Slugs and eyelashes? Seriously?”

Sherlock smiled and he sat back in the chair, looking pleased. “So, when can you move in?”

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Notes:

Many thanks for the kudos and comments! Keeps me writing.

Chapter Text

It was a dull, cloudy Tuesday when John moved out of his small bedsit. He'd spent endless hours questioning his own sanity in deciding to move in with a man he didn't even know and into a house that he'd never afford even if he lived to be a thousand. The pros far outweighed the cons though and he was tired of spending all day listening to people moan about their illnesses and then return to his pathetic bedsit where he'd feel lonely for the rest of the night. He knew something had to change and so if some rich, good looking, crazy genius wanted to offer him a room at a ridiculously low rate, he was hardly going to say no.

He stood on the small steps outside his old building with his life in boxes at his feet. Sherlock had told him he'd pick him and his stuff up to move it but John was questioning Sherlock's reliability as he looked at his watch for the third time. He picked up his phone.

Where are you? JW

On my way. May have just hit a cyclist. SH

What? JW

He got up. He's fine. Am five minutes away. SH

John cursed under his breath as he looked back down at the three boxes that contained his possessions. The fact he could pack up his life into so few boxes told him how little there was he truly valued.

There was a squeal of tyres and John looked up to see a very large black Range Rover coming down the road, stopping just in front of him.

Sherlock hopped out gracefully. “I hate driving 4x4's. It's like driving a monster truck.” Sherlock eyed the boxes. “If I knew you'd only have a few boxes I would have driven the Ferrari.”

John squinted up at Sherlock. “How many cars do you actually own?”

“A few.” Sherlock opened the large boot door and watched as John heaved the boxes into the back, not offering to help. “Need to be quick as I have an on going experiment with wasps at home.”

John decided not to even ask. Sometimes when he did ask and heard the answer, he often regretting asking in the first place. He got into the car, eyeing up the expensive upholstery and gleaming dashboard appreciatively.

They drove over to Baker Street quickly, only missing more cyclists by an inch or so. Sherlock rambled on about his wasp experiment like it was the most interesting thing in the world and there was something comforting about knowing he was going to live with someone, even if it was some painfully rich, handsome man he'd never be allowed to think about in a sexual way.

Once they arrived, Sherlock disappeared to check on his wasp experiment whilst Mrs Hudson showed him to his selected room. It reminded him of a hotel suite and he knew it'd take a while to make it homey but he could hardly complain as he looked around the large room with a king sized bed pressed to the wall and floor length windows at the end. He set his boxes down and idly ran a hand down the duvet on his bed, feeling how soft and expensive the material obviously was.

Sherlock appeared at his door looking frazzled. “John, I've lost a wasp. If you see it, do not kill it. Come and find me immediately. It may be carrying an infectious disease so don't let it sting you or even sit on you.” Then he was gone and John gave a light, dry laugh. Living with Sherlock Holmes looked like it was going to be just the adventure he needed.

It took him thirteen minutes exactly to unpack considering how little he possessed. He put his large set of different style jumpers in a drawer and hung up his jackets and coats carefully in the large walk in wardrobe which was completely bare except for his few items. He made a mental note to go shopping.

“John! I found the wasp. I was stung but it wasn't one of the infected ones so it's fine.”

John turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway again, his right hand pressed to his left forearm. “You're stung?”

“Yes, nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Sherlock, get your ass in here right now and let me have a look.”

Sherlock eyed him for a few moments, like an unsure child who didn't know whether to trust an adult, before he moved into the room and perched on the edge of John's bed.

John sat down next to him, gently placing his hand over Sherlock's and pulling it away from his forearm to reveal a bit of red swelling.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock tried but John could hear the small pout.

“You're in pain. You got a first aid kid around or an ice pack?”

“Probably. Mrs Hudson deals with those type of things.”

John sighed and gripped Sherlock's elbow, heaving him up off the bed. “Follow me,” John ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock muttered dryly under his breath as John tried to remember the layout of the house and which way the kitchen was.

Once in the kitchen, John pushed Sherlock down onto a chair and raised his arm a little before pressing a bag of peas he'd found in the freezer against the red swelling.

“That's cold,” Sherlock snapped, trying to move his arm away but John reached out and gripped it firmly.

“Stop being a baby.”

“Is this how you treat people, Doctor?” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“I used to deal with people who have been shot. Not posh idiots who experiment on and then get stung by wasps. Suck it up. You will live.”

Sherlock looked up at him, pale eyes roaming John's facial features, cataloguing them slowly. John shifted his gaze away, aware that Sherlock was busy deducing him.

“Keep the ice on the swelling, take a pain killer and you should be fine.” John moved over to the fridge, inspecting the contents, surprised to find a lot of food in there. “You shop?”

Sherlock snorted. “Never. I have people who do it for me.”

“Of course you do.”

“Take or eat whatever you want.” Sherlock adjusted the packet of frozen peas on his arm. John moved about the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboard doors to see where all the utensils and cutlery were kept.

“Thanks,” John said as he pulled out a few pots and pans, inspecting them and finding them barely used. “Right, well, I have to head to the surgery for an afternoon shift. I'll be back for dinner. Call me if you start feeling dizzy or your tongue starts swelling.”

Sherlock grumbled under his breath about John ordering him around and fussing over him but John could tell, with some interest, that Sherlock actually didn't mind it.

…

“Come in,” Mycroft said behind the overly large mahogany desk in his office. Sherlock always thought it made him look like a squirrel trying to sit at a picnic bench and look intimidating.

“Why have I been summoned? I was busy doing an experiment on wasps and head lice.”

Mycroft waved his hand pointedly at the chair on the other side of the desk and Sherlock sat down in it, refusing to relax.

Mycroft, in a very measured way, reached for a folder on his desk, bringing it in front of him and opening it slowly. “Doctor John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Age thirty years old and currently working at a GP clinic in Hackney. PTSD present in patient and a psychosomatic limp. Discharged from the army due to a bullet wound-”

“What are you getting at? I don't have all day to hear things I already know.”

Mycroft shut the file with a snap and his hard eyes rose to meet Sherlock's. “Exactly. Did you think you could hide him from me? Pretend to be interested in Jackson Levinson so you could pursue someone of no consequence at all? To be honest, Sherlock, I am floored. He's poorer than the rat in the London street and has enough mental and physical scars to make him completely ineligible for any kind of relationship.” Mycroft stood up, hands braced on the edge of the desk as he loomed toward Sherlock, mouth curved angrily. “So, dear brother, what the hell are doing having him move in with you?”

Sherlock glanced around the large room once lazily. “Becoming less bored.”

“So he's your entertainment then? You're using him as some kind of project for an experiment?”

Sherlock shot Mycroft a displeased look and pursed his lips. “No.”

“He has to move out, Sherlock. I will not have people find out you've moved some poor soldier into your residence. Imagine the rumour mill. It would be disastrous. I'm sure he's just using you for your money and nothing more.”

Sherlock raised an unaffected eyebrow. “I don't see the issue. I have no intention of marrying him, forming a relationship with him or handing him suitcases full of cash. You're always going on about me getting some friends. Why not him?”

Mycroft's eyebrows jumped as he sat back down in his chair, gaze unwavering on Sherlock. “A friend? That is new territory for you.” Mycroft paused and tapped his lips with his fore finger in thought, peering over at Sherlock. “Fine. Do what you want with him as long as whatever you do with him remains as friendship and under no circ*mstances give him any money. I'll be watching you and your charity case. If I believe anything is cause for concern, I will remove him from you. Have I made myself clear?”

Sherlock let out a long sigh and stood up, his eyes running up and down Mycroft's form. “You should cut out the mid morning cupcake. It's beginning to show.”

Mycroft gave him a look that could kill as Sherlock strolled out the room, hands in his pockets and a smirk on his lips.

...

“What's this?” John asked, poking and prodding a jelly like substance in the kitchen just off the main sitting room.

Sherlock thrummed his violin with his finger as he sat on the sofa, body wrapped in a blue dressing gown. “Experiment.”

“You use that as your answer for everything. Like that dead pigeon I found in the bathtub.”

“He had a name. His name was Jeff.”

John came into the sitting room to peer at Sherlock. “You named a pigeon you killed for an experiment?”

“Jeff wasn't supposed to die and naming him was part of the experiment. I miscalculated a formula. Won't happen again.”

John just shook his head and went back into the kitchen, opening the fridge to look at all the food Mrs Hudson had arranged for them. “You eaten?”

“Not hungry.”

“At all? I can make you something if you'd like.”

Sherlock huffed and sighed. “I have Mrs Hudson as my mother hen. I don't need you, too.”

John bent down to look at what else was in the fridge when a large bottle of something caught his eye and he shoved his hand through a gap between some yoghurt and vegetables to grab at it and pull it forward. He squinted at the label and almost dropped it.

“Jesus Christ, this is vintage champagne, Sherlock.”

“Oh, yes. Was a gift from one of the party guests who wanted to make an impression. Worth about nine thousand pounds I believe. Feel free to drink it or pour it down the drain.”

John stared at it for a moment before standing up with it clutched carefully in his hands. “How is stuff like this normal to you? How could you not care about something that's worth so much?”

Sherlock eyed him with an unimpressed look. “Nine thousand is nothing. I once racked up an eighty thousand pound cheque in a New York restaurant because I was angry at my brother for using the private jet when I wanted to use it.”

John placed the bottle gently down on the table and walked toward Sherlock in compete disbelief. “Do you hear yourself? Does money literally mean nothing to you?”

Sherlock co*cked his head to the side. “Is that news to you? I've never had to place value on money my whole life. Don't make me start now just because a cheap bottle of champagne has unnerved you.”

John mouthed 'cheap' several times, eyebrows at his hairline in outrage. “Are you aware there are poor people in the world?”

“Obviously. My mother keeps a lot of staff at her house and no one would voluntarily work for my mother unless they were tight financially and needed the money.”

John gaped at him before turning around and putting the champagne bottle carefully back into the fridge door, sighing loudly. He got out some food and was cutting up some carrots when Sherlock appeared at his side, startling him into almost chopping off his finger.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Warn a guy.”

“That jumper is hideous,” Sherlock stated flatly, prodding a finger into the thick wool material at John's side.

“Stop poking me. I like this jumper. It's warm.”

Sherlock suddenly turned and seized John by the shoulders, leaning in to look at him carefully, eyes searching John's. “Let me burn it and I will buy you some new clothes.”

“No. I like my jumpers, now bugger off. It's obvious you're bored so go and read a book or find a pigeon that's not dead or something.”

Sherlock eyed him up and down slowly. “You'd be far more attractive if you wore better clothes.”

“Thanks for that, now go away.”

“What are you making?” Sherlock asked, not budging from John's side.

“Chicken pie with carrots and broccoli.”

Sherlock sharply inhaled. “I don't like broccoli. Do green beans instead.”

John sighed, his head dropping in exhaustion. “I thought you didn't want to eat.”

“Changed my mind.”

John gave out a long suffering sigh like he was an overworked, taken for granted housewife. His house sharing with Sherlock was still painfully new and it was taking John a while to adjust to Sherlock's changes of moods and ways of expressing himself. Sometimes it felt like John had an attention seeking toddler who wanted all eyes on him at all times and wasn't happy when John's attention was diverted elsewhere.

John continued cutting up the vegetables and Sherlock went back into the sitting room and it was only moments later when a slow, beautiful melody from the violin was heard and John smiled, finding himself enjoying the simple domesticity of making them dinner whilst Sherlock practically serenaded him from the other room.

“Maybe you could clear the dinner table so we won't die from a deadly disease you're currently experimenting with,” John suggested over the tune.

The violin stopped. “No.” Then the violin started back up again, this time the tune was a bit faster paced.

John sighed and carried on cutting the vegetables.

…

“Wake up, John. Wake up.”

John grumbled sleepily as he opened his eyes to see Sherlock looming over him in the darkness of his bedroom.

“What's going on? You OK?” John asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows and trying to pick out Sherlock's body in the darkness.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Notes:

Apologies for the delay between chapters. I got caught up in some very important stuff - coughcoughBreakingBadcoughcough. Will try and update at least once a week. Thank you so much for the kudos and comments!

Chapter Text

John rested his cheek in his hand, elbow perched on his desk, as he listened to another patient try and persuade him that their cold was going to kill them.

“It's lasted over a week and I read on the internet that if your snot is a certain colour then you most likely have a brain tumour. Is that true? Do I need to compare the colour with online pictures to work out if I'm going to die?”

John sighed and sat back on his chair. “You have a simple cold. Liquids and rest will help. You do not have a brain tumour.”

“How can you be sure? All you read about in the news is how these tumours aren't caught until it's too late and-”

The door slammed open and Sherlock strode in, dark grey coat billowing behind him. “John, I'm bored. Have you been to Jamaica? I think we should go.” Sherlock caught sight of the patient and pointed at her like he'd just caught his significant other cheating. “Who is this?”

John sighed, pinching between his nose. “This is a patient, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced her up and down. “You're dying.”

John frowned. “Wait, she is?”

The patient's eyes filled with horror and dread as she put her hand over her mouth in shock, her hand trembling.

“Technically, we all are. I just want her to leave and stop hassling you with NHS direct online self-diagnosis.”

She got up and stormed out, shaking her head in anger and slamming the door. Sherlock grabbed an antibacterial wipe and wiped down the chair she'd been on before sitting down himself.

“She was annoying. Now. Go home and pack so we can go to Jamaica. Or Canada. Canadians can be too friendly though and it annoys me. Do you know they sometimes pay for strangers coffee? Niceness with no motive shouldn't be encouraged in civilised countries. ”

John stared at him. “I'm working. I can't just go off to another country. And anyway, I know this is all because of tomorrow night and the family meal that you're desperate to avoid.”

“The meal that will make you mentally unstable and require extensive psychiatric help has nothing to do with it.”

The door reopened and the receptionist came in, looking excited. “Someone's parked a Bentley right outside the surgery. You have to come and look.”

John turned an accusing glare on Sherlock. “You drove here in a Bentley?”

“Yes. It's not mine. It's my brothers. I steal it when he's being annoying.”

John put his face in his hands and shook his head like he was trying to block out the rest of the world. He looked back up at Sherlock. “Go and move your damn car before it gets clamped or worse.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath. “John, if you don't want to go to Canada or Jamaica that's fine. How about St Tropez?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John's request.

John got up, grabbed Sherlock's arm and used all his strength to pull him to his feet. “I'm working, Sherlock. Text me next time you're bored and in a mood to cause trouble.”

He marched Sherlock down the small corridor and into the reception area where some people were gathered by the surgery window, looking out at the very large, black, expensive car parked haphazardly up the curb.

John stopped. “Jesus, that is a beautiful car.”

Sherlock shrugged out of John's grip, dusting himself off and straightening his coat. “I hate it. My brother normally has a driver for it because he thinks driving himself around makes him look common.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “Go home. I'll deal with you later.”

Sherlock gave him a disgruntled look before turning toward the reception area, eyeing up the various patients and rubbing his hands together with glee.

John saw what he was about to do before he started and shoved him toward the door. “No diagnosing my patients now bugger off in your ridiculous car.”

“I keep telling you, it's not mine. I have better taste.”

John gave him his best pissed off expression. Sherlock replied with a disarming smile that made John's stomach flip and his chest tighten uncomfortably. John shook his head, trying to remind himself that at least seventy percent of his p*rn collection was straight p*rn as he watched Sherlock stride out the door and get into the car.

“Beautiful,” the receptionist said as she came to stand next to him, both watching Sherlock through the surgery window as he drove off.

“The car?”

“No, him. How do you even know him? No offence, John, but you don't seem the type to be friends with people who drive Bentleys.”

“I sort of live with him in his house. It's a weird situation. Anyway, back to work. Send in the next patient.”

...

John swallowed nervously as he trailed along behind Sherlock, trying to keep his pace as they walked through the large stately home he'd first met Sherlock at when he worked as a waiter. Being there as a guest felt wrong and he suspected the evening wasn't going to be a pleasant one considering Sherlock had got ready like he was going into battle. John had been forced into a smart, expensive grey suit which made him feel even more uncomfortable but Sherlock had threatened him with murder if he tried to wear a jumper to his mother's house. However, it did help somewhat that Sherlock seemed to like him in the suit.

A member of the house staff opened a double set of doors for them at the end of a long, richly decorated hallway and they walked in to an oval shaped room with a large, expensive table in the middle, place settings already laid out with a variety of forks and knives. No one was sitting at the table yet though, instead they were standing around one end of the room, chatting loudly. He recognised Mycroft and his wife Anthea but the other two men and one woman were completely unknown to him. They turned to look at them as they entered.

“Sherlock,” the tall, polished woman said with a fond smile before it slid off her face when she looked at John. “And your friend. How... lovely. I'm Violet Holmes, Sherlock's mother. You must be John Watson.”

“Err, yes. Hi,” John said awkwardly, about to offer his hand for a handshake but Sherlock slapped it away with a quick shake of his head.

John then turned to look at the other two men who were watching them with interest from next to Mycroft. One was tall, broad and blond, where as the other was much shorter and had short black hair.

“What is he doing here?” Sherlock snapped, eyes on the blond man.

“Don't be rude. He may be your fiancé soon enough if everything works out and he was this side of the pond so it was good manners to invite him and his soon to be business partner,” Violet explained.

The blond man walked forward confidently, holding his hand out to John with a smirk soaked in self-superiority. “I'm Jackson Levinson.” John shook his hand, noting its strength and how tall the man was. “And I want you both to meet my business partner, if all goes well, Jim Moriarty.”

The shorter, dark haired man stepped forward but completely ignored John and instead went directly over to Sherlock, looking him up and down with obvious interest. “A real pleasure.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and eyed him for a moment. “Indeed.”

The room descended into silence and John watched as Jim and Sherlock looked at each other like they were both trying to read each other's life story in their expressions.

“Enough with all the introductions. Let's be seated, shall we?” Mycroft suggested, waving his hand toward the table all set and ready for them.

John felt helpless as he was seated between Mycroft and Sherlock's mother and watched as Sherlock fell into a chair with a huff between Jackson Levinson and Jim Moriarty. He didn't look happy about the seating plan and John silently agreed with that sentiment.

Waiters suddenly came into the room and placed the starter on each person's plate before leaving the room silently and as quickly as they'd come. They all started eating and John felt himself unable to relax as the only sounds in the room were of chewing and drinking.

“So, John, was is it you do?” Violet finally asked, taking her napkin and dabbing at the corner of the her mouth.

“I'm a doctor. I used to be in the army, Afghanistan to be exact, but I was injured in action.”

“Dreadful business over there,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “War is such a terrible thing.”

“Not for everyone,” Jackson said with a smirk as he stabbed some lettuce onto his fork and exchanged a knowing, smug expression with Jim.

John's eyes hardened at what he was insinuating and the hand clutching his fork tightened, causing his knuckles to go white.

“So, how's living with Sherlock?” Anthea asked, trying to draw his attention away from Jackson and Jim.

“I'm never bored and there's always lots of experiments going on. Overall, it's been good. We get on well most of the time. Except when he's waking me in the early hours or wandering around with a blow torch. Getting him to eat is an uphill battle but I can normally blackmail him into it after he's almost killed me several times a day with his experiments.” John gave a small smile over at Sherlock who met his eyes briefly before lowering them to his plate.

John felt like he was being analysed as everyone at the table looked at him with varying levels of keen interest on the faces. Like the idea that somebody got on with Sherlock was the biggest surprise in the last decade.

“You get on?” Violet asked, abandoning her plate of food in favour of watching John critically.

“Yeah, I suppose. It's still new though. We've only been living together a couple of weeks so we'll see. I enjoy his company and he plays the violin beautifully most of the time.” Violet nodded in response but her eyes were narrowed and her hand was playing with the necklace around her neck nervously.

“He plays the violin for you?” She asked carefully.

“Yeah. It's pretty much a mood ring,” John said with a friendly smile over at Sherlock who wouldn't meet his eyes. John's smile faltered slightly.

“Mood ring?” Mycroft asked, eyes hard and fixed on John.

“Well, I can tell his mood by what he plays. If it's all screeching and horrible then he's normally bored or angry for example.”

“And what kind of music does he play for you, John?” Mycroft asked, the question incredibly loaded with something that John couldn't discern.

John slid his eyes to Sherlock for guidance on whether it was safe to reply. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on his plate.

“Well, I don't really know the name of everything he plays. Although, he's been composing a bit so that's good I suppose,” John tried.

The room descended into uncomfortable silence and John pushed his knife and fork together on the plate. Mycroft sat back in his chair, looking like he'd just been told his closest friend had died. John didn't really understand the reaction or why it mattered what Sherlock played around the house.

Anthea cleared her throat. “So, you dating anyone at the moment? There a woman in your life?”

Again, John felt like he being asked questions carefully hidden inside innocent questions. “No, not really. There's a new doctor at work who seems quite nice.”

“A new doctor?” Sherlock suddenly asked, clearly annoyed that he'd missed something in John's life. Mycroft inhaled sharply through his teeth.

“Yeah. She seems... nice,” John replied with a friendly smile.

“Nice means dull,” Jim suddenly said, surprising everyone considering his silence so far in the dinner. He leant forward over the table toward John, his voice lowering into a loud stage whisper. “Also, you're gay.”

“You're surprisingly outspoken in unknown company,” Sherlock snapped, turning to his left and staring at Jim.

“Just pointing out the obvious,” Jim said with wide, innocent eyes.

“Err, I'm not actually, by the way. If anyone cares,” John said firmly. Sherlock just kept staring at Jim with narrowed eyes.

“You think it's appropriate to make comments on a strangers sexuality at the dinner table?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

Jim shovelled another mouthful of salad into his mouth, swallowed and grinned back at Sherlock. “Making deductions about strangers and causing shock is part of the appeal. I hear you're known quite well for that. But you clearly don't like anyone making observations about your little live in friend over there. He must be very special.”

Sherlock edged toward Jim threateningly. “Would you like me to deduce you?”

“Sherlock, I would love it,” Jim drawled, leaning forward into Sherlock's space with his eyes lighting up with expectation and excitement. Jim's playful gaze was in contrast to Sherlock's hard, but ever so slightly interested one as they stared at each other.

“None of this,” Violet said loudly, drawing attention, her voice wavering slightly. “Who's ready for the main course?”

The main course turned out to be something so fancy that John could barely pronounce it but he was pretty sure it was duck with some sort of glaze. There were quiet murmurs of conversation around the table, with Jim and Jackson obviously discussing business whilst Sherlock pushed his food around his plate in silence between them.

“How do you find working in a GP surgery?” Mycroft asked from where he sat to John's right.

“It's fine. Pays the bills.”

Mycroft pushed his fork and knife together on his empty plate and sat back, placing his napkin on the table, and gave John his full attention. “I can't imagine you earn that much on a GP salary.”

“Not a lot. Not compared to people here obviously but I make do.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look across the table and lowered his voice so only John could hear. “I will be very disappointed if I hear that you have been taking advantage of my brother in any way. I would hate for life to become very difficult for you but I will not stand idly by whilst some poor soldier tries to get money out of my brother who doesn't know any better. He may like you, for some unknown reason I can't fathom, but he will lose interest in you eventually. Mark my words. I just don't want things to turn ugly when he eventually throws you out with the rubbish one day. Sherlock owes you nothing and you will take nothing from him.”

John swallowed a bite of his food and got himself together before turning fully to face Mycroft. “I have never wanted money. You think I became an army doctor for the money? I've never cared about it and I doubt that will change. Your brother has been kind to me and I owe him a great deal which means that I respect him enough that I'd never take advantage of the situation by using him for money. Ever. Is that understood?” John bit out.

Mycroft's eyebrows had crept into his hair line as John talked and his lips pursed in displeasure. “I see. As long as we understand each other.”

“We do.”

Mycroft eyed him for a moment with a glimmer of begrudging respect.

John returned to his food and noticed Sherlock watching him across the table, eyebrow raised with the silent 'are you OK?' being asked and John gave him a reassuring smile. Sherlock gave him a warm, fond smile back and John felt his stomach tighten slightly and immediately averted his eyes down to his food, cutting up a vegetable carefully.

…

After dinner they all moved into one of the many sitting rooms where drinks were served. Sherlock was busy staring down at his drink, ignoring the conversations going on around him as they all sat on various chairs and sofas. He was sitting on his own sofa, far enough away from the others that he wouldn't be pulled into conversation.

The sofa cushion went down slightly as Jim sat down heavily next to him, causing Sherlock to adjust how he was sitting so they weren't touching. Jim turned his head and gave Sherlock a mischievous look.

“I've been eager to meet you. All these years, watching you from afar and now it looks like we may see a lot more of each other if you end marrying that loud American over there,” Jim said, voice lowered to a tone so no one could over hear them.

“Not your best friend then?” Sherlock asked, pouring himself another shot of whiskey into his glass.

“Business is business. He has a number of ventures going on that I want in on for a variety of reasons I won't bore you with because let's be honest, you don't care.” Jim shifted so his body was turned tightly toward Sherlock. “You're a bit like me you know. You seem to find the world dull and boring. It must be horrible realising that everyone you meet is so painfully ordinary that you constantly feel like the only human on earth with a brain.”

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“Oh Sherlock, I want to know everything about you,” Jim murmured slowly into his ear.

“And why would that be?”

“Because one day I have a feeling we'll be very important to one another.”

Sherlock shook his head and watched his drink swirl around in his glass. “How moving. Except for the small fact you have nothing that interests me.”

“Not yet, but I will,” Jim said with a small but manic smile on his face. “Just enjoy the ride, Sherlock. I understand why your family has picked Levinson but lets just say that over time, he may become a little less eligible, especially after I'm done with him. Those wedding bells may not ring.”

Sherlock frowned for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. Just create a business partnership. I don't like being obvious. This evening has been fun though.” Jim turned to face the room, lying back against the sofa cushions lazily.

A part of Sherlock thought he should warn Jackson about what Jim was alluding to but the other more persuasive part of him wanted to see how it was all going to play out. It wasn’t like he cared for one second about Jackson and what happened to him anyway. He looked around the room and his eyes found John, who looked to actually be holding his own against an interrogation by his brother and mother. The doctor never failed to surprise him and it brought a small smile to his face as he watched John gesture wildly as he tried to explain something to his mother who actually seemed interested in what John was saying.

“You shouldn't keep looking at him like that. People will talk,” Jim suddenly said from next to him, his voice a soft drone.

Sherlock abruptly stood and strode over to John, grabbed his arm and pulled him up from the chair he'd been sitting on. “I think it's time we go.” John shrugged out of his grip with a scolding look.

“It's still so early,” his mother said, looking at her watch on her thin wrist.

“John has work in the morning and will require sleep,” Sherlock argued, pointedly not meeting Mycroft's eyes.

Violet stood and gave John a polite smile that'd been mastered over the years. “May I have a word with my son for one moment?”

John shrugged and nodded as Sherlock walked to the end of the room, his mother in tow until they were far enough away no one could overhear them.

“He's an interesting, charming man,” Violet said, eyes fixed on Sherlock, watching him carefully. Her expression suddenly turned cold and her body language became vaguely threatening and intimidating, like she'd just become a different person in front of his eyes. “I am pleased you have a friend, regardless of your taste. But listen to me carefully young man, do not forget what you owe this family. John Watson will not be a problem, will he, Sherlock?” Her voice clipped and tone firm with warning. “Will he?”

Many people thought Mycroft got his hard, fear inducing personality from their late father but few knew that it was actually mostly from their mother. She never showed the outer world that severe edge to her personality and Sherlock himself hadn't seen it in years, but it was on full display now and Sherlock swallowed, feeling like he'd be reduced back to a small school boy who was being scolded by his mother.

“Of course not, Mother. He's a friend.”

She gave him a curt nod and she stood straight, bright smile covering her face like a mask had been put back on. “Well, I suppose I'd better let you boys get on home then.”

Sherlock looked over at John once and nodded. “Thank you for dinner,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his mother's cheek.

They said their goodbyes and left. Sherlock breathed a loud sigh once outside, feeling both relieved and on edge at the same time.

“You OK?” John asked, placing a warm, comforting hand on his upper arm. Sherlock shrugged it off like it burnt.

“Fine.”

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Notes:

Ahhh! Thank you so much for the comments & kudos. You're all lovely.

Chapter Text

It wasn't too long before their lives settled into some vague imitation of routine. It was never going to actually become a real routine due to Sherlock's random schedule and his ability to be unpredictable at all times. Still, John enjoyed his own personal routine of working five days a week at the GP Surgery and returning home to find Sherlock experimenting with something on the kitchen table. John would moan and groan about how unhygienic it was and Sherlock would pointedly ignore him whilst cutting up some human body part that John didn't want to think about.

Sometimes, when he was sitting on the sofa eating his dinner, Sherlock would sit down next to him, ignoring any personal space, and grumble loudly about whatever John was watching. John had discovered that nature documentaries were the only thing Sherlock would actually not interrupt. One evening, John had flicked onto a bee documentary that had captivated Sherlock so completely that he'd even accused John of breathing too loudly and interrupting the programme during a certain part. John enjoyed those moments where the simple domesticity made him smile, even if Sherlock was being an annoying dick.

It was a sunny Saturday morning and John was relaxing in the sitting room with some toast and his newspaper, pondering on current events when Sherlock stormed in, throwing his grey coat onto the sofa and revealing a navy suit with crisp, white shirt.

“That was tedious,” Sherlock snapped, flinging himself into his grey chair with a grumble.

John looked at his watch. 8am. “You were out early. Who were you annoying at that early hour?”

“Americans. They believe having a meeting at 7am is acceptable.”

John just frowned and lowered his newspaper slowly. He eyed Sherlock carefully as the man slouched in the chair sulking. “You're going to have to actually explain what you were doing if you want me to make all the supportive friend noises. I can't mind read and deduce like some people we know.”

Sherlock ruffled his curly, black hair with one hand and sighed dramatically. “I had a meeting with that stupid American and his lawyers. We are now engaged.”

John's eyes widened and he sat up straighter. “Congratulations?” John tried.

“Unnecessary.”

“Did he propose?” John asked, unsure what else to say.

“Propose? No, of course not. It's a business deal that we organised in an office. My family lawyers bullied his lawyers and then vice versa.”

“So, when will you actually get married?” John asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“As soon as everyone agrees on the prenuptial agreement. Could take years considering the way the lawyers were arguing earlier. Although the engagement party will be soon and most likely happening in Texas of all places,” Sherlock said, curving his mouth around 'Texas' with distaste.

John leant forward, eyes sympathetic. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. No one should be forced into a marriage.”

Sherlock just gave another small little huff and John could immediately see how Sherlock would have looked as a teenager. Temperamental, dramatic but with an edge of vulnerability that most people wouldn't notice due to his obnoxious attitude to the rest of the world.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly brightened. “All is not lost yet.”

John felt a sinking feeling settle in his stomach. “What's not lost?”

“The marriage. Jim Moriarty said something about Jackson. I'd disregarded it until now, assuming it was unimportant.”

“Jim? That guy at dinner?”

“Yes.” Sherlock inhaled sharply before shutting his eyes. “Don't talk to me. Mind palace.”

John gave a snort and decided to be extra loud when he got up and went into the kitchen to clear up. He liked to believe living with Sherlock had made him the expert in being passive aggressive.

It was two hours later when Sherlock opened his eyes and John placed a cup of tea dutifully next to him before settling into the chair opposite Sherlock.

“We're going out tonight,” Sherlock stated, taking the offered cup and sipping it thoughtfully as his other hand flicked over his phone quickly.

“I, err, can't. I have a date.”

Sherlock looked over at John like he'd just smelt something bad. “Cancel it. This is more important.”

“I'm not cancelling my date for you. She's a teacher and seems rather lovely.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment before shrugging and looking back down at his phone. “Fine. I'll stay in and experiment on your jumpers.”

“Don't even think about it,” John snapped.

“Where are you taking her?”

“Cinema,” John replied.

“How boring. I can get you onto the guest list of a charity fund raiser happening in Chelsea tonight. Free wine, entertainment and food all night. You'd have to wear a suit. The one you wore for my mother's meal would do.”

John eyed Sherlock suspiciously for a moment. “That's nice of you. Too nice. What's going on?”

“Nothing. The Holmes family always get a lot of tickets due to my mother's connections with the charity.”

“What's the charity?”

“Something to do with whales and cancer and homeless orphans.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “I don't know and it doesn't matter. It's a free five course dinner.”

John swallowed and nodded. “OK, well, yeah. That would be great. Thank you.”

Sherlock just gave a small hum, his eyes still fixed on his phone in his hand.

….

“The Annual Brain Tumour Trust Gala,” John read on a board outside the five star hotel in Chelsea as they walked up the large steps to the entrance. The place was buzzing with people in their evening wear as car after car pulled up to the front of the hotel, letting people out. John looked down at his suit and made a mental note to actually go somewhere one of these days where he didn't have to dress up like he was going to dinner with the Queen. Before Sherlock, there had barely been a reason to own a suit.

“This is... quite a first date,” Jeanette remarked, sounding impressed as they walked along the immaculately clean, shiny floor of the hotel foyer toward the ballroom area of the hotel where guests were being seated at tables inside.

“Well, thought it'd be more interesting than the cinema,” John remarked casually, like he was always at events like this. They got to the ballroom entrance where a tall man dressed in a dark navy suit was stood with a clipboard.

“John Watson and guest,” John said as he watched the man's eyes look down the page, flicking it over to look at another page underneath.

“You're not on the list,” he said sternly, holding the clipboard to his side.

“What? No, we should be,” John said, feeling slightly panicked.

“It's under Holmes and they're with me,” a deep voice John would know anywhere said from behind them. John whirled around to see Sherlock standing a few feet away dressed in a black suit and bow tie that made John's throat go dry for a moment. He mentally scolded himself as he turned to Jeanette with a smile, trying to keep his focus on her.

“Mr Holmes,” the man on the door suddenly said, standing up straight and giving him a winning smile. “A pleasure. I'll show you and your guests to your table.”

They were led into the main ballroom and started weaving their way between tables. John noticed a number of people whispering and outwardly staring at Sherlock as he passed by their tables. He knew that Sherlock was good looking but the attention he was receiving was clearly down to something else.

“What are you doing here?” John hissed as they were seated at a round table near a stage area where a band was playing music. The table had eight chairs around it but the other five people at their table hadn't arrived yet.

“Fund raising. You know how I feel about the African elephant and its plight against diabetes,” Sherlock said dryly as he plucked a wine glass from the table and held it out to the side as a waiter appeared almost instantly to fill it.

“Nothing in that sentence made any sense considering it's a brain tumour charity.”

“Not important.”

John looked around, noticing that people were watching them, or more accurately, watching Sherlock. “People seem surprised you're here.”

“Probably because I never bother with these events. Ever.”

“And you're making an exception now because?”

“Elephants and diabetes, John. Did you not hear me?” Sherlock said with a small smirk that infuriated John no end, whilst also making him slightly sexually frustrated.

John let out a small sigh before turning to Jeanette and striking up conversation, trying his best to ignore Sherlock who was sitting on his other side. The real reason Sherlock was there became apparent when the other people sitting on their table turned up and John looked up to see Jim Moriarty striding around the table with something close to manic joy across his face when he looked at Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Jim sat down in the seat right next to Sherlock and grinned. “And you brought your boyfriend and his date with you. How... modern.”

“Boyfriend?” Jeanette asked, sounding nervous.

“He's joking,” John hastily explained. “Sherlock's engaged actually.”

“Yes, I got an e-mail this morning. Congratulations,” Jim cut in, voice steady and dark eyes devious.

Sherlock took a swig of wine and gave Jim a hard glance. “I'm sure you'll be on the guest list.”

“I'm sure I will be too, Sherlock,” Jim said with an edge to his voice that made John instantly wary and nervous. “Anyway, I need to do the rounds at this event as I'm on the board for the charity. Don't go anywhere, Sherlock.”

Jim was out of his chair quickly before Sherlock could even formulate a reply.

Sherlock threw back a glass of wine and rolled his eyes in annoyance when a tall, beautiful blonde woman in a light pink evening gown sat down next to him, immediately taking the seat that Jim had vacated. John thought Sherlock must be the only male alive who would act inconvenienced when a woman that stunning gave him attention.

“Go away,” Sherlock snapped as she opened her mouth to say something.

Her mouth snapped shut and her beautiful face contorted into annoyance, clearly not used to being shot down so quickly. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Catherine Merlow. My father owns this hotel.”

Sherlock sighed and gave her a brief glance. “I'm Sherlock, this is John and that boring woman next to him is some teacher. You've come over here because you somehow believe that your amount of ideal body fat and large breasts would make me somehow interested in you romantically. Your breasts are obviously fake and I have no need for a trophy wife who is addicted to prescription medication. Now go away.”

John looked skyward as she got up and strode away on her high heels. John gave Sherlock his best 'you're an asshole' look.

“Could you stop being such a dick for two minutes?”

Sherlock gave him an innocent expression before lifting his glass to his lips and finding Jim Moriarty across the room with his eyes. John sighed and turned back to Jeanette, apologising for Sherlock's behaviour.

…

“You know, Sherlock, I heard a funny old story about you the other day,” Jim said as he cut up his steak. They were in the middle of the event with a five course dinner being served. The other people at the table were in conversation, except for John and his date who were listening in.

“What story would that be?”

Jim chewed loudly and then swallowed his bite of food before sitting back in his chair. “Your drug problem. Turns out money and connections can pretty much cover up anything, even the drug habits of a Holmes boy.”

John looked up, eyes wide as he looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to deny it. Sherlock stared forward, eyes not fixing on anything at all. Jim, who clearly smelt blood and realised that it was a sensitive topic, pushed on.

“It took quite a bit of digging but considering you entered rehab four times between the ages of 17 and 20, there were a lot of reports to hide and you missed a couple. Cocaine. What a boring drug. I expected you to be into something far more interesting.” Jim gave a manic, unhinged smile before shooting a glance at John and lowering his voice into a loud whisper. “Oh sorry, was that meant to be a secret? Did your live in boy toy not know?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock bit out, face tight and agitated.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. We've all dabbled here or there. Although, not all of us ended up offering sexual favours to Detective Inspectors as a way of not getting arrested. Bit desperate but who am I to judge.”

Sherlock's mouth curved into an angry snarl and his eyes went hard. “Was there a part of shut up you don't understand?”

Jim put his hands up in a placatory way.

“Drugs?” John asked, sounding both shocked and still a little sceptical.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to look at him. “Why does it matter? It was along time ago. I'm clean.”

John nodded understandingly, smiling softly at him as he gave Sherlock's thigh a quick pat under the table, hoping it came off as reassuring rather than condescending. John then turned a look on Jim. “Are you finished making people uncomfortable?”

“I was just having a friendly conversation with the man, Johnny boy. Calm down.” Jim smiled, teeth showing, and turned to Sherlock. “He your guard dog or something?”

“Are you quite done?” Sherlock asked, voice carefully steady.

“Think so.” Jim pushed his chair back and threw his napkin down onto the table. He stood, towering over Sherlock and offered his hand. “Care to dance?”

John almost choked when Sherlock actually stood up, accepting the invitation.

They walked onto the dance floor where a number of other couples were already dancing to the live band playing. Sherlock turned and Jim immediately stepped into him, positioning his hands correctly and going into a slow dance. Sherlock had a good six inches on Jim and he liked the disparity.

Sherlock glanced over Jim's shoulder to look at John who was watching them with a frown and completely oblivious to his date, who didn't look at all happy at the amount of attention John was giving him. Sherlock was thrilled however.

“You like him,” Jim remarked, following Sherlock's gaze to where John was watching them, jaw tight. “You could have him you know. Not marry him obviously, but share his bed.”

“I'm not here to talk about John,” Sherlock snapped, eyes looking down at Jim who was smirking knowingly up at him.

“No, you're here because you got engaged this morning and it's finally dawning on you that you're going to end up marrying a man you don't know or even like. And then, no doubt, what I said to you at the meal came up in your head and you did some digging, found out I'd be here tonight and voila! Here we are, dancing slowly and intimately in front of people who live for idle gossip and will no doubt make something of it.”

“I want to know. What you said, about Jackson, what did you mean?”

“Sherlock, part of the fun in life is the not knowing. Jackson Levinson is vaguely clever and has enough assets to make him a good man to partner up with. That's all. I won't go into details but at some point in the future things may change for him. It all actually works in your favour believe it or not. It's not like you want to marry him anyway.”

“By going into business with you he becomes even more eligible in my brothers eyes considering you want to merge. It doesn't make any sense.” Sherlock shook his head, hating that he was clearly missing something pivotal in Jim's plan.

“It will. Eventually, everything makes sense. I won't ruin the ending of all this for you. No one likes spoilers.” Jim just grinned and stopped dancing so they were stood still in the middle of the dance floor. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Jim leaned up and pressed a soft, chaste kiss on Sherlock's cheek before turning and striding away off the dance floor. Sherlock straightened his black dinner jacket and ignored the whispers and speculation coming from others around the dance floor who were looking at him.

….

John averted his eyes after Jim walked off the dance floor, leaving Sherlock standing there. He thought Sherlock would punch Jim or possibly murder him when he dared to kiss him but instead Sherlock hadn't moved. He'd allowed it and somewhere deep down, that made John uncomfortable.

“I thought you were supposed to be on a date with me, not him.”

John turned back around in his chair to face Jeanette, a carefully crafted smile on his face. “No, sorry, I was just watching them because I find Jim a bit dodgy, that's all. I don't want Sherlock to get hurt in any way.”

Jeanette raised an annoyed eyebrow. “All night you've barely taken your eyes off him.”

“That's not true,” John argued, thinking about the dinner they'd just had where admittedly he'd been a bit distracted by Sherlock and his conversation with Jim. “I'm just watching out for him.”

Jeanette threw her napkin on the table. “I can't compete with him, John. Look at him. He's rich and handsome, and even though he's an asshole, you seem to live and breathe on his every word.”

John shifted toward her. “This isn't about competing. I don't swing that way,” he tried but she replied with a scoff.

“I like you, I do, but I can't date someone who spends the whole night looking at another man the way you do. I'm just not that secure.”

John frowned. “Honestly, it's all fine. He's just a friend, that's all. I promise.” John hated how desperate he was starting to sound.

Jeanette shook her head sadly as she stood up, readying to leave, and grabbed her purse. “Sorry John, this just isn't going to work out.”

“Wait, sit down, look you've completely misread the situation.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I don't think I have. Maybe you just haven't caught up yet.” John stood up as she moved away from him, putting a hand out onto her arm. She froze and gave him a glare, shrugging his hand off. “No, John. I can't compete and it's not fair of you to think I can.”

John watched helplessly as she walked off toward the ballroom exit. John looked skyward and felt his fingers clench in his hands as he sat down dejectedly and looked around the empty table, the other guests off mingling and Sherlock no where to be seen. He pulled his wine glass toward him and stared at the liquid in thought.

He'd only been at the table alone for a few moments when a woman with curly blonde hair and wearing a cherry red gown sat down next to him, her diamond earrings and necklace glistening under the lights in the room.

“I'm Fiona. You came here here with Sherlock Holmes, didn't you?” She asked casually, leaning into his space and letting her well manicured hand curl around his thigh. John got a whiff of her rich perfume and caught his eyes glancing down at her low cut dress.

John nodded, adjusting his tie subconsciously and sitting up straight, enjoying the attention. “Yeah, I did. I'm John Watson.”

“John Watson huh?” She asked, moving her hand up his thigh a few inches and John swallowed. “And how do you know Sherlock Holmes?”

“I'm just a friend. I'm completely straight,” John said confidently, Jeanette's words still echoing around his head.

“Oh, I'm sure you are,” she said softly, her gaze deepening and John found his eyes drawn to her red lips. “Do you think you could introduce-”

“And who would you be?” A deep voice snapped from beside them, causing John to sit back quickly and glance up to see Sherlock looming over them with an irritated scowl. Sherlock put up his hand, halting any response “I don't care. Take your hands off him. Getting to me through him is pathetic.” He turned to look at John. “Let's go. I have everything I need from tonight.” Sherlock swivelled and walked away toward the exit, clearly expecting John to follow.

John coughed and stood up awkwardly, almost causing his chair to fall backwards as he hastily moved away from the table and caught up with Sherlock.

“She was gorgeous. Shame she was only after your money,” John muttered as he fell into step by Sherlock.

Sherlock made a small hmm noise. “I see things with the boring teacher didn't work out.”

“No, they didn't,” John said somewhat bitterly. They strode through the hotel foyer and out into the evening air. John saw Sherlock's Aston Martin waiting on the road, a valet attendant standing next to it with the keys ready.

“I'll drive, you've been drinking. I only had one glass,” John said sternly as they reached the car and he took the keys from the attendant.

Sherlock gave him a brief, inscrutable look and then nodded once, moving around to the passenger side. “Your mother henning is becoming tedious.”

John smiled over the roof of the car at him. “You secretly love it.”

John got in his side and heard a faint, mumbled “I suppose I do” from Sherlock just before he got into the passenger seat and threw John a thoughtful look that John chose not to read anything into.

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Notes:

Thank you so much for the comments/kudos!

Chapter Text

The weeks leading up to the engagement party in Texas were some of the most difficult weeks John had ever endured. And he'd been in a war. Sherlock would swing from temperamental teenager to stubborn five year old four or five times a day, rarely acting like his twenty five years. All the dramatics were because John couldn't come to Texas for the whole time Sherlock was there due to other doctors at the surgery already having annual leave booked off. John had explained the situation and apologised profusely. Sherlock had then sulked and started talking about not going at all. John stopped even trying to rationalise with him after that.

It was only thanks to Anthea that John was even going to the engagement party. Tickets across to Texas were expensive and getting one at short notice was enough to bankrupt the average person but Anthea has stepped in and given him a first class return ticket on a direct flight to and from Houston. She was apparently best friends with the owner of the airline and so it hadn't cost her a penny. John had refused at first but Anthea had insisted because she hoped John would encourage Sherlock's good behaviour at the party.

The day that Sherlock was due to go was a lesson in endless patience for John as Sherlock stomped around the house sighing dramatically and banging any doors he went through. John thought that if he ever had kids, he'd be pretty well prepared after suffering through Sherlock's behaviour. Just before Sherlock left, he turned to John one last time, eyes pleading, and offered to buy the NHS so John could go with him right at that moment. John just shook his head and Sherlock walked out, slamming the front door behind him. John knew Sherlock wasn't really angry at him but it was an outlet for the anger Sherlock was starting to feel over getting married to a stranger.

The proceeding days were followed by endless texting. John found himself disliking being in the house alone and not having a crazy rich genius experimenting with human hair on the kitchen counter whilst John tried to make a dinner free from contamination. John found that thought incredibly worrying.

...

The tea here is atrocious. SH.

Come and make me tea. SH.

Jackson has given me some expensive gun as an engagement gift. I may shoot him. SH.

You're going to be deported before I even get there, aren't you? JW

Mycroft's told me off for aiming my new gun at Jackson and asking him to run so I can use him as target practice. SH

Texas is hot and I hate it. SH.

I'm wearing a Stetson. SH

You pulling it off? JW

Of course. I pull everything off. SH

Your modesty is astounding. JW

I know. SH

Send me a picture? JW

You wouldn't be able to handle it. SH

Apparently I deeply offended the Americans earlier according to Lord of the Doughnuts aka my brother. SH

What did you say? JW

I said that their accents hurt my ears, their religious beliefs are illogical and the way they pronounce aluminium is ridiculous and we should have never allowed them independence. SH

You're definitely going to end up being deported. JW

Please stop texting Sherlock during dinner. MH

How did you get my number? And he's the one texting me by the way. JW

Then stop replying to him. MH

Mycroft is strutting around the place like an overly confident peaco*ck because for the first time in his life there are people larger than him in the room. SH

Your brother isn't even that big. JW

He's huge. SH

John. Something bad has happened and I'm dying. SH

Manipulating me into coming to Texas earlier than I'd planned by pretending you're dying is low. JW

If you would just come over now, I wouldn't need to manipulate you. SH

I'll be there tomorrow. JW

Bring tea. SH
.

The day of the engagement party arrived and to Sherlock's annoyance it was going to be an all day and evening event at Jackson Levinson's family ranch and estate which was sprawled across many acres and surrounded by a lot of land they owned and used for various events. They had planned a large garden party outside during the day on their landscaped gardens and terrace before moving indoors for a meal once the sun had set. Sherlock knew the whole thing was just another excuse for all the guests to network and forge business deals and no one really cared that much about their engagement. His mother, brother and Anthea were all in attendance and John was going to arrive early afternoon which was the one and only thing stopping him from grabbing a car and escaping.

It was just after midday and a lunch buffet with canapés had been arranged along a large white table on the patio and deck that overlooked the big pool area at the back of the main house.

Sherlock wanted to physically run into a wall several times as he stood next to Jackson and listened to another elderly relative of Jackon's give their wisdom and insight into life and what makes a good marriage.

“I'm assuming you'll have a deeply Christian ceremony. It's important that God is the main focus of any marriage. Is Jesus an important part of your life, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared at her for a beat, trying to weigh up if she was serious before replying. “No.”

The woman put a wrinkled hand over her heart. “I'll pray for you.”

“Please do. I doubt it'll do anything considering you must have spent half your life praying that your husband stop cheating and he never did.” Sherlock took an sip of his drink, innocence across his expression.

Jackson sighed and dropped his head next to him like he was exhausted as he watched his relative stutter in anger and walk off.

“We've been through this. Please just pretend you believe in God. It's bad enough to these people I'm marrying a man.”

Sherlock gave a stubborn glare. “She was being idiotic.”

“She was just saying what she believed.”

“Which happened to be idiotic. Honestly, how do you even put up with having these people as family?”

Jackson shook his head in disbelief and Sherlock turned, leaving Jackson to mentally recount how much money he was set to gain by marrying Sherlock as reassurance.

Sherlock walked over to where the long table was set up with food. “How shocking to find you by the buffet, Mycroft. I fear you'll need two seats on the flight back.”

Mycroft swallowed what was in his mouth and put his plate down on a nearby table. “Still offending all of Jackon's family?”

Sherlock looked around loftily. “It's the only mildly entertaining pastime at this tedious event.”

Mycroft looked at something over Sherlock's shoulder and gave a dry smile. “I think you'll have something more entertaining now. At least it'll keep you out of trouble I hope.”

Sherlock turned around to see John looking incredibly uncomfortable as he moved through all the guests, clearly looking for someone he recognised. None of the guests gave him so much as a glance as he politely asked to move past people. He was wearing his only pair of suit trousers with a smart blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up due to the hot weather. Sherlock gave a large smile as he made a beeline through all the various people, making his way over to John and quickly dropping his expression into one of snobby disinterest when he reached him.

“Oh, so you made it then,” Sherlock remarked in a bored tone.

John gave him a knowing, warm smile. “Pleased to see you too.” Sherlock gave him a small smile and noticed that people around them were now glancing over at them, clearly deeming John a person of significant interest now it was clear he was Sherlock's friend.

“I'm surprised you survived without me. Did you use a picture of me for company back home?” Sherlock teased.

“I used a picture of you to throw darts at a few times and wore all the jumpers you insult me for.” John gave him a smile and looked around. “It's bloody hot here, isn't it? Afghanistan was really hot too, but this is a different type of heat I think.”

Two women, who were only a few feet away clearly listening in, approached them, eyeing up John. “Did you say Afghanistan?”

John stood upright, almost to attention, and smiled. “Yes. I served over there as a doctor. I'm John by the way.”

“Oh my goodness, thank you so much for your service to your country and ours,” one of the women said, Texan accent thick. “I'll introduce you to a good friend of mine who is recently back from Afghanistan. You'd both have a lot in common, come with me.” John threw a helpless glance at Sherlock as he was led away into the fray of people.

Sherlock's jaw clenched in irritation at having John with him for less than a minute before someone got their hands on him. He should have foreseen that people would see John with him and immediately assume he was some wealthy business man who also happened to be a war hero. He could tell he was going to spend the rest of the day trying to free John from the clutches of men and women who had decided having 'Watson' as a surname was their life goal.

Sherlock watched as John was introduced to a large group of tall, broad men, obviously military, who all shook his hand with a respectful nod. They all towered over him but John didn't seem to be at all affected by it as he quipped something Sherlock couldn't make out and the group burst into loud laughter, drawing the attention of people around them.

“Interesting fellow, your friend,” Mycroft commented as he came to stand by Sherlock, both of their attention directed to where John was busy making friends and one of the women had placed her hand on his arm, standing close to him. “Let him have a little fun, Sherlock.”

“He's supposed to be here for me.”

“You're sounding possessive. Be careful in case our mother overhears and has him assassinated at dawn.”

Anthea joined them, sipping at a co*cktail and dressed in a blue summer dress. She looked at Mycroft critically, having only come in at the last part of their conversation. “Please tell me you're not having someone shot at Sherlock's engagement party.”

“Of course not, darling, but it would be a shame not to make the most of America's loose gun laws.”

“You wouldn't allow me to shoot Jackson,” Sherlock commented dryly, his eyes still on where John was chatting away comfortably with the group.

“Wait until after the wedding,” Mycroft deadpanned as Anthea snorted and a man near by, clearly not identifying the joking nature of the conversation, shot them an outraged glare.

“I didn't realise John had arrived,” Anthea remarked, following Sherlock's gaze.

“Yes, he's already been whisked away by women who believe he's a rich military doctor,” Mycroft observed.

Anthea laughed and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “Cheer up. They won't give him any attention when they realise his net worth is about £7.65.”

…

“Have you seen John?” Sherlock asked Anthea as he looked around the large covered patio area and down to where the pool was glistening under the hot sun.

“Not recently. Why?”

Sherlock stalked off, moving his way around people and the circular tables that had been brought out for the event. He went around the side of the house, pushing his way past some of the bushes and took a small path down to where there was a tennis court surrounded by thick trees. He got to the court and looked around as he considered where John could possibly be hiding and was about to turn back to the house when something caught his eye. He looked across the tennis court to a small seating area and felt his jaw clench when he saw John with a woman in his lap, kissing her deeply.

The emotion that flared up through Sherlock's body was incredibly new and a small part of him found that exciting considering he was in his mid-twenties and not a lot was new or interesting any more. It was definitely intriguing and the feeling was clearly a reaction to the visual stimuli in front of him. He found himself wanting to detach himself from the emotion so he could analyse the reactions it was causing within him and maybe even find an appropriate label for it. But unfortunately the feeling burnt through him too strongly and he was unable to dismiss it or analyse it objectively, even though he deeply wanted to. He supposed it was something like jealousy as he watched John's hand trail down the woman's back slowly as they continued to kiss.

Sherlock turned and walked slowly back to the house, mind a buzz with different thought patterns and feelings that were completely unknown to him and made him on edge. If he simplified it, it came down to one thing. He didn't like seeing John with that woman. Or any woman. But especially the one currently in his lap. He felt a stab of betrayal that he'd waited all week for John to come to Texas but the second he'd arrived he'd followed his baser urges instead of being with Sherlock. It made him angry.

Guests turned to look at him as he stormed through the party, grabbing a just opened full bottle of champagne on the way, and went inside the house, heading straight to a guest room and slamming the door behind him. He strode up and down the room a few times before bringing the bottle to his lips and swallowing as much as he could. His hands shook slightly and most of the champagne spilled down his chin and onto his expensive purple shirt. He barely registered the door to his room opening and shutting.

“What's happened?” Mycroft asked, mouth curved into a disapproving frown as he edged toward Sherlock slowly.

“f*ck off,” Sherlock snapped, putting the bottle down onto the bedside table with a thump.

“I am assuming it has something to do with John. You went looking for him and then returned looking like someone had just ruined your favourite experiment.”

Sherlock glared at him as he sat down on the edge of his bed. “Leave me be.”

Mycroft approached Sherlock, looming over where he sat on the bed. “Sentiment, Sherlock. I'm disappointed in you. You should know better. Put aside whatever you're feeling right now and return to your engagement party. I had hoped bringing John here would be a positive influence considering he's your one and only friend.”

“I'm surprised you wanted him here considering your hatred toward him.”

“You're less likely to ruin the Holmes reputation with him around keeping you in check. You've assured me he is just a friend and so it seemed appropriate to have him here. Come back to the party soon or I will come back and drag you downstairs myself.”

Mycroft turned and left the room, leaving the door wide open pointedly.

Sherlock took another long swig of his champagne as the image of John with a lap full of random woman flashed up in his mind. He didn't know why it bothered him so much and made him so very angry. John was free to do as he pleased with women and men. However, it still didn't stop the burn of irritation that swept up Sherlock's body as he remembered what he'd seen. He knew that this was one of the many reasons he'd remained friend free his whole life, because alone never made him feel anything. Feeling nothing was better than feeling how he was feeling then.

He rallied himself together, hearing Mycroft's words about sentiment ringing in his head, and stood up from the bed.

…

“You've been avoiding me,” John commented as he found Sherlock sitting on a chair by the pool side. The speeches had just finished, many from various people complimenting the happy couple and now it was almost sunset and everyone had gone inside to continue the festivities.

“Why would I do that? You're hardly important.”

John felt a sting of hurt. “Considering how much you wanted me here, you did a fine job of avoiding me half the afternoon.”

Sherlock stared at the bright blue water of the pool that was lit up with lights. “Surprised you noticed.”

John let out a dry, wry laugh and sat next to Sherlock on a chair. “Now we're getting somewhere. You don't like that I spent some of the afternoon with Lydia. Look, I enjoyed being with her considering how she came to me and gave me attention. It was flattering. It's an uphill battle trying to get anyone to even notice me half the time, especially with you and your cheekbones and eyes and overall exotic handsomeness around now. I'm sorry that I came all the way here to be with you and instead buggered off to be with a woman like a bad friend. That wasn't OK. And trust me, no woman here is going to look at me twice again thanks to Anthea casually mentioning how little I'm worth. She is definitely off my Christmas card list.”

Sherlock's lips curved into a pleased smile and nodded, accepting John's apology.

John gave him a hopeful smile. “So, can I see you in a cowboy hat now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes like John was the most tedious human being on Earth. “I hate those hats.”

John frowned. “I thought you said you pulled it off.”

“It ruins my hair.”

“Oh god, not your hair,” John said with mock outrage, hand over his heart and a grin on his face. Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair and started strolling toward the house, John falling into step next to him.

“So, I'm pretty sure I overheard your brother discussing plans to take down some country's government earlier. Should I be worried?” John asked.

“Probably a country no one cares about.”

“Oh, that's OK then,” John muttered sarcastically as they walked up to the large patio area that had been buzzing with people before but now that everyone had moved inside it was empty. John noticed a large hat discarded on a table. “Stetson, brilliant. Put it on.” John grabbed the hat and wiggled it in front of Sherlock.

“John, you're a child.”

John laughed and handed over the hat expectantly. Sherlock gave him a cold look before sighing and putting it on. John rocked back on his heels and laughed.

“You look good.”

Sherlock found another hat a few tables away and handed it to John with a quirk of his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“It's bigger than me.” John held it in front of him for a moment, looking at it critically, before putting it on.

“That's not hard. You're tiny.”

“Sod off. I'm big where it counts,” John said with a wink and Sherlock averted his eyes at the flirting they were engaged in. John swallowed awkwardly as he adjusted the hat's rim slightly, trying to think of something to alleviate the awkwardness that had descended on them.

John cleared his throat. “Come here, I'll take a picture of us both and send it to Mrs Hudson. She'll love it.”

Sherlock looked like he was going to object but then John held his arm out and Sherlock moved to stand next to him without a second's hesitation. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's small waist, feeling the expensive suit jacket Sherlock was wearing under his fingertips. Sherlock put his arm along John's shoulders awkwardly. John tightened his grip on Sherlock, afraid he'd pull away before they could get a picture. He held up his phone, finger over the shutter button.

“Smile.”

“No,” Sherlock said as John clicked the shutter button on the screen several times in quick succession.

Sherlock stepped away and John let his hand drop with a sense of loss. He peered down at the picture on his phone. “Yeah, I'm going to blow this picture up and hang it in the sitting room I think.”

“I'd shoot you before you got the chance,” Sherlock remarked and pulled the hat off and flung it away quickly, ruffling his hair as he tried to get it back to its ideal curliness.

John eyed Sherlock for a moment. “I'm sorry again. About today.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock replied, carefully avoiding John's eyes.

“OK, well, I think it's time we go inside, avoid everyone and get a cup of tea.”

“After that I'll show you my new gun and we can use several of their priceless antiques as shooting practice.”

“Sounds like a plan,” John said as they walked up some steps and into the main house. He followed Sherlock to the kitchen where they spent most of the evening drinking tea together and ignoring any hints by Violet and Mycroft that they try and socialise with guests. John was more than happy with just Sherlock for company and he got the impression Sherlock felt the same way about him.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Notes:

I'm so, so sorry for the delay in updating. I'm currently traveling around Australia and so there hasn't been much time to write/post. Enjoy!

Chapter Text

“Most normal people spend their Saturday nights out and about at bars and pubs meeting people,” John commented as he looked down to where his gloved hands were holding a human foot steady as Sherlock sat at the table, taking a scalpel to it.

“Sounds dull.” Sherlock made a quick note of something on the paper pad next to him.

“You say dull, I say preferable to experimenting on a deceased human's foot.”

Sherlock made a small snorting noise and wrote something else down on his pad. The phone next to him began ringing and Sherlock pulled off one of his surgical gloves and flicked his finger across the screen, answering. “Sherlock Holmes.” …. “It astounds me Lestrade that you have an entire police force that is so entirely incompetent. Where is the body? Already in the morgue I presume?”.... “St Barts. I'll meet you there.” Sherlock hung up the phone call and stood up.

“Put the foot back into the container, John. I need to go and do the police's job because they're all idiots.”

“Wait, what?” John said in confusion as he carefully placed the foot into a plastic tub and sealed it shut.

“There's a case, John,” Sherlock said excitedly, pulling off his other glove and throwing it across the room.

“A case?” John said with a confused frown.

“A case. There was a murder but the trail has run cold. If they'd let me onto their crime scenes everything would be easier. The body had already been post-mortemed. Grab your coat, a doctor could be useful.”

“I'm really lost, Sherlock.”

“When are you not. Just put on your coat and come with me,” Sherlock ordered as he pulled on his own long coat.

John pulled off his gloves, throwing them in the bin, and grabbed his coat, noticing that Sherlock was buzzing with excitement like a puppy. They made their way outside and got into Sherlock's Aston Martin. Sherlock drove quickly through the London streets which were fairly busy for a weekend evening and pulled up to the kerb by St Barts hospital, leaving it parked on a double yellow.

“I did some of my medical training here,” John commented as he got out of the car and followed Sherlock into the hospital. It was clear Sherlock came here often considering he knew his way around the beige hallways well.

He pushed open a double set of doors that led into a science lab of some sort. “Molly.”

A girl in a lab coat with brown hair pulled into a high ponytail looked up from where she was perched on a stool, reading a file. Her eyes lit up on seeing Sherlock and she pushed a bit of hair behind her ear, giving him a shy, flirtatious smile. “Sherlock. I wasn't expecting you. Did you not find the foot helpful to your experiment?”

“The foot was adequate but that's not why I'm here. You recently had a murder victim come through. I want to see the body. Lestrade will be here any moment to confirm and we can head down to the morgue. This is John by the way.” Sherlock walked around one of the large work desks and peered down through a microscope with interest.

Molly dragged her eyes from Sherlock like it was a monumental task, and John knew what that was like, to give him a smile. “I've heard a lot about you.”

John frowned. “Really? Sherlock hasn't really mentioned you much. Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

She waved him off. “I know what Sherlock's like.”

“You must be the person that provides Sherlock with all the body parts that clutter up our dinner table.”

“Afraid so. You're both looking tanned. Well, Sherlock is looking slightly less pale than normal.”

“We got back from Texas a few days ago. Engagement party for Sherlock.”

Molly looked down and nodded, looking sad at the prospect of Sherlock's marriage. John gave her a small smile and wondered it he should create an 'Unhappy with an unattainable rich genius marrying someone else' club.

The doors opened and a man with greyish, silver hair walked in, eyes fixing on Sherlock. “There you are. Come on, I need your input. Molly, if you could get the body we need?”

She nodded and they were walking out the room when Lestrade suddenly stopped. “Who's this?” Lestrade asked, co*cking his head in John's direction.

“John Watson,” John said, stepping forward and giving him a brief handshake.

Lestrade gave a smug, knowing smile. “You're John. Ok, good. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Let's go.”

John shook his head in bewilderment that some stranger seemed to know who he was by name alone and was perfectly OK with him being part of a murder investigation.

They all left the lab quickly, John tailing behind with a sense of curiosity and excitement which seemed to stem from Sherlock's obvious pleasure in the prospect of a murder victim.

Molly unzipped the black body bag and pulled it away so Sherlock could take a look.

“Name is Martin Longfull,” Lestrade explained, “found in a river naked and with marks on his body. Strangled to death but we have nothing to go on suspect wise. His wife is grieving heavily and his friends all have alibis.”

Lestrade stood back as Sherlock looked closely down at the body and then snatched the file Lestrade had in his hand and went through the photos one by one.

“Mind me asking why you're discussing a murder investigation with Sherlock?” John asked Lestrade quietly.

“He helps. Only very rarely though. Mycroft, his brother, has made it clear that Sherlock not be seen on or near any crime scenes so I sometimes get him to look a file over afterwards.”

“But... Sherlock's not a trained professional. He's just good at deducing and being an arrogant know-it-all most of the time.”

Lestrade laughed and gave John a beaming smile. “Oh, I like you. You live with Sherlock, yeah?” John nodded. “Brave man. I think I would have smothered him with a pillow by now.”

“I have been tempted.”

“Give me a call if you ever go through with it and I can help cover it up for you.” John gave a loud laugh which caused Sherlock to tut and look over at them.

“Can you two stop chatting away like teenage girls over there? I'm trying to concentrate,” Sherlock snapped at them, eyes hard. He went back to the file and John rolled his eyes at Lestrade with a smile.

It was only a few minutes of Sherlock examining the body and looking at the file that he nodded and turned to Lestrade. “Asphyxiation is obvious. Marks on wrists suggest handcuff usage at some stage so he may have been restrained whilst he was strangled to death. John, come and take a look.”

John raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, asking for silent permission which Lestrade gave him with a brief nod of the head. He looked over the body, only seeing the marks that Sherlock had pointed out and were already documented in the file. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Don't just look at the body. Think of the motive and actions leading to the death.”

John stood up straight, eyes narrowed. “You already know who's done it.”

“Of course but I want to see if you're any cleverer than the average police man.”

Lestrade gave a small huff and folded his arms over his chest. “If you know the suspect, then tell me and stop wasting time. Give me a name.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The marks around his neck are from the hands which caused the asphyxiation. Obvious. But there's another set of cleaner, duller marks around the neck too. The skin is rough and dry which suggests something permanent was wrapped around his neck. A collar. He wasn't murdered, he was just accidentally killed during sex with his dominant wife who most likely doesn't have an iron clad alibi and wanted to try out her asphyxiation kink. The collar marks look too permanent for it to be an affair where he only wore the collar occasionally which means long term and so it must be the wife. You said she's grieving heavily. Probably with guilt. You may want to get a warrant and search her premises for sex toys and evidence of that lifestyle. One of these days, I want a proper serial killer. This is boring.”

John gaped over at Sherlock. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock beamed at him, eyes lit up with pride. Lestrade noted the look he was giving John curiously before giving a nod to Molly to zip the bag back up.

“Right. I'll see you boys later. Got a wife to question. I'll call if you if we don't get any evidence from the wife.”

Lestrade strode out the room as Sherlock's phone gave a low buzz noise.

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and read the text. His jaw tightened and his eyes lost all the excitement they'd had in them.

“What's wrong?” John asked as Sherlock stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

“Wedding date has been decided.”

“Oh?” John said, voice a bit too high to be casual interest. “When?”

“A month.”

John coughed, staring down at the floor of the morgue. “That's soon.”

Sherlock clutched his long dark coat around him and started striding across the room for an exit. John made to follow him but Sherlock turned to stop him. “Go home. I'll be there later.”

“Where you going? Do you want company?” John asked, watching Sherlock with worry.

“No.”

John watched helplessly as Sherlock walked out.

…

John was sitting in front of the TV, head dropping into his palm as he fought sleep, when Sherlock came back into the house. John blinked his eyes a few times and looked over at the clock which read 3.42am. John stretched his arms up and gave a yawn just as Sherlock walked into the sitting room. He stopped on seeing John and narrowed his eyes.

“You're not my mother, John. You don't have to wait up for me.”

“I, err, wasn't.”

Sherlock threw his coat down on his grey arm chair and walked around the small table to sit next to John on the sofa. They sat there together in silence, neither watching the TV that was playing quietly in the darkened room.

“I don't want to get married,” Sherlock admitted quietly, like a small child might whisper a secret.

John shifted slightly toward Sherlock as he switched the TV off with the remote.

“Do you really have to?”

“Yes. I've known since I was a child this would happen eventually. I thought Mycroft would leave me be until my thirties at least. But the arrogant asshole and my mother only care about how our family can get richer and more powerful as soon as possible.”

John nodded solemnly. “What if you said no?”

“I'd be cut off and realistically my brother has enough to threaten me with that I'm in a position where I can't refuse.”

“Surely you have some money of your own,” John enquired.

Sherlock gave a humourless smile. “I have a lot of money but most of it has been given to Mycroft for safe keeping. It was supposed to all be mine when I turned 18 but I was deemed unfit to get the bulk of my inheritance.”

“The drugs?”

“Yes. So most of my money and assets went into Mycroft's name until he decided I was responsible enough to deal with my own fortune.”

John frowned. “I don't get it. You've been clean for years. It should all be yours.”

Sherlock pinched between his eyebrows. “He uses it as leverage and so he has control over my spending. I give him the bill to any large expenses. It's all about power and control with my family and whilst Mycroft has my money, he can control me and meddle in my affairs which is his favourite hobby.”

John sat forward, outrage across his face. “Go to court. Get it all back.”

“No court would rule in my favour considering Mycroft's influence with judges. But it's not just about the money. There are a lot of other factors.”

Sherlock didn't expand on that and John decided not to push. Sherlock had already divulged more to John that he normally did and for that John was pleased.

…

John looked up as the receptionist knocked on his office door and poked her head around, looking tense. “There's a man in a suit here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment but he insisted.”

John frowned as the door opened wide and revealed Mycroft Holmes dressed in a navy pinstripe suit holding a long umbrella at his side. He moved past the receptionist and entered John's small room, shutting the door firmly behind him and sitting where his patients normally sat.

“To what do I owe this pleasure,” John droned, putting his elbow on the desk and his cheek in his hand as he looked over Mycroft with irritation.

“Do you greet everyone in your office this way?”

“Only people that have no reason to be here,” John said tiredly.

Mycroft gave him a weak smile and crossed his legs as he peered at John critically.

“As you are aware my brother will be married next month.”

“I'd heard,” John muttered.

“He has become somewhat fond of you and so I expect him to ask you to be best man. I have no issues with this if it keeps this wedding running smoothly. However, my brother has a... rocky history and I don't want any of that history to be repeated as a method of defiance over this wedding.”

“You think Sherlock's going to start doing drugs again to piss you off?”

“Yes. I think that right now he is vulnerable because he is being pushed into a situation he isn't comfortable with and so he will try and defy me.”

John nodded in mock thought. “Maybe if you weren't pushing him into some marriage he wouldn't be unhappy?”

“It is none of your concern. I am merely giving you a warning that Sherlock may relapse in an attempt to embarrass me.”

John let out a mocking laugh. “Yes, the worst thing about Sherlock relapsing would be the embarrassment it causes you, not that he's doing illegal drugs.”

Mycrofts eyes narrowed and John felt like he was having his mind read. “You care an awful lot for him.”

“He's my best friend.”

“Your only friend. No matter, I can't deny that you've had a vaguely positive effect on him,” Mycroft said carefully, picking at a bit of fluff on his knee absently, eyes away from John's. “Before you came along, he spent most of his time travelling to various locations around the world. Since your untimely arrival into his life, he spends more time at home in London which has pleased my mother. I suppose I can thank you for that.”

John had a suspicion he was being buttered up and he didn't like it. “OK.”

“This coming wedding will run much more smoothly if you're on board with it. It's an incredibly important event and the eyes of the elite will be on us. Perhaps I can deposit a meaningful amount of money into your account for your cooperation in this matter.”

“You're going to pay me to talk up how brilliant a wedding is? Even though it's all a ridiculous sham and Sherlock is being used as some kind of chess piece. You're completely ignoring what this will do to him. What if one day he meets someone and falls in love?”

Mycroft gave a small, cruel, knowing smile and leant forward. “John. You will never have him. The reason this situation is perfect for Sherlock is because he has no interest in a real relationship with anyone and he never will. The sooner you come to accept that, the sooner you can start realising that I can make life very lucrative for you. We could come to a number of arrangements considering your influence over him.”

John pinched between his eyes, feeling tired. “I don't care about money. I've never cared about it and you offering me money to pretend to support something I don't actually support is ridiculous. You may be able to manipulate Sherlock but you don't have any power over me or my actions. You can't buy me to be on your side.”

John could tell he was enraging Mycroft by the storm that was in the other man's eyes. He looked at John like he was planning his murder but underneath that there was a small spark of respect.

“You're very loyal.”

“Yes, I am. You're welcome to get out of my office now. I have a lot of patients waiting.”

Mycroft's face displayed his displeasure as he stood up stiffly, eyes hard. “You're wrong that I don't have power over you. Don't force me into proving it.”

With that Mycroft turned and left the room, the door falling shut with a click, leaving John alone. He took a few steadying breaths and ran a hand through his short hair.

“sh*t.”

…

Sherlock watched John like a hawk that evening. He moved around the kitchen and sitting room with a tightness hindering his movements as he fussed with the cushions and grumbled about the mess on the table like usual. He was wearing a rather fetching navy jumper that was obviously new. Sherlock wished John would expand his clothing to items outside of jumpers, although he was becoming ever so slightly fond of them and the way they made John look warm and cosy.

“Something happened today,” Sherlock observed from his place in his grey chair, legs crossed in his pyjamas.

John didn't stop moving from where he was unloading the dishwasher loudly. “Work. The usual.”

Sherlock stood up, tying his royal blue dressing gown around him haphazardly as he stalked into the kitchen, watching John intensely.

John froze and stood up, giving Sherlock a glare. “What is it?”

“Give me a moment, I'm going to deduce it.”

John sighed and leant back down to pull out the plates from the bottom of the dishwasher.

“My brother visited you.”

John's head fell forward and he stood, shoulders slumped. “How did you even-? Never mind. He just wanted me to keep an eye on you. That's all.”

“He thinks I'll relapse and turn up to my wedding day high on cocaine. I have considered it.”

John gave him a scolding look. “Don't you dare. You think you can just dabble for one day and that be it? Drug addiction doesn't work that way. You've been clean for years and it'll stay that way, understood?”

Sherlock smirked, pleasantly surprised. “Is that your army voice?”

John's cheeks flushed and Sherlock smiled, pleased. “It's my not-taking-any-sh*t-from-you voice.”

Sherlock put his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. You making dinner?”

John looked skyward. “I always make dinner. Thought I'd order in tonight.”

“I'll order us something,” Sherlock said, turning around and fishing around for his phone in his pocket, pulling it out and flicking to his contacts list.

“Great, I'll shower. Order me anything, you know what I like.”

Sherlock just nodded as he watched John disappear out the room. Sherlock heard the shower turn on in the bathroom closest to John's bedroom as he held the phone to his ear.

Thirty minutes later and their meal from a three star Michelin rated restaurant arrived. It had cost a small fortune but to Sherlock it felt like pocket money and a small part of him wanted to impress John.

“Smells nice. What do you order us?” John asked as he came back into the sitting room in his cotton pyjamas, hands towelling his hair vigorously.

“A small selections of things, mainly French cuisine,” Sherlock said from the sofa, waving his hand toward the coffee table where all the containers of food sat.

John sat down on the sofa next to him and Sherlock got a big whiff of his cheap shampoo as he started opening the containers.

The food was impeccably presented in each box and smelt delicious. He could see the moment John realised he hadn't ordered from the small takeaway down the road.

“Where is this from?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A restaurant, John.”

“Uh huh. Which restaurant would that be?”

“One in London. Obviously. You are asking the most stupid questions.”

John then found a name at the side of one of the cream coloured containers. “This is a hotel restaurant. The Dorchester. Oh god, you know what, I don't want to know how much this cost.”

Sherlock leant past John to grab a bit of venison. “No, you don't.”

John took a small bite of some lobster and made a noise so indecent that Sherlock actually jerked in his seat. He stared wide eyed as the doctor shut his eyes and moaned obscenely. Sherlock felt a twitch in his pyjama bottoms at the sight and made a mental note to take John to more restaurants that served incredible food.

“This is just... beyond good. Try this,” John said, holding out a small mouthful of lobster in his fingers. Sherlock leant forward and closed his mouth over it as John licked his lips, watching him as he chewed and swallowed. The room become heavy and thick with tension and Sherlock was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to shove John down on the sofa and push their lips together before buying him a yacht and naming it after him. The thought came and went in an instant but the imprint of it remained in his mind's eye. He flicked his pale eyes up and saw the heated look John was giving him. It was not unusual for him to be the object of sexual attraction but it was an entirely new concept to feel it himself. To have the urge to actually see someone else naked and lick and kiss them all over. Sherlock was brought out of his daze when he noticed John's lips part as he shifted forward, clearly going in for a kiss.

Sherlock moved away quickly and coughed a few times, breaking the tension and looking anywhere but at John. “I've had better,” Sherlock remarked casually, trying to avoid looking at John.

John slumped a bit next to him, clearly feeling the rejection, before rallying himself and joining the 'pretending that moment never happened' club. “You're insane. This is amazing.” John took another few bites and moaned again, eyes shutting in bliss and Sherlock was fairly certain he was witnessing John's org*sm face.

The twitch in Sherlock's loose pyjama bottoms become more and he felt himself growing hard at the spectacle John was putting on so he did what any self-respecting man would do and grabbed the closest cushion and placed it on his lap casually.

“Is it necessary to sound like you're having an org*sm?” Sherlock snapped, feeling irritable as he adjusted himself subtly.

John just gave an unaffected laugh, oblivious to the effect it was having on Sherlock, and settled back into the sofa, an open container next to him. “This food is almost good enough to get me there to be honest. Jesus.”

Sherlock settled back into the sofa, his body still tense and tight with unexpected arousal, and found their thighs touching as John got the remote and started flicking through TV channels.

“You'll be my best man.” Sherlock said it like it was fact and John paused in his channel flicking to glance at Sherlock.

“Of course,” John said with a fake smile. “Fancy a beer?”

Sherlock's mouth curled into disgust. “And what council estate do you think I grew up on?”

John rolled his eyes. “You are the biggest snob in the world.”

“No, that would be my mother.”

John gave a laugh and headed to the kitchen. “I recorded a documentary on bee keeping on Sky+ for you.”

Sherlock went for the remote, quickly finding the recording and pressing play. “You'd make a tolerable husband,” he said loudly toward the kitchen.

“And you'll make an awful one. Good thing Jackson won't have to put up with you.” John came back into the room and fell back down on to the sofa heavily, taking a swig of his beer before grabbing more food.

“Eat quietly,” Sherlock snapped as his eyes fixed eagerly on the screen where the documentary was starting. He shifted and slumped to the side against John, picking at the food on the plate in John's lap absently as he watched the programme, feeling completely content. Once the bee documentary was over, John watched some boring sitcom and Sherlock turned to rest his head against John's shoulder, finding his eyes shutting as tiredness overcame him.

“You're my favourite,” he mumbled sleepily as he pressed his body closer to John's and fell asleep.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Notes:

This is a friendly reminder that the rating will be going up very soon. :)
Again, sorry for the delay. I went from Australia to Asia to England (home) and to the USA in a 9 day period. Jetlag on top of jetlag delays writing ability I'm afraid.
Thank you to everyone who has read and given kudos/commented.

Chapter Text

John walked into the living room with a yawn. His white t-shirt was wrinkled and riding up from sleep, and his hair was sticking up at all angles as he shuffled toward the kitchen, not even glancing once at Sherlock. One of Sherlock's favourite things about John was the way he was in the mornings. He always looked like a puppy that had just woken up but was still sleepy and bleary eyed and couldn't function properly.

Sherlock smirked as John started cluttering around in the kitchen, oblivious to Sherlock and his guest in the living room.

“He's a tad on the short side,” Marvin, his tailor, commented loudly from where he was sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa, a book of the latest season's suits in front of them. Sherlock had known Marvin for years, ever since his teens, and the man was the reason he always had new suits in his walk in wardrobe, some nice scarves and a very large collection of dressing gowns. The man was over the top, dramatic and flamboyant but he was the best so Sherlock put up with him. He was the only human being that Sherlock would allow to dress him.

The unknown voice clearly woke John up further as he walked back into the room with a hesitant look on his face. “Oh, hi. Sorry, didn't see you there. I'm John.”

Marvin looked him up and down critically. “Very short. He won't help the symmetry of the wedding. Surely Mycroft would have been better. That man can pull off a suit and he'd look fabulous standing next to you.”

Sherlock's mouth curved into distaste. “No. It has to be John. And he's not that short.”

“I'm standing right here,” John said, frowning at them as they talked to each other.

“Sherlock, please darling. Look at him. Maybe we could put him on a phone book or something,” Marvin said silkily, gesturing to John with a wave of his hand.

“I'm sure you can find some suit that'll make him look taller,” Sherlock remarked, leaning over to look at the various suits in the book.

“Sweetheart, of course I can.” Marvin stood up and pulled a soft tape measure out of his pocket. Sherlock watched in amusem*nt as he walked over to John, knelt down and measured his inside leg before John even knew what was going on. Marvin stood back up and looked at the number on the tape measure with a tut. “No, no. So short.”

“I can actually hear you,” John snapped, looking to Sherlock for help. Sherlock just gazed back at him with a shrug.

Marvin then looked at John again, clearly finding fault. “I could work with this I think if you lost some weight. Just a little. Maybe we could start with a couple of kilograms and go from there?”

Sherlock sat back in amusem*nt, watching a red flush on John's face appear. “Excuse me? I'm fine, thanks,” John snapped.

“Just a little weight. The suit I have in mind for you will look so much better if you lost a little weight around the middle. Maybe cut out the beer? Yes? I think that would be OK. Can't do anything about your stature but the thinner you are, the taller you'll look.”

John's mouth hung open in offended outrage and he turned to Sherlock. “Are you kidding me?”

“It's his job, John. You don't have to lose weight. I think you're fine as you are.”

Marvin shot a glare at Sherlock. “Do you both want to look wrong and mismatched at the wedding? I'm not paid six figures a year to just throw you in any suit and be done with it.”

“So you're paid six figures to insult people in the morning before they've even had breakfast?” John snapped, hands going to his hips.

Marvin's eyes went to John's waistline pointedly. “Try skipping breakfast.” John's gaze became even angrier and Sherlock actually wondered if he was going to explode with rage. “I know we can't all have Sherlock's body type, however much we'd all like to, but it will be his wedding day after all so putting in a bit of effort for him would be nice.”

John stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips and a bemused expression on his face. “I'm going to go and make myself a big fatty full English breakfast I think,” John said before turning to Sherlock. “Come find me when you're done doing whatever it is you're doing.” John stomped out of the room, muttering darkly to himself. Marvin looked at Sherlock with an innocent expression.

“Was it something I said? He is adorable though. I can see why you like him. Military background as well. I'd let him order me around the bedroom if you know what I mean. Is he single?” Marvin asked, eyes fixed on where John had disappeared off to.

“After insulting him, I doubt you'd be number one on his list of people to date,” Sherlock said tightly.

“Shame. What a cutie pie. Right, which suit are you edging toward? You've gained a small amount of weight which is good as it gives us more to work with. Domestic bliss suits you.”

“Do we have to continue with this inane conversation?”

“No, darling. Pick a few suits and I'll get them made up.”

Sherlock picked out four for himself before highlighting a couple John would look decent in. He noted down John's measurements on a piece of paper for Marvin who didn't look too surprised that Sherlock knew them. He left shortly after with a flamboyant wave and several air kisses. Sherlock both loathed and adored him.

“Thank god he's gone,” John grumbled as he came back into the living room, a sausage sandwich on a plate. “He can bugger off with his weight loss suggestions. I look fine, right?”

“John, are you really asking me if you look fat like some insecure middle class housewife trying on lingerie?”

John pursed his lips and then shook his head. “No, fine. Whatever.”

Once John's focus was solely on his food, Sherlock let a fond smile cover his face as John ate his sandwich sulkily.

…

John came home from work feeling tired and weary and he was sure he smelled awful after being thrown up on. All he wanted to do was get in a warm shower, eat some leftovers and climb into bed. Living with Sherlock meant that the odds of those events happening were rather small.

He walked into the living room to find Sherlock sitting on the floor, knees up to his chin and his arms circling them as he looked around manically at the endless pieces of paper and files spread out across the floor leaving no space to walk on.

“What's going on?”

Sherlock rocked back and forth a couple of times, looking like he was losing his mind. “The merger. All the paperwork connected to Moriarty and Levinson. Every last thing and there's nothing here that shouldn't be. No suspicious revenue streams or hints that Moriarty is going to drive the stocks down. Nothing. It's all completely fine.” Sherlock spat out the last word with disgust. “There has to be something. Moriarty is planning to do something but there's no lead, no wrongdoings, nothing.” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in agitation.

John mentally resigned himself to not getting his shower any time soon. “Why is this such an issue all of a sudden?”

“I had to sign a new prenuptial agreement today because their companies are in the process of merging.” Sherlock grabbed a piece of paper and scrunched it up in his fist. “There has to be something. He said it'd happen before the wedding. But there's nothing here.”

John frowned. “You were hoping he'd do something to ruin the wedding?”

“He said he was going to. Or at least do something to Levinson but all he's done is make him so much richer. It doesn't many any sense.”

“I wouldn't even know what I'm looking at with all this financial data. Maybe you need someone who really knows their stuff to go over it.”

Sherlock snorted. “I know enough. And Mycroft has got the legal team looking over all the dealings anyway, as a precaution, in case Moriarty is waiting until after the wedding to strike and ruin Levinson, and by extension, us. Mycroft just thinks I'm trying to sabotage the wedding in any way possible which is partly true.”

John frowned. “But Mycroft is getting people to look over it? That suggests he is slightly suspicious himself.”

“He's just afraid of being embarrassed in case I actually am right and Moriarty is going to do something. He's covering his bases by getting his team to go over everything ten times.”

John sighed and edged his way across the room, tiptoeing between the pieces of paper on the floor and trying not to mess any of it up.

“You need sleep, come on.”

“Can't sleep, this is too important.”

John knelt down beside Sherlock and put a hand on his shoulder. “You'll be able to see things more clearly in the morning.”

“It's only seven PM.”

“So? You barely sleep as it is so any sleep is good.”

Sherlock tilted his head toward John and sniffed. “You need to shower.”

“I'm well aware, trust me.”

Sherlock reluctantly stood up. “Don't touch or move any of it,” Sherlock ordered as he walked down the hallway with John at his side. John went to walk into his bathroom but paused in the doorway when he noticed Sherlock disappear into John's bedroom.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Sleeping.” Sherlock said like it was obvious and John was more stupid than a brick.

“That's my room, bugger off.”

“My bed has more paperwork on it. You don't mind, do you? You won't be going to bed for hours anyway and then I'll be up again.”

John sighed and realised he was all out of energy. He wanted to point out that they had more spare bedrooms than they knew what to do with but Sherlock had already gone into his bedroom and John couldn't be bothered to put up a fuss.

After his shower, he walked into the dimly lit bedroom and tried to feel about for his pyjamas or any clothing he could find. The Sherlock shaped lump in his bed moved and pale eyes peered blearily over the top of the duvet at him. John finally found a clean pair of boxer shorts and turned around to drop the towel on the floor with his back to Sherlock. He heard a snort from the bed at him being modest but John didn't care. He really didn't want Sherlock to get an eyeful of his naked bod, especially after being told he needed to lose weight.

John spent the rest of the evening watching TV with some food and he really appreciated the quiet of the house. Sherlock tucked away in bed, his bed, meant no loud violin playing or immature antics or potentially world destroying experiments in the kitchen.

He headed to bed himself a few hours later and found Sherlock on his back, spread eagle with the covers twisted around his body as his mouth hung open, sound asleep.

John mumbled a few choice swear words before making his way to one of the guest bedrooms and climbing under the crisp, unused covers.

…

John woke up to the door of the guest room being thrown open, light shining in and hitting him in the face. He squinted and sat up tiredly, looking at the outline of Sherlock in the doorway.

“There you are,” Sherlock said, sounding miffed, as if John had been hiding from him on purpose.

“Yeah, well if some idiot didn't sleep in my bed, I wouldn't have had to sleep in here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes like John was being petty. “You could have pushed me to one side and slept in there.”

John ran a hand through his hair and sighed, thinking that his sexual frustration would reach critical limits if he'd had to share a bed with Sherlock right next to him. “Blokes don't do that.”

“Share beds?”

“Yeah. Especially in houses with several guest bedrooms available.”

Sherlock dismissed his argument with a wave of his hand and came into the bedroom, flopping face down onto the bed in his blue dressing gown. John shifted to the side so Sherlock's limbs didn't hit him.

“You alright?”

Sherlock moved onto his back, staring at the ceiling as John looked down at him from where he sat up against the headboard. “I'm thinking St Tropez. Or Cape Town. Thoughts?”

“Sounds good,” John replied. He had no clue what Sherlock was asking but he'd learnt to just agree unless it sounded illegal.

“Which one?”

“Either.”

“Are you being vague on purpose?” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“You're accusing me of being vague? Me?”

Sherlock huffed heavily, causing the curls over his forehead to move up and down. “St Tropez. I think it'll be nicer this time of year.”

“Right.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You're just agreeing with everything I say.”

John nodded. “Yep. Let me know when you want to let me into the conversation.”

“My stag night or weekend. I want to get away and you can come along I suppose. I am the centre of your universe after all.”

John snorted loudly. “I'm going to pretend you didn’t say that. And St Tropez sounds lovely.”

“Good. I'll pay for everything and we'll go a week on Thursday.”

John just nodded, feeling tired. “Great. Can I go back to sleep now?”

Sherlock looked at him like he was the biggest inconvenience alive and then rolled his eyes as he moved off the bed. “Fine. I have more work to do.”

John settled back down on the bed, curling up slightly and shutting his eyes. It was only three minutes later that loud screeching of the violin could be heard. John's eyes snapped open and he tried not to think of all the places he could hide Sherlock's dead body.

…

“This is gorgeous, don't you think, Sherlock?” Violet asked.

Sherlock stood next to her, shoulders slumped like a moody teenager being dragged to places he didn't want to be. They were standing in an expensive boutique, looking at table settings for the wedding reception.

“I don't care. Just pick something and be done with it,” Sherlock mumbled, fingers flying over his mobile phone screen.

“This is to be the social event of the year. Please take some interest in the proceedings.”

“You're marrying me off to a stranger. I'm afraid my enthusiasm has died.”

Violet gave a tut and turned to look across the small section of the shop they were in to John, who was busy making outraged faces at the prices of everything. “If you weren't going to cooperate, why bother bringing John along?”

“I wanted him to act as a buffer between you and me obviously.” Sherlock swung his head around to look at John who was holding a china teacup in his hands like it was the holy grail. “Maybe you'd have more luck getting his opinions on table settings.”

John came over to them with an easygoing smile. “I just found a teacup, not a set, one single teacup worth over a thousand pounds. The whole set including saucers, spoons and the tea pot was the price of a small car.”

Violet gave a forced, tolerant smile like she was pretending to be interested. “Yes, well. Tell me what you think of this place setting.”

John walked around the table and looked down at it. “It's nice.”

“Nice?” Violet repeated, sounding tired. “You're both useless.”

“I would have thought you rich people would have wedding planners for all this stuff,” John remarked as he looked down at a hand painted plate and widened his eyes at the price.

“My mother giving control to a third party over an event that's so important? Never,” Sherlock said as he ran his finger tips along a fork.

Violet gave Sherlock a hard, scolding look which she quickly realised he wasn't paying attention to. She watched in bemusem*nt as Sherlock's eyes followed John as the doctor wandered around the boutique they were in. John continued to pick up items and look at them with interest and Sherlock watched him, eyes soft with amusem*nt, fondness and something that made Violet's jaw tighten. She wondered if her son even knew how he was looking at John.

“Jesus Christ. Seven hundred quid for one embroidered napkin,” John said loudly with obvious shock. Sherlock strode over to him, standing close so their arms were touching and looked down to the napkins John was moaning about. Violet's eyes hardened and her hands clasped together in front of her as she observed them interacting. John tilted his head to look up at Sherlock as he was in the middle of saying something Violet couldn't make out. Then her heart stopped in her chest as Sherlock gave John a smile she'd never seen before. It was a boyish smile filled with affection and mirth that was all too foreign on her son's face. Just as Violet clenched her teeth together, wanting to go over and rip John away from him, Sherlock's hand came up and rested on the small of John's back over his coat. It was only for a moment as they moved to the next table filled with cutlery and plates but it was enough to send up warning bells.

Sherlock had never been happy. Not really. He hated being a child and he loathes all the 'friends' that were forced onto him because he was a Holmes and everyone wanted their child to be in Sherlock's inner circle. His teens were difficult and filled with teachers complaining about him and his constant experiments. And then early adulthood came and he discovered cocaine and Violet lost him for a couple of years. Following his recovery, his filled the empty void by travelling the world and spending too much money. It was like he was searching for something or hoping to find somewhere he was actually happy. And then some completely ordinary doctor back from military service made her son stop travelling and spend all his time in London. It didn't make sense to her and that was a concern.

Mycroft has already warned her several times that John was now very close with Sherlock and Violet had dismissed him, arguing that Sherlock saw him as a toy to be played with and that eventually he'd get bored. At first, Mycroft had seemed to fully agree with that sentiment but over time and as the wedding grew near, Mycroft no longer held that view. He did, however, see John as a potential asset and as a man who could be used to get Sherlock to do as they wanted. Violet had nodded her head, still secretly hoping the friendship was a phase. But looking at the way her son was watching the doctor now made her worry about more than just simple friendship.

She shook her head, clearing the thoughts away. None of it mattered anyway. In a matter of weeks Sherlock would be married and as long as Mycroft could control John Watson for that time, all would be well.

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

Notes:

Please note - the rating has gone up! That should give you a clue as to what this chapter contains – spoiler: sexbetweentwoconsentingadults. This is also a longer chapter because I really didn't want to split it in two for obvious reasons. I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and happy Boxing Day to those who know what it is and celebrate it. ;) Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

Sherlock looked up from where he sat on the sofa fiddling on his phone to look at John who had just appeared in the doorway to the sitting room in yet another dire jumper that Sherlock longed to burn or experiment on until it didn't exist.

“I've just weighed my case and it's over twenty three kilograms, will that be an issue for our flight to St. Tropez?”

Not a lot in the world left Sherlock confused but this certainly did and he furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

“I'm assuming the airline has some restrictions on baggage, do you know what they are?” John asked, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded and making Sherlock want to take that hideous jumper off for numerous other reasons he refused to think too long on. John's eyes suddenly widened as if a light bulb had gone off. “Oh, of course. You've booked us first class so there's no restrictions.” John sighed and threw his hands in the air. Sherlock just kept staring at him in confusion.

“What?” Sherlock said, feeling left out of whatever conversation they were supposed to be having.

“Doesn't matter. Have you checked us in online? I can do it in a minute if you give me the booking reference number.”

Sherlock put his phone down slowly on the sofa and peered at John, pale eyes trying to catch up with whatever John was blathering on about. “John, I have literally no idea what the words mean that are coming out of your mouth. Individually, I know the definitions but together it makes no sense.”

John ran a hand through his fair hair and shook his head. “Don't worry, I'll check us in. Heaven forbid you ever do something so common.”

John turned around and disappeared from sight and Sherlock could hear the exact moment in the hallway when John stopped for a long beat. Seconds later he walked back into the sitting room to glare at Sherlock. “You have a private jet.”

“Yes. Obviously.”

John clenched his hand in agitation. “And we're going on it, aren't we?”

“Of course.”

John's jaw clenched and Sherlock found himself vaguely attracted to an angry, annoyed John. It was the red cheeks and hard jawline. “Sherlock, I've just spent twenty minutes hopping on and off a bathroom scale holding my luggage so it wasn't over the baggage restrictions.”

Sherlock pursed his lips with interest. “Fascinating. I never knew airlines had baggage restrictions. Not that it ever affects me of course.”

“Nothing affects you because you live in a world where using a private jet is normal,” John snapped angrily, like Sherlock's wealth was a personal insult to him.

“Is this all because you've discovered with your weighing activity that you've put on weight?”

John's eyes hardened and he opened his mouth to say something before slamming it shut and walking away, out of sight. “Clothes add weight,” John yelled from down the hallway.

Sherlock smirked. “Next time do it naked,” Sherlock shouted back as he heard John's door slam closed.

...

“This is just ridiculous,” John said for the eighth time as he walked across a large airplane hangar toward a small, modern private plane that was waiting for them. He took his phone out and took a few pictures as he walked up on the small steps and into the plane. The interior was nearly all cream leather and there were large individual sitting chairs taking up most of the space with smooth, shiny tables separating them. “This is just so ridiculous.”

Sherlock threw himself down onto one of the chairs as John sat opposite him, staring around them in awe.

“If you use that word again I'm going to make you leave.”

John just rolled his eyes as he looked around the plane, taking it all in with a small disbelieving shake of his head.

“Mr Holmes,” a large man in a flight attendant uniform said as he walked down the aisle to them. “Happy to see you again. And you're date.”

“Date? I'm not his date,” John argued as the man clasped his hand warmly.

“This is Angelo, my personal flight attendant,” Sherlock explained.

“I owe this man everything. He got me off a terrorist charge,” Angelo said warmly. “I'll go and get you some wine for the table and a flower, make it more romantic.”

“I'm not his date,” John said weakly after Angelo who walked to the end of the cabin away from them. “How did you get him off a terrorist charge?”

“Lestrade wanted to prosecute him for an act of terrorism which took place at the same time he was busy selling drugs in a different part of England. He had nothing to do with the terrorist ring. Easy to prove.”

John's eyebrows rose just as Angelo returned, placing two glasses and a bottle of red wine on the table, followed by a small vase with a rose in it. He poured the wine slowly in to the glasses and then gave them a small thumbs up.

“I'll give you two boys some privacy for the flight, yeah?” Angelo said with an obvious wink at them both. “Press the call button if you need me.”

“Yeah, we're not a couple,” John tried again as Angelo just gave them a smirk and walked toward the back of the plane and shut the door to the rear galley area.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started typing as the door to the plane was shut. John drummed his fingers on the chair's arm rests and looked around the plane, eyes taking it all in with moderate shock. Before Sherlock private planes were something he read about in magazines and he'd give a tut at all that extravagance. His eyes lifted to Sherlock who looked exactly like the rich, spoiled man that was expected to own private jets. He was wearing a gorgeous form fitting suit that clung to him and showed off the masterful tailoring whilst John sat opposite him in a pair of jeans that he got on sale for twenty quid and a jumper that he had when he was studying to be a doctor all those years ago. They couldn't look or be more different and yet he got a certain thrill that despite all that; the flight attendant had assumed they were together.

The flight was short and drama free. John read a book and ignored Sherlock who had his elbows on the table between them, fingers steepled together under his chin and pale eyes fixed on John in deep contemplation. John had tried to get him to talk but Sherlock had just carried on staring at him, lost in thought.

They landed and John immediately took his jumper off, preparing for the warmer weather that was going to greet him. He followed Sherlock off the plane and onto the tarmac where there was a waiting town car. John turned to get his bags but there was already someone there carrying their luggage and loading it into the boot. John shook his head with a wry smile and muttered “how the other half live.”

They were quickly driven past glorious scenery and houses so expensive that John was pretty sure they were even out of Sherlock's price range. Sherlock was still sat silently, not making a sound, as though he was so deep in thought that not even an atomic bomb going off could pull him out of his mind palace.

They pulled up to a large imposing black gate which moved across electronically with a buzz to give them entrance. They wove their way up a long driveway that was surrounded by green grass and trees until the drive opened out to a large courtyard with a fountain and John's eyes widened. The villa was large and imposing and beyond luxurious. He couldn't help but feel like he wasn't quite supposed to be there and he didn't really fit in to the lifestyle.

“This is yours?” John asked as he got out of the car, eyes wide as he took in the palatial cream villa in front of him.

Sherlock stood from the car, buttoned his suit jacket and walked up the small steps into the main entrance of the villa. For a second John wondered if this was actually some boutique hotel they were staying in but as he walked into the airy hallway and looked around, he realised it was definitely a family home. An offensively large family home. Everything seemed to be white or cream which made the whole place seem summery and open. The flooring was clearly marble and there were impressive antiques scattered around which complemented the furniture.

“Wow,” John muttered as he walked through one of the many sitting rooms and out onto the pool terrace that overlooked the sea. “I'd retire here.”

“One day maybe,” Sherlock finally said, coming to stand next to him as their eyes took in the view and the sea twinkling in the sunlight.

“This place, Sherlock. For crying out loud.”

“I bought it when I was particularly annoyed with Mycroft one Saturday afternoon a few years ago. He allowed me to keep it because he and my mother regularly make trips here.”

“You often get annoyed with Mycroft and buy multi-million pound homes abroad to piss him off?”

Sherlock gave a small smile. “This wasn't my first purchase made for those reasons and it won't be the last.”

…

John was beyond relaxed. In fact, he could have almost slipped into a coma he was so relaxed. He was lying on a long sun lounger by the pool in his swim shorts with a good book and it felt like London and all the patients moaning at him existed in a different world. Sherlock was continuing to act strangely which in itself wasn't actually all the strange. Sherlock was in the same mental state he usually got in when he was deep into a difficult experiment. Except as far as John was aware, there was no experiment. He hoped.

“You'll get sunburnt,” Sherlock commented, eyes on John's bare chest with a frown as he appeared by the pool side.

“I've put on sunblock,” John said, flicking a page of his book.

Sherlock sat down on the sun lounger next to him. He was still dressed in smart trousers and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“I have decided something.”

“Uh huh,” John said, trying to focus on the book.

“I think we should have sex.”

John froze and he slowly pulled his head up to look at Sherlock. “I think I just misheard you.”

“Unlikely considering how close I am sitting to you and the lack of any loud noises in our vicinity.” Sherlock looked at him expectantly with an eyebrow raised.

“You want to what with me.”

“Have sexual intercourse.”

“Come again,” John said, sitting forward.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sex, John. I want to have sex with you.”

“Explain how you arrived at this rather... surprising decision.”

Sherlock stared at him for a beat. “I simply don't want Levinson to be my first sexual encounter as he seems to be incredibly self-involved and egotistical, and so it will likely be painful and boring. It makes sense to be prepared for that kind of onslaught when we have to consummate the marriage and I'm aware you have a vague sexual attraction to me and are probably less selfish in bed than Levinson will be. It makes sense.”

John stared open mouthed at him, unmoving. “What?”

“Do I really need to repeat myself? This has nothing to do with sentiment or the idea of virginity being important but merely that I am going to be married to this American idiot for the rest of my adult life and so it would make sense for me to be... broken in by someone who I trust and don't mind.”

John got up, stood to attention with his back straight and shoulders back, and walked away.

…

Sherlock replayed the conversation in his head, going over it to see where he slipped up. It was a simple request really and considering he'd been observing John for weeks and knew that the doctor was attracted to him, it should have been easy. But nothing was easy when it came to John Watson. The doctor constantly surprised him.

He walked into one of the guest bedrooms that John had taken as his own and went over to the large balcony where John was standing, looking out over the sea.

“Bit not good?” Sherlock tried.

John tensed and then slowly relaxed his shoulders, not turning around to look at Sherlock as his hands braced on the balcony railing. “Yeah, bit not good.”

“Would you have preferred me to seduce you in some way? Flatter you and compliment you?”

John sighed and finally turned to face Sherlock. “No, that would have been worse I think. It wouldn't have been you. You were being honest in that you want me to be your first sexual encounter so you're not hurt or put into an embarrassing unknown situation on your wedding night. I get it, Sherlock, I do. You like to be the cleverest person in every room and you won't be when it comes to sex so you want to be prepared and know what you're getting into. I honestly understand, but we're friends. Just friends and I don't think adding a sexual component would really help.”

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just the one time. No emotional attachment at all will be involved I assure you.”

John glanced down, looking a little hurt, but he rallied himself and lifted his eyes. “No.”

“I am asking for this one favour, John.” Sherlock stared at him, pale eyes soft. He could see they were having the desired effect when John's shoulders slumped by a centimetre or two, giving away his edge toward defeat.

“Can I think about it? Have some time?”

“Of course. I'll give you one hour and come back to find out. I have brought the necessary items we will need so we can get it over and done with it as soon as possible. There is no need to have a long discussion about it.”

John looked at him sadly. “It shouldn't be a chore.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow in thought, like he couldn't imagine what else sex would be. He then turned to leave John be and wandered downstairs. Sherlock knew John and he knew what the outcome would be because John adored him and wouldn't want him to ever be hurt and so he'd see it as a sense of duty to a friend to fulfil this favour. There was also the shallow aspect in that John would be flattered at the idea that Sherlock chose him to take his virginity and that he was important to Sherlock in a way no one else was or ever would be. All the points combined would lead to John agreeing and so Sherlock went to the library to wait it out.

…

John stood in Sherlock's bedroom like he was preparing to go into battle. His back was straight and his eyes were fixed firmly on the horizon outside the window. He second guessed his decision every two or three seconds before persuading himself he had made the right choice all over again. It was an endless circle in his head. Unfortunately, his penis had the deciding vote in most of his decisions and so the idea of having Sherlock, even just this once, was enough to push down all the arguments against it. He didn't want Sherlock to be vulnerable on his wedding night and he really didn't want that large American being Sherlock's first. So he'd gone to Sherlock and agreed to his favour. Sherlock had looked completely unsurprised by it all. John had then tried to discuss everything with him but Sherlock had waved a dismissive hand and walked with purpose to his bedroom, John on his heels.

He turned around from looking out of the window and watched as Sherlock entered the room and promptly pulled off his blue dressing gown, throwing it on the floor and revealing his naked body with little to no embarrassment. He stood confidently, looking almost amused as John's eyes swept across all the pale skin which contrasted against the black hair on his head, a small sprinkling on his chest and the wiry thatch at his crotch. John swallowed and felt his co*ck give a twitch at the sight.

Sherlock gestured to John's clothes with an impatient lock before turning around and flopping belly first onto the bed, arms and legs spread wide. John watched as Sherlock rolled his shoulders a few times, getting comfortable like he was preparing for a painful massage.

“Right, come on, get it over with.”

John, who was in the middle of taking his trousers off, paused. “I can't do this if you're just... putting up with it like a dentist procedure. I want you to try to enjoy it and want it. If you're not going to, there's no way I'm going through with this. I can't do it.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, eyes fixing on John immediately with obvious disapproval.

“It's only sex, John. We are not making love or having slow, passionate sex with soft mood lighting whilst music plays. I want you to just do it. I've watched enough p*rn and read enough books to know exactly what to expect. Whether I enjoy it or not is not an issue I'm concerned with.” With that Sherlock rolled back over and presented his ass again, wiggling it pointedly.

John gaped and felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. “I don't feel right doing this. Do you even find me sexually attractive?”

Sherlock snorted into the pillow and turned his head to the side to peer at John. “Obviously.”

John scrunched up his face. “It's obvious?”

“I have manipulated several scenarios over the past weeks for me to end up in your bed. It's not my fault you're so oblivious that you didn't realise what I was doing and ended up sleeping in the guest bedroom more than once.”

John's mouth fell open as he pulled his trousers off. “That's what you were doing this whole time?”

“Clearly,” Sherlock said in a bored tone but John noticed his eyes flicking to the bulge in John's boxers with interest. John quickly pulled them off, leaving him naked even though he hadn't properly convinced himself he was going to go through with it.

“Roll over,” John ordered in his best captain voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes but moved onto his back.

“We're going to kiss first and I swear to God if you say something about how it's not necessary I will throw you off the balcony myself and hide your body, understood?”

“Is this how you usually seduce people into your bed because I may have some ideas as to why you're single.”

John gave a small smirk and walked forward to kneel on the side of the bed, his hand sitting gently on Sherlock's bare chest, feeling the smooth, warm skin under his fingers. “I know you're going to make this difficult because that's who you are and you put up a fight constantly, but I can promise you that if you give me a small bit of trust right now and let me do this, you can enjoy it. You may even love it. If you don't, that's OK too. It's all fine.”

Sherlock kept his gaze away from John. “Are you done being sentimental?”

“For now. I'll try not to whisper sweet nothings in your ear.”

“I hate you.”

John gave a smile. “No, you don't.”

Then he leaned over and pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a gentle, chaste kiss before pulling away. Sherlock gazed back at him with curiosity, like John was his latest experiment and the reactions were interesting. It was Sherlock who craned his neck back up to reconnect their lips and John's heart started thumping as he tried to get his head around the fact he was actually kissing Sherlock Holmes. He almost laughed into Sherlock's mouth at the thought of what Mycroft and Violet would think if they could see them right now naked together on a bed, making out like teenagers.

John pulled back and laid out on his side against Sherlock's body before pressing their mouths together again. It was borderline intoxicating and there was a lazy and uncertain edge to the kiss from Sherlock's side, like he was trying to process what was happening whilst at the same time working out how to continue doing it. They kissed slowly, lips brushing and then pushing against each other like they had all the time in the world. John felt a part of him break inside when Sherlock let out a small moan. John moved a hand over Sherlock's chest, running his nails across the small patch of chest hair before sliding down. Sherlock's body tensed and he pulled away from the kiss to stare at John, question in his eyes.

John kissed him wetly again and pulled back so he could look down as his hand curled around Sherlock's soft penis. Sherlock's body gave a small jerk, hips thrusting up toward John's hand.

“Just enjoy it and don't over think it,” John murmured in Sherlock's ear as he felt the flesh in his hand start to harden. He stroked upward with a twist a few times and Sherlock let out a small 'uh' noise which spurred John on.

Once Sherlock was fully hard in his hand, he pulled away to grab the small bottle of lube from the bedside table, squeezing a little carefully onto his fingers. Sherlock watched with an unsettled, nervous look which made John's heart ache.

“I'm going to need to pull your leg up,” John explained gently once he settled between Sherlock's legs.. He pulled Sherlock's right leg up and out a bit so it was almost resting on his shoulder. “This won't hurt if you relax, all right?”

Sherlock's vulnerable gaze shifted back to cold indifference. “I'm not a child. Just do it.”

John sighed as he ran his finger down behind Sherlock's balls to the small hole that clenched as he ran a finger over it a few times. “Relax, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his shoulders again and stared up at the ceiling with a determined look on his face. John took a moment to appreciate how beautiful Sherlock was and how honoured he felt that Sherlock trusted him enough to do this with him. The picture in front of him was gorgeous. Sherlock's dark, black curls fell over his forehead messily, his cheeks were a little flushed and his co*ck was hard on his pale belly. It was a sight John used to try to imagine in his mind but it fell far short of the reality.

“I'm going to use one finger.”

“You don't need to narrate everything,” Sherlock remarked.

“I know, but you'll snap my head off if I don't warn you about things,” John argued and then pushed a single digit into the tight heat without hesitating. Sherlock instinctively tightened and John quickly used his other free hand to stroke Sherlock's co*ck again, distracting him. It only took a few moments for Sherlock to accept it easily and so John pressed in with a second finger. He waited patiently as Sherlock relaxed his body again, clearly struggling to accept the unusual feeling.

“Feel OK?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling. John had been expecting some snappy response about being bored or a snarky comment about John going too slow so it surprised him that Sherlock didn't seem to mind what he was doing. He pulled out and pressed the two fingers back inside a few times, hoping Sherlock would loosen a little. On the fifth time in he curled his fingers up and pressed against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock's body tightened and he gave a loud grunt as his eyes shut in obvious pleasure. John just grinned.

John's pulled his fingers out and reached for the condom as Sherlock opened his eyes to watch John roll it on. John pulled Sherlock's legs apart even more. “You OK doing it face to face?”

Sherlock looked torn as he stared down at John's co*ck, looking a little unsure of himself whilst also trying to act relaxed and disinteresed.

“Whatever is easiest,” he muttered. John leant over him to give him a quick, reassuring kiss before shifting back and pulling Sherlock's legs up and onto his shoulders.

“You sure you're ready?”

“I was ready ages ago but you kept faffing about,” Sherlock said with an impatient look that seemed forced and quickly slipped from his face to be replaced with uncertainty.

“I'll go really slow. I'm pretty average so it should be fine. You just need to bear down and relax when I push in.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock snapped, lifting his hips higher to give John better access.

“You are so stubborn,” John said with a fond smile as he quickly pressed a kiss to Sherlock's thigh in a way to say he understood that Sherlock was being an asshole as a defence mechanism for being in a situation he wasn't comfortable in. In that moment, John completely understood why Sherlock had insisted he lose his virginity to John and not some random person.

He pushed his hips forward so his co*ck was rubbing against Sherlock's hole teasingly. “If it hurts, you tell me straight away or I'll confiscate your laptop for a week and sign you up for a knitting class with Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock nodded his head but his face quickly distorted and scrunched up with discomfort when John tried to push in.

“Sherlock, you really need to relax,” John tried, rubbing a soothing hand across Sherlock's belly.

“You saying it doesn't make it any easier,” Sherlock snapped, his teeth still clenched together as John pushed forward again. It took two or three more times until Sherlock managed to relax enough that John was able to push himself inside in one long thrust. Sherlock cursed and muttered under his breath as his hands fisted the bed sheets underneath them.

John opened his mouth but Sherlock cut him off. “Don't you dare say the word 'relax' again. I currently have a penis in a place I'm not used to.”

The angle was awkward but John rolled his body forward slightly so he could give Sherlock a messy kiss on the mouth that ended up mostly on his cheek. “You're amazing.”

John immediately felt Sherlock's body become less tense at the compliment. John's eyes widened in realisation that Sherlock wanted reassurance and compliments. “You're brilliant, Sherlock. Your fluffy hair and cheekbones and those damn tight shirts you wear make me so sexually frustrated all the time that living with you is torture sometimes. And even though you're a dick most of the time, you're wonderful.”

“Your dirty talk needs work,” Sherlock said with a small smile and John took that as encouragement enough to start moving. He pulled out slowly before edging back in and listening to Sherlock spit curse words in his direction. He kept going though and eventually Sherlock went silent. He was tight beyond anyone John had had before and it was becoming difficult to keep from pounding away hard but one look at Sherlock's face stopped him. He rocked his hips in a leisurely way that was making him lose his mind a little but he kept up the steady pace in reverence to Sherlock.

“God, yes,” John muttered as he pushed to the hilt before pulling back again.

Sherlock's skin was flushed and his mouth was open in a silent 'o.' His eyes were heavy but fixed on John as their movements got slightly faster.

“OK?” John tried. He almost bent Sherlock in half as he went for another kiss. This time Sherlock's arms shot out and wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, clinging to him desperately as they kissed deeply and John's hips started pumping faster and faster.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured between kisses and John lost all control and started thrusting harder, Sherlock's grunts and small 'uh's' raring him on. The headboard started banging loudly against the wall and John felt Sherlock smile against his lips. They parted and ended up resting their foreheads together as John moved his hips faster which drew out moans and curse words from Sherlock in encouragement.

“I'm close. Touch yourself, I'm sorry I can't do it from this angle,” John panted out, his hips picking up momentum as one hand grabbed the headboard for more leverage. His stomach was twisting into knots with the pleasure and watching Sherlock's eyes flutter open and shut with arousal was forcing him toward his org*sm faster than anything had ever before.

Sherlock seemed almost hesitant and embarrassed as he pushed a hand between their bodies and started fisting his co*ck quickly.

John gave a groan as he tried to keep his control for as long as possible. Sherlock looked beautifully wrecked and debauched as his bit his lip and touched himself quickly. There was no warning when all of a sudden Sherlock's arm around John tightened, his eyes shut and body stiffened as he came almost silently against their stomachs. John stared down at him adoringly and felt a small ache in his chest when he realised that could be the single only time he saw Sherlock org*sm. It almost pulled him away from going over the edge himself but he pushed the thought down and gave a few more brutal thrusts into the warm heat and let the org*sm sweep through him.

John fell on top of Sherlock, pulling out awkwardly in the process when Sherlock straightened his legs, and was expecting Sherlock to act as if nothing had happened or moan that John was way too heavy. Instead long, thin arms came up around him and held him close. John gave Sherlock's neck a quick kiss and shut his eyes, feeling happier than he ever remembered being.

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

Notes:

Ahhhhhhh how good was Sherlock? I won't spoil anyone but I loved all three episodes. Only another two years of waiting.... :(
Thank you for all the kudos and comments! It really encourages me to keep writing so you're all wonderful and lovely. This chapter is kind of the calm before the storm. ;)

Chapter Text

John woke up to the smell of cooking. He opened his eyes slowly, noticing he was alone in the bed, which still smelt heavily of sex. He stretched his arms up and squinted as the late afternoon sun shined into the room.

For a moment John wondered whether Sherlock was cooking for him and mentally laughed that he would have had sex with him sooner if that was the reaction. He got up groggily from the bed and put on a pair of boxer shorts and a white t-shirt before heading downstairs in search of Sherlock, flattening his hair at the same time. He followed the smells to the kitchen where a stranger in a chef's uniform was busy cooking something that smelt incredible. John gave him a brief smile and then turned away to roll his eyes at the idea of Sherlock having his own in-house chef.

He wandered around the palatial home, trying not to worry when Sherlock was no where to be found. He was about to give up when he went into a large study and found Sherlock hunched over the desk with papers strewn over it. He was fully dressed in his suit and looked completely composed and unruffled, as if he hadn't just been f*cked into the headboard upstairs a couple hours earlier.

John cleared his throat and stood awkwardly. “You OK?” he asked softly, not sure what the protocol was after having sex with someone as a favour.

Sherlock glanced up at him. “Yes, fine. Come here, I need some information from you.”

John narrowed his eyes and went to stand by the overly large dark wood desk. “What's all this?”

“Calculations. How much money do you make a year on average and how much do you save in your bank account?”

John stared at him in confusion. “Why do you need my financial information?”

Sherlock sighed. “Don't be difficult. I can probably work it out myself but it wouldn't be very accurate.”

“Why do you need it at all?”

“Research,” was Sherlock's standard reply. John hated that Sherlock threw down that word as an excuse for pretty much everything.

“Work it out yourself then.”

John turned, feeling a little tense and unhappy that their relationship dynamic hadn't altered even a bit. A pathetic, naive part of him thought that Sherlock would wake up head over heels in love and insist on spending the rest of their lives having sex and being together. He should have known Sherlock wouldn't change just because they'd had sex one time.

He got to the door when Sherlock spoke. “Get dressed into something smart for dinner and you may want to have a shower.”

John clenched his fists at his sides and then mentally talked himself out of snapping something harsh at Sherlock. “I'll do that now.”

“Wear that red shirt you have.”

“Fine,” John said, still standing on the threshold of the room. “Anything else?”

“And your dinner jacket and trousers obviously.”

John looked skyward. “I wasn't going to come to dinner in just a shirt. Jesus.” John walked out before Sherlock could impart any more words of wisdom onto him.

…

The dinner seemed rushed, like Sherlock was impatient, and so for just that reason, John passive aggressively spent a long time on each course. It was fantastic food and he savoured every bite regardless of Sherlock eating each course in about four seconds. Sherlock would then tap his fingers impatiently on the white table cloth as he watched John slowly eat.

“So, we going to discuss what happened earlier?” John asked carefully, putting his fork and knife down on his empty plate.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “We had sex. I don't see the need for discussion.”

“Did you... err, enjoy it?”

“I came to org*sm which suggests it was pleasurable.”

John stared down at his plate. “Would you do it again?”

There was dead silence for a few, long moments. “Yes,” Sherlock quietly said. “Which actually leads on to something else. I need one more favour from you.”

John crossed his fingers it was more sex or even just a lesson on kissing or something that would let him get close to Sherlock. He would do anything to be able to run his fingers across that pale chest and press a kiss to warm lips and feel Sherlock's lust filled eyes on him just one more time. He felt like an addict needing a fix.

“OK, considering all you've done for me in the past, go for it. What do you need?” John asked.

“I have a man coming over in approximately ten minutes. He's going to read out some boring stuff and all I need you to do is agree when prompted. Easy enough even for you.” Sherlock dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and fixed John with a wide, fake smile.

John frowned in complete confusion. “What would I be agreeing to?”

“Just a few legal things. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

John sat back in his chair. He went from suspicion to anger to disbelief in about three seconds flat. “Sherlock,” he said in a very low, dangerous voice. “Tell me what I would be agreeing to.”

Sherlock avoided his eyes which was enough of a confirmation of John's fears. “It won't be a big deal.”

John tried to remain calm and made sure his voice was steady and casual. “The man that's coming over to read out some words. Would he happen to be an ordained minister?”

Sherlock lifted his pale eyes to John's and there was a small bit of guilt in them but not enough for John's liking. “I've been stupid, John. This whole time I've been trying to work out ways of getting out of this marriage and out of letting my stupid, fat brother run my life for me. The solution to it all is simple. We marry. I've done the calculations of how much we will have once my brother cuts me off and disowns me from the family. Nothing will change between us except that legally we'll be married. I don't expect you to change your name obviously. I own 221b Baker Street and so we can continue to reside there.”

John sat in shock. “I hope this is a joke.”

“Why would it be?”

“Has this been your plan all along?”

“Not at all but it's a brilliant solution to my problem. After being intimate with you earlier today I decided you would make a bearable husband and that I may have enough money on my own to live for a while in average conditions. It all makes perfect sense. And because we're in France and the government and authorities here hate my brother, I was able to get a marriage licence without it being on Mycroft's radar. He won't know anything has happened until we've filed the marriage certificate. And that reminds me, we will have to have sex again after we're married so it's consummated under the law and can't be annulled as that will be my brother's first move.”

John remained in silence for a long time. His mind going back to the thought at the beginning of their trip that he'd have a nice, relaxing weekend away with Sherlock in France. Instead he'd been persuaded to have sex, not that he needed that much persuasion but still, and now Sherlock had jumped the ship of sanity and was suggesting they marry. He'd always dreamed of marrying one day to someone he loved with everything he had and they'd have a couple of kids and his life would be perfect. He'd never thought the first time he was part of a proposal would be with a rich man in his villa in France who was using it as a legal move to avoid marrying someone else. It wasn't exactly the romance he'd always imagined.

“You're insane.”

“It's a perfectly logical solution,” Sherlock argued.

“And what happens when we're married? Your brother comes after me with a gun so you're a widow and can marry again?”

“Firstly, my brother wouldn't murder you himself, he'd hire someone to do it. Secondly, he won't kill you. No point in it. Too obvious and the Holmes family can't have a scandal on their hands. You're very safe. The most they will do is possibly try all means to annul the marriage or force us to divorce.”

“Oh, great,” John said sarcastically crossing his arms over his chest. “And so let's say we don't get killed and we stay married, then what? Just go back to living in London together like nothing has changed.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave a small teasing smirk. “That thought displeases you somehow. Oh, you wanted our relationship to change. Well, since we're married I suppose I can agree to sex on a semi-regular basis.”

“How charitable of you,” John said deadpan.

“What else do you want? Affection? I can hug you every month or so I suppose.” Sherlock's eyes were lit with amusem*nt that made John want to punch him in the face.

“Do you not see how messed up this whole thing is? You want to have sex with me as a favour. You want to marry me as a favour. You don't even think for a second how all this effects me, only how it benefits you. I don't want to have sex with you as a favour, I want to have sex with you because we actually like each other and are attracted to each other. Don't you see?”

“Sentiment is not my strong suit but I understand what you're alluding to. You want to embark on a romantic relationship. It's not really my area but I can do my best.”

John blinked. “What? Just like that you're agreeing to be my boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend sounds juvenile. Partner is better.”

“I feel like I'm high on something. I've lost track of anything going on.”

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh. “We are going to get married so I won't have to marry Levinson and also mess up whatever plans Moriarty has. That'll be the cherry on top of the cake. We will then go home and listen to my brother and mother scream at me and cut me off from any financial assistance for the rest of my life. After that, we will return home to 221b and begin a romantic relationship in poverty. Where did I lose you?”

“All of it. Just... yeah. Everything. You're willing to defy your whole family and lose all your money for what?”

“You.” One simple word from Sherlock's mouth swung John from 'no way in hell am I going along with any of this' to 'I'd do anything for him, maybe even this.'

“Me?”

“Before this afternoon I did not think I could ever be in a relationship with anyone given my personality and the fact I'm better than most of the human race. Then we had sex and you were perfect, John. Just as I knew you would be. I was rude and obnoxious and you were patient and gentle. I do not have anything against being intimate with you again and so I realised that by marrying you, I'm securing my own happiness and gaining independence from my family. I used to need this lifestyle and all the money that came with it because it was the only thing that gave me even a sliver of joy but then you came along.”

John felt his stomach flip and warmth fill him.“That's... yeah. Wow, Ok, but do you honestly believe your mum and brother will just scream at you and that be it? Won't Levinson's family get angry too and try to get lawyers involved?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand like all those worries were unfounded. “I'll be married and living on my own money. They won't have any control over me. Levinson won't act because he's currently engaged in an affair with a Republican senator which I could make very public.”

John stared down at his own hands on his lap, fiddling with the napkin slowly.

There was a quiet knock at the door and it opened, revealing a short, balding man who gave them a small smile. “You two ready to exchange vows?”

“This is moving too fast,” John said quietly to Sherlock as the taller man stood, looking all the world like he was ready for anything, especially getting married.

“We can divorce in the future once this marriage has served its purpose.”

“How sweet,” John snapped, hurt.

Sherlock gave the minister a quickly pointed look that he needed a minute alone. The door shut with a click and Sherlock rounded the table so he was standing over John. He bent his long form over and placed a kiss on John's mouth. “I can't force you to do this for me, John. I'm asking an awful lot of you and no doubt you imagined marrying under different circ*mstances. But perhaps one day once we've adjusted to our romantic relationship, this won't seem so terrible.”

John searched Sherlock's pale eyes for insincerity but there was none. He stood up shakily, placing the napkin on the table, and reached for Sherlock, bringing their mouths together in a hard, deep kiss. Sherlock wrapped a possessive arm around John's waist and let out a small moan into John's mouth just before he pulled back.

“I... consider you to be my favourite human that I've ever come across and I would very much like you to always be around to yell at me about my experiments.”

John grinned. It was the closest to a love confession he'd ever get from Sherlock and it lifted his heart so much that he felt giddy for a moment and clung to Sherlock even tighter, ignoring how expensive his suit was.

“Fine. For you I'll do this. But you need to promise me you can protect me from whatever happens when we get home.”

Sherlock nodded seriously. “I'd protect you with my life.”

“You do realise this will mean you have to get a job.”

“I'm aware. I'm sure I can find something. Lestrade can help.”

John gave him a smile which seemed to cause Sherlock's eyes to brighten. “You should become a detective with the police or something. You'd be brilliant at it.”

“And my brother wouldn't be able to stop me. Well, I'm sure he'd try,” Sherlock said with a wry smile. They shared another brief, chaste kiss that was tinged with promise and caused John's body to tighten with excitement. The idea of a future together made him want to laugh hysterically at how quickly and fast everything was happening. It was scary in a thrilling way that made John's heart race.

They exchanged the standard wedding vows outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean as the sun set behind them. Sherlock had wanted it done in the study but John put his foot down. The minister had given Sherlock a look that said he knew exactly who wore the trousers in their relationship. It was over and done with inside five minutes and then they got the cook and a gardener to be witnesses as they signed the marriage certificate.

Afterwards, John stood by the balcony railing lost in thought. He couldn't quite get his head around everything that had happened over their weekend away. The marriage may not have been real for them, just a means to an end, but John took pleasure in the idea that he and Sherlock were now partners and they'd have sex and John would be free to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair and see him naked on a daily basis.

John gave a smile as he felt Sherlock come up behind him and not so subtly shove his crotch against John's bum suggestively.

“We have to have sex, John, before my brother finds out that we're married,” Sherlock whispered into John's ear deeply., his hand going around John to rub at his crotch.

John gave a small carefree laugh. “Hmm. You've had sex one time and you're already taking liberties.”

“Get used to it. Now come to bed. I want to try penetrating you to compare the differences in seminal fluid, force of ejacul*tion and varying sensations.”

John turned in Sherlock's arms. “Everything isn't an experiment.”

“I know.” Sherlock ducked his head to give John another kiss, full of affection.

…

“I like this position,” Sherlock said through his shortened breath as he looked down to where John was on all fours, top half of his body lowered down to elbows and his ass high. Sherlock thrust in and out, absolutely fascinated by the look and feel of it. “Although I'd prefer being able to use your face as a point of reference for what you find pleasurable. I'll have to use sounds instead.”

John gave a grunt beneath him, his back shiny with sweat as Sherlock gripped his hips, yanking him back onto his dick. “Oh god, yes.”

“Do you prefer to be penetrated or do the penetration?”

“Can we do the questionnaire afterwards?” John said quickly before letting out a moan when Sherlock shoved in at just the right angle.

“Very well. I personally don't have a preference. I'm enjoying the aesthetic of my penis penetrating you but I also enjoy the intimacy of you inside me.” Sherlock eyed John's ass again and his co*ck sliding in and out of the tight heat, feeling his balls tighten at the sight of it. He reached out to grab his phone from the small bedside table and then took a picture of where they were joined.

John stilled. “Please tell me you didn't just take a picture.”

“Evidence. In case my brother doesn't believe we've consummated the marriage. My penis in your ass should satisfy any judge.”

John groaned long and loud, both over Sherlock being an idiot and the sensation of Sherlock thrusting in harder. Sherlock threw the phone across the bed and grabbed John's hips tightly as he picked up a rhythm, finding himself overwhelmed by all the new sensations that were flooding his system. He wanted to categorise every single one. He couldn't get over how tight John was around his co*ck and how amazing the noises that John made were when he pushed in at just the right angle. He struggled to keep an even rhythm going but John didn't seem to mind the jerky movements if the loud moans coming from him were anything to go by. Just as Sherlock felt his whole body tighten in warning, a calm overtook him and his mind went entirely quiet in a way he'd never experienced before. It was bliss and the only thought in his mind was John. Beautiful, caring, anything but ordinary John. He came with a cry, shoving himself as deep as he could and unloading as his body shuddered through it.

He pulled out roughly and fell onto his side, breath coming out rapidly as his bare chest rose and fell. He hadn't lasted long and considered apologising to John as he quickly took the condom off, mouth curved with disgust. He lay back, grinning lazily, and listened to John's hand moving fast over his own dick next to him, Sherlock too wrecked to help. He felt warm come suddenly land on his hip and splatter across his stomach, accompanied by a loud groan and grunt from John. His soft co*ck gave an interested twitch at the feeling just as John curled up next to him, an arm thrown over his chest and breath warm against his neck.

Sherlock distantly heard his phone give a loud chirp signalling a message.

He pressed a kiss to John's hair and reached his free arm across the bed to retrieve the phone.

He flicked his finger across the screen to open the message.

What have you done? Come home. NOW. MH.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

Notes:

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the kudos and comments. I wish I could hug every one of you.

Chapter Text

Outwardly Sherlock looked completely calm and a little bored as they were driven in a town car from the airport hangar to the Holmes estate in the middle of the night. The only thing that ruined Sherlock's appearance of calm was his long fingers clutching John's hand on his lap tightly, like he was afraid John was going to jump out of the car at any moment. John watched the lights outside whiz by thoughtfully, trying not to think too long on what was awaiting them. After the text in France they'd dressed quickly and Sherlock had gone completely mute. He hadn't spoken a word on the plane or in the car.

“Should I say something when we get there?” John tried, feeling anxious.

“Don't say anything. My brother and mother will be able to tear you down in a matter of seconds if you so much as mutter anything. Leave it all to me.”

Sherlock said it with finality and so John did the only thing he could think of which was to give Sherlock's hand a reassuring squeeze.

They pulled up to the Holmes estate, gravel crunching under the tyres and they both stepped carefully out of the car and looked at the imposing home. As they walked up the stairs to the front entrance, John felt like he was walking to his execution, a feeling of dread sitting like a brick on his stomach.

They were softly told by one of the house staff to go to the main study in the east wing of the house. As they reached the study door, John felt sick with nerves but he pulled himself together and stood to attention, shoulders back, head held high, and pushed open the door. Their hands separated as Sherlock walked in ahead of him and John immediately missed the connection.

Mycroft was sitting behind the large mahogany desk and Violet was standing in front of it, face twisted in anger. Mycroft looked up and used his fore finger to invite them in further. John was sure that if looks could kill he would be dead judging by the glare he was getting from Violet.

“Please do be seated,” Mycroft said, tone calculated.

John eyed the chair but shook his head, wanting to stand up straight, like a soldier ready for battle. Sherlock remained next to him. Neither of them moved or said a word.

Violet walked up to Sherlock, eyes filled with angry tears and betrayal. She peered up at her son for a moment before the noise of a hard slap ricochetted around the small room. Sherlock reached up to his cheek and tenderly pressed into the red mark where his mother had backhanded him across the face. John clenched his hands at his side, trying to force himself not to do anything stupid.

“My son,” she said, spitting out the latter word with venom. “After everything I have done for you. All my patience during the years you spent with a needle in your arm and this is how you repay me? What have I ever done to deserve such a disobedient and disappointing child?” Sherlock's eyes fluttered with hurt . “I've done so much for you. I've given you the best opportunities in life and enough money to be in any profession you chose, to do and live how you want and all I asked in return was for you to marry as a way of paying me back for all my hard work in bringing you up. I am disgusted with you and your lack of loyalty to the family that you owe everything to.”

John wanted to yell at her or at the very least give Sherlock some kind of reassurance but then Violet's anger slipped into something that put John on edge. It was a dangerous smirk.

“But no matter. We're getting the paperwork completed now and this ridiculous marriage will be annulled. And you will marry, as planned. Is that understood Sherlock?”

Sherlock lifted his head to stare at his mother, cheek still bright red from the slap. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no. Under the law it is a legitimate marriage and can't be annulled.”

John glanced at Mycroft who seemed to be watching the proceedings with mild interest.

“It's not like you had sex, Sherlock,” Violet said with a cruel laugh, like the idea was preposterous. John almost smiled at the thought he could get Sherlock's mobile out and show her the pictures.

“We have. The marriage is legitimate.” Sherlock's tone was even and patient but John noticed the way his eyes narrowed in wariness when he looked at Mycroft, like his brother was a sleeping dragon waiting to be roused from slumber.

Violet shook her head with a laugh. “Doesn't matter. I know many lawyers who would all annul the marriage regardless of whether you lowered yourself to sleeping with this poor, rather pathetic doctor or not.”

Sherlock's eyes flashed and he took a step forward. “He has a name and you should use it considering he's your son-in-law.”

“He,” Violet snapped, jabbing a finger at John but not looking at him, “will never be my son-in-law. He's a nobody. My son-in-law will be Jackson Levinson whether you like it or not.”

“You can't make me and you know it,” Sherlock bit out, hands clenching for a moment at his sides and his voice wavering with anger.

“Oh my boy, I can,” Violet said, standing close to him threateningly. “I will cut you off within five minutes if you don't.”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock said, avoiding her eyes and staring at the window behind Mycroft.

Violet seemed taken back and shot Mycroft a confused, bewildered smile like she wasn't expecting that at all. “You'll be poor.”

Sherlock gave a brief, empty smile. “By your standards yes. Not by the general public's.”

Violet whirled around to look at her other son. “Aren't you going to do anything? I know you have ways, make this marriage go away now and get him to wed Levinson.”

Mycroft stared back at her, eyes thoughtful, before standing up imposingly behind the desk. “Mother, perhaps leave me alone with Sherlock for a moment.”

Violet gave a smile and nodded, obviously having faith in her older son to get everything sorted out. “Good, put him in his place.” Violet turned and stalked out. Mycroft then gave a pointed look at John who glanced at Sherlock to check it was OK before walking out and shutting the door behind him with a click. Violet had already disappeared and so he stood outside the study door and waited, stomach twisted into knots of worry.

…

The door clicked shut as Sherlock stared back at his brother, eyebrow raised.

“You are aware of course that you could have sex in front of any of the lawyers I know and they would still annul it. Or I could get a divorce granted within twenty-four hours. You didn't really think any of this through did you brother dear?” Mycroft said mildly.

Sherlock peered at him defiantly. “You can't physically force me to marry someone else.”

“Of course not. Not by physical means but there's a few other strategies I could use. Perhaps threatening harm to your new husband would do the trick.”

Sherlock's body tensed and his eyes went wide in panic for a split second. “If you dare touch a hair on his head, Mycroft-”

“Your care for him then? Deeply? Intimately?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion, like the question was a trick of some kind. “Yes. I do.”

“Ah, sentiment. A weakness in the whole of the human race.” Mycroft shuffled a few papers around on the desk and then looked toward the shut door. “You have always believed that I am very much like my mother. I share her traits, such as being ambitious and incredibly power hungry, and I wanted you to marry Levinson for the connections and influence it would bring me and our family, just as she did. She would do anything and everything to achieve a level of social status and dominance that would make even royalty bow down to her. She's been like that her entire life, as have I to a certain extent.”

“Are you going to go on all night about how much like our mother you are?”

Mycroft gave him a patronising smile. “Oh Sherlock. I am like my mother in all ways but one and that is that I care about you like she never has. You see, she would sacrifice anything for what she wants, even her son's happiness but I find that I am unable to force you into doing anything if you have the opportunity to be happy. I believe John Watson makes you so. I can't go so far as to say I approve of what you've done but I can make my peace with it if this is what it takes for you to feel content. I've seen you fall apart during your drug habit and then I watched you spend years and years trying to find something that could replace the high. John Watson appears incredibly boring but you seem to light up around him. So, you see, I will deal with our mother's hysterical anger and disappointment so you're able to begin a life with John Watson. Think of it as an early Christmas present.”

Sherlock blinked. And then blinked a few more times, face distorting into absolute confusion. “You're allowing me to stay with John?”

“I don't see why not. As long as he makes you happy, I have no reason to interfere. Although, I would very much like to hear that you got him to sign a prenuptial agreement considering the money has been arranged to go back into your name upon marriage.”

Sherlock looked around the room feeling almost dizzy, his mind racing with what Mycroft was telling him. “Err, no, I didn't. And you're giving me my money?”

“It was a stipulation in the contract regarding my guardianship of your funds. Jackson Levinson was counting on that stipulation so he would have access to your significant wealth the moment you signed on the dotted line of your marriage certificate. You never do read the small print on things you sign, do you? Although you were suffering from withdrawal when everything was put in place.”

Sherlock grabbed his hair in confused frustration. “Even with the contract stipulation, I still assumed you'd get around it and give me nothing. I thought... I don't understand.”

“You thought that I was going to cut you off from everything, including your money and family, or potentially annul your marriage to John and do some very nasty things to get you to go through with this wedding. And yet, even believing all this, you chose John. The reason we put you with Levinson in the first place was because we had assumed you were never going to want to be in a romantic relationship and so it was easy enough to set you up to further our causes. But then John Watson came along.”

Sherlock gaped and he glanced toward the door where John was standing outside, waiting anxiously. “What will you tell Mother?”

“That I adore my baby brother and can't help but want him to be happy. I am getting something out of this too as John Watson can take over my job of trying to keep you in line. I also don't need to worry about your money considering the way John lives.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes shiny. “Anthea's made you soft.”

Mycroft gave a small smile and rolled his eyes. “I'm aware. Ghastly woman she is,” Mycroft said fondly. “I'll deal with the Levinson's and if they threaten us with anything...” Mycroft gave a dangerous smile. “Well, that affair with a senator will accidentally be leaked to all major media outlets. Levinson will marry well regardless of this little fiasco.”

Sherlock had despised Mycroft as a child. They almost got on for a year when Sherlock turned ten but then Mycroft had gone to university and he felt alone and abandoned. Then he discovered drugs in his late teens and Mycroft had been the face of his recovery and support during those very dark years, and he realised in a sickening way, he owed a great deal to his annoying, over-bearing brother. Especially now. He leant toward Mycroft and said “thank you” with as much sincerity and gratefulness he could muster.

Mycroft looked at him like he was an adorable child again and nodded. “You can go and tell John I'm not ruining your life now, although I will get documents in place restricting his access to your funds if you separate. Also, now he shares your money, he may want to dress in better clothes. We can't have a member of the Holmes family wandering around looking almost homeless, can we? Get Marvin on the case.”

Sherlock nodded mutely, still dazed from the conversation and for a moment he wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing in his mind palace but no, Mycroft was sitting at his desk, reading something with a look of disinterest on his face which was an obvious dismissal. He walked over to the door, opened it and stared at John as a grin appeared on his face.

…

John laughed. And he laughed. And laughed a bit more for good measure as Sherlock drove them back to Baker Street in one of his many cars.

“You're serious? Seriously? Seriously serious? You sure he wasn't winding you up?”

Sherlock glanced over at him with a smirk. “I'm sure.”

“God. Mycroft's done a really good job of pretending not to care about you this whole time.”

“Indeed he has but it's worked in our favour. He may ask you to sign some legal documents tomorrow as a way of securing my money in case of our marriage... falling apart.,” Sherlock cast a sideways glance at John warily. “Now that Mycroft is leaving us be and I've gotten out of the marriage to Levinson, do you want us to start divorce proceedings?”

John looked at him carefully, unsure what to say. “Do you?”

Sherlock gave an uncharacteristic shrug. “It makes no difference. Well, for you the difference is tens of millions of pounds I suppose. If we divorce, you will get a small portion of my money but-”

“Sherlock, it's fine. It's all fine. We can do whatever is easiest for you and Mycroft. If it makes more sense for us to divorce for now, then that's OK. We'll still be together anyway. It's completely up to you.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the cream leather steering wheel. “Ok, that's settled then.”

“Settled?”

“We remain married. You can use some of the money to buy clothes that don't happen to be jumpers and also cut down on ready meals. I hate the smell.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

John gave a small, disbelieving laugh like he was dreaming. “We haven't even been on a date and we're already married.”

“In a way, we've been dating the whole time.”

“No, we really haven't.”

“But we sort of have.”

“Nope. I didn't know so it wasn't dating.”

“What about that time I took you to the coast?” Sherlock teased.

“Firstly, you lied and told me we were going to Tesco. And secondly, we went there so you could get rock samples for your latest experiment. It was hardly romance.” Sherlock gave a small hum and reached over to take John's hand. “So, how much am I worth?”

“I didn't think you cared about the money.”

“Well, I don't really but it'd be nice to have a rough estimate in case I decide to shop at Marks and Spencer instead of Asda one day,” John said, eyes playful.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed. “Well, you could probably buy Marks and Spencer and Asda with the money.”

John swallowed, eyes wide. “Wow. In that case I'm going to buy a new razor. Mine is getting old and not giving me a close enough shave,” John said, rubbing at his jaw.

Sherlock pulled up outside Baker Street, shut the engine off and turned to look at John. “I've just told you you're a multi-millionaire and all you want to buy is a new razor?”

“I was never a gold digger, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled and reached over the gear stick to kiss John happily, his hand curling around John's warm neck to hold him in place as he explored his mouth.

“You'll need to move into my room,” Sherlock muttered against John's lips.

“Why not my room?”

“Mine is better.”

John kissed Sherlock softly on the lips and pulled away. “Let's go christen our marital bed then.”

They tumbled through the front door, scaring Mrs Hudson off in the process as they frantically kissed, both awkwardly trying to undress the other person with minimal success. Eventually Sherlock stopped and grabbed John's hand, pulling him up the stairs to his bedroom impatiently and undressing him quickly once they were there before pulling off his own clothes.

John pushed Sherlock down onto the bed, letting his hands run along his long, pale legs and up his chest. He leant down and pressed a quick kiss over his heart, hearing a hitch in Sherlock's breathing at the action, and then started kissing his way further down Sherlock's chest. They hadn't done anything like this yet and John could feel Sherlock tense uncertainly as John's mouth neared its prize. He gave Sherlock a quick grin before lowering his head and licking a wide, wet stripe from the base of Sherlock's co*ck to the head of it. Sherlock's back arched off the bed and his hips lifted up of their own accord as his hand reached down to John's hair and shoulders, running fingers over anything he could reach that was part of John.

John wasted no time in wrapping his lips tightly around the head of Sherlock's co*ck, sucking lightly and quickly grasping Sherlock's hips to hold them still when they jerked forward. John opened his throat and slowly sucked Sherlock down, bobbing his head a few times and savouring the taste. Sherlock was almost silent other than the loud breathing and odd grunt as he watched him with dark eyes. John was starting to get into a rhythm when Sherlock's body froze and John pulled off in confusion just as Sherlock came heavily with his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, body jerking through it. John blinked in surprise and Sherlock caught his breath before regarding John with pink cheeks.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” Sherlock muttered, eyes fixed anywhere but John.

John shuffled his way up Sherlock's body and pressed a reassuring kiss to Sherlock's cheek. “That's OK. You've been sexually active for under twenty four hours, it'll take some time for you to build up stamina.”

Sherlock made a small disgruntled nose and buried his nose in John's hair. John turned his head to rest on Sherlock's chest. “I'll give you some time to recover and then you can give it a go yourself.”

A few minutes later John heard Sherlock start snoring lightly and found himself smiling.

…

The next morning there had been a lot of lawyers in their living room. John had gone through all the paperwork they provided him and signed off on everything which basically amounted to agreeing not to try and overthrow any companies linked with the Holmes name or run off with a bag of money. Mycroft had then visited to inform them that their mother was attempting to get he and Sherlock written out of the will but unfortunately for her, it wasn't possible considering it was all in Mycroft's name anyway.

Once it was all done, John was handed a new set of debit cards with enough money to buy Greece on them. The money was held in Sherlock's name but due to marriage John now had been given joint access. Mycroft had told him snarkily not to spend it all at once. John had smiled and joked that he was going to save up and buy France in a few years.

It was only later when he was out shopping for a new razor and Sherlock was back home going through a murder case Lestrade had brought over that everything finally became real to him. He'd been in Boots comparing prices of electric razors when he felt his stomach drop as he realised he would never have to look at another price tag again because he was married. To Sherlock. Who was now his husband and with him for as long as they could put up with each other. It almost made John start hysterically laughing in the self check-out queue.

He passed a cash machine on the way home and found himself unable to resist the temptation to put a number to his new wealth. He was never that bothered by money because he'd never had it. John looked behind him as he inserted his new debit card into the cash machine and typed in the PIN quickly. He selected 'View Balance' and the number that appeared on the screen caused him to bend forward, quietly curse under his breath and quickly press cancel so he could get the card back. What made it even worse was that that was only a small fraction of the money. He took a deep breath and walked away from the cash machine, fumbling the card back into his old, ratty wallet.

He started walking down a small, busy road towards Baker Street when he accidentally walked into someone, their shoulders slamming together awkwardly. John whirled around to apologise or tell the guy to watch where he was going when his eyes widened and he was face to face with Jim Moriarty.

“I hear you've gone and ruined all my plans, Johnny boy.”

John felt someone come up close behind him and press the muzzle of a gun into the small of his back, obscuring it from view to others walking around them.

“I think we should have a chat.” Jim gave a wide, unhinged smile that made John's blood run cold.

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen

Notes:

Thank you so much everyone! Almost at the end of this fic now. :)

Chapter Text

Lestrade stood at Sherlock's small desk by the window in 221b with his arms folded over his chest and a smirk on his face as he looked down at Sherlock.

“You're serious? You two are married?”

Sherlock shifted a crime scene photograph to the side so he could read the police report. “Yes. But the case-”

“You're actually in a relationship?” Lestrade interrupted with incredulity.

“Surely the death of Miss King is far more interesting than my love life,” Sherlock snapped, irritated.

“Not really,” Lestrade said happily. “I deal with murders all the time but this is a once in a lifetime event. Do you write him love poems? Read him sonnets?”

“Are you quite done?” Sherlock asked, flicking through some pictures of the victim.

“No, I could go on and on. I've known you years and I knew you and John were mates but... marriage? Where is he anyway?”

“Out shopping,” Sherlock replied irritably, trying to focus on the case in front of him.

“Christ, me too if I were him and I'd just married into so much money. Ya reckon he'll buy a car or come back with an exotic animal?”

“He wanted to buy a new razor so I doubt it. He hates shopping.”

Lestrade gave him a curious smile at the fond tone in Sherlock's voice. “So, you're independent now money wise? No Mycroft breathing down your neck?”

“Looks that way,” Sherlock replied, eyes still on the pictures in his hand. “Perhaps now I can attend crime scenes because these pictures are absolutely useless. They don't show everything and you probably missed fifteen bits of evidence that would have given me the full picture. You lot are so painfully incompetent.”

“Next time, I'll see what I can do to get you on the scene itself,” Lestrade said, peering over Sherlock's shoulder at the case details scattered across his desk.

Sherlock froze and looked up at Lestrade, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yeah, but only when we're really stumped. And as long as I don't get any visits from your brother. Now you're independent, I hope he'll be a little less controlling.”

Sherlock's eyes lit up with joy at the prospect of murder crime scenes and he finger crossed for one that very afternoon so he could get involved immediately. He was aware Mycroft would still be unhappy with his brother roaming around police crime scenes and getting involved, but his control could only go so far now. He was married so it wasn't like his reputation would be tarnished by it.

His phone gave a small noise and he tapped the screen.

I have something of yours Mr Holmes. Come alone to the car park at 223 Balmer Street. Involve the police or your brother and I will not hesitate to damage your new husband. JM.

…

“I don't understand,” John said with a frown. He was sat on a white, plastic chair in the middle of an abandoned underground car park that was almost all in darkness except for the small space he was sat. Jim stood opposite him in a black suit with one hand in his expensive trousers, chewing a bit of gum and spitting it out onto the floor. It was obvious there were others around hiding in the dark, because every now and again a red sniper rifle dot would appear on his chest. He stared defiantly up at Jim, his blood thrumming with adrenaline and a dark part of him missed the thrill of danger that the war had offered him. His heart pumped harder in his chest with excitement.

“You don't understand very much. God knows what Sherlock sees in you. I've never met anyone so boring.” He gave another wild smile and looked around at the damp car park with his nose wrinkled before fixing John with a smile. “I had so much planned for Sherlock, John. All he needed to do was marry Levinson. At first I thought to marry him myself but I'm so changeable and let's be honest, seeing Sherlock marry that big idiot would have been funny. But then he had to go and find you 'interesting,'” Jim said, supported by finger air quotes and a disgusted expression on his face.

The sound of footsteps moving toward them echoed across the large space before Sherlock stepped into the light, looking absolutely put out at being inconvenienced.

“If you've touched him,” Sherlock snapped at Jim as he leant down to cup John's cheek and search his eyes, checking if he was OK. John swallowed and gave him a nod.

“I'm OK,” John stated firmly.

Sherlock nodded and stood to his full height, regarding Jim warily. “I'm assuming there's a reason behind all this. Underground car park is a bit needlessly dramatic.”

Jim gave a small hum, eyes playful. “What can I say? I'm a bit of a drama queen,” Jim said, throwing a hand up flamboyantly.

Sherlock co*cked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow before noticing a red dot appear on his chest. He rolled his eyes. “Snipers. I feel like you've been watching too many Bond movies.”

Jim let out a loud, manic laugh and then smiled. “I do like to be dramatic and I don't want you two leaving any time soon. They'd be no fun in all this if you could just walk away any time.”

“So? Are you going to explain why you pulled me away from an interesting case and took John hostage?”

“Maybe I'm just bored or maybe it's because I had everything in place but then you went and married HIM!” Jim said, becoming enraged and shouting as he pointed at John. “I'm a specialist you see, Sherlock. I take companies, sometimes struggling and sometimes not and I overthrow them through blackmail and other such fun activities. I don't even do it for the money, I do it as a game to keep me entertained. You can understand that. The world is soooo dull after all. You see, I have most world leaders in my back pocket and so the final piece of my puzzle was the Holmes's; one of the most influential families in the world. I've been watching you for a while, seeing what you're up to and how you go about avoiding your obvious drug habit. You were a lot less boring when you were high. We even met once, down an alley. You thought I was gay and disregarded me like I was a bit of dirt under your shoe.”

Sherlock frowned, not remembering. “So you were what? Planning on overthrowing us through Levinson because you couldn't do it yourself.”

“Obviously. It was going to be so easy to go through Levinson thanks to our merger and drive your family-run businesses stock down until your name would be a thing of disgust to everyone. So many people invested in Holmes owned companies would blame your mother and your brother. They'd lose everything and in turn, you'd lose everything. I'd had my eye on Levinson for a while and then everything just fitted into place when Sherlock Holmes himself was to be married to him. It was going to be beautiful, Sherlock. Your brother would have been so furious, it would have been hilarious. No more government job for him.”

“I don't understand,” John said, still frowning.

“Should get that on a t-shirt,” Jim replied with a smirk.

“Surely everyone knows what you're doing. You leave failed companies in your wake,” John remarked.

Jim moved forward and circled behind John, lowering his mouth to John's ear, lowering his tone to a whisper. “I'm a specialist, Johnny boy. I come out on top and look innocent in the process. Shifting of blame is remarkably easy during a takeover bid. I've seen CEO's beg and cry and weep and I just laughed in their faces.” Jim stood and slid his eyes to Sherlock. “So, as I was saying, I was going to drag the Holmes name into the mud and takeover, well, everything. Because I could.”

“I'm awfully sorry I ruined all your plans,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically, flicking his eyes to John and rolling his eyes.

Jim raised an eyebrow at Sherlock mockingly. “You don't seem as upset as you should be, Sherlock. I'm a little hurt by that to be honest with you.”

Sherlock looked at him like he was bored out of his mind. “Well, then I apologise,” Sherlock dead panned before making a move toward John. “Let's go.”

The second he put a hand on John's shoulder several red dots appeared all over him and then they all moved to the middle of John's chest, causing Sherlock to take a wary step back.

“You ruined everything. So I wanted to ruin you. Do you see how that works? I'm upset that you screwed me over so I'm going to make you upset too. It'll all be even and we can go our separate ways.”

“And how do you propose to even it out?” Sherlock asked, trying to act unaffected but his eyes kept straying to the bundle of red dots on John's chest where guns were aimed.

Jim clicked his tongue and followed Sherlock's eye line. “That's how.”

Sherlock shook his head, his feet taking a step toward Moriarty as his eyes filled with rage. “Don't you dare hurt him.”

“It's the only way. You see I want to burn you, Sherlock. Burn the very heart out of you and your heart is with him, so you can see how this works. I can't let John Watson live because then you've won and there's no universe where you win. Not this game at least. You are fun though and after I've killed your husband, you'll be hearing more from me because eventually Sherlock, I will be the one to cause your downfall. Not yet though, no one will harm you until I decide it's time. But that won't be for a little while yet so for now, I'll give you two a moment. You know... to say goodbye or whatever it is you ordinary people do.”

John looked over at Sherlock for guidance. His body was thrumming and instead of panicking, he stared at Sherlock, his eyes searching as he waited for some guidance on their plan. Sherlock though looked... calm. It didn't make sense. Maybe Sherlock had just accepted what had to happen but that made John want to scream. Sherlock bent down to kiss him on the lips slowly, reverently, like he wanted it to last forever. John's eyes fluttered down, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes, and he noticed something in Sherlock's jacket.

“I love you,” John stated, his eyes looking around into the darkness and then back to Sherlock. “I do. More than you'll ever know and I can't let him hurt you.”

Sherlock felt his heart come to stop and then John lurched upward, grabbing at something inside Sherlock's jacket pocket. He shoved Sherlock to the floor and then took aim, his hand steady, and took the shot before anyone shot him. It all happened in a split second. He watched the bullet go through Jim's lower chest, knowing that sadly it wasn't a kill-shot, at the same time he felt a bullet hit his side causing pain to rip through his body as he crumpled to the floor, the gun clattering onto the ground. He was expecting more shots to be heard considering he wasn't dead but none came and all he could hear was sudden shouting and Sherlock calling him 'stupid' over and over again into his ear as something was pressed to his wound.

A few moments later, he shut his eyes and slipped into the black.

...

Twenty Minutes Earlier....

“How many snipers?” Sherlock asked Mycroft as they sat in the car outside the underground car park.

“Seven in all. I have my men on them right now, waiting for my signal.”

Sherlock sat back as a man in a blue suit fixed a small wire into his clothing with a microphone. He wrapped his long coat around it to conceal it and then took the gun Mycroft was holding out for him.

“Just in case. Do not use it unless something goes wrong. Keep John calm. You obviously can't tell him the plan, but make sure he doesn't do anything unpredictable.”

“Understood,” Sherlock said with a quick nod, his eyes flicking to the ramp that leads into the underground car park, his stomach flipping at the idea of John down there being threatened.

“You understand everything? Just get him to acknowledge his plan and what he's been up to. That's all we need to take him to court and get him put away. We'll deal with the rest. The snipers will be taken out by my men and you'll be free to take John home.”

Sherlock wrapped his coat tightly around him and got out of the car into the grey drizzle and strode toward the car park with purpose.

…

Now

John woke to shouting. Sherlock shouting. His body ached as he pushed his eyes open and he recognised the white, cotton sheets and the beeping noises from next to him as a sign he was in hospital.

Outside, slightly muffled, was Sherlock. “You should have taken the snipers out straight away, Mycroft. You took too long and now look at what's happened. What is even the point of you?”

“I told you to stop John doing anything unpredictable.”

“How was I supposed to know he'd notice my gun and shoot Moriarty? How, Mycroft? It should never have gotten so far where he felt like that was the only thing he could do. You should have intervened so much sooner.”

With that, John slid his eyes to the door that opened quietly and Sherlock walked in, his hair wild and cheeks flushed red. The anger in his eyes thawed completely on seeing John awake and he strode across the room to John's bedside.

“Hey,” John said, giving a weak, pained smile.

Sherlock pushed his forehead down to press against John's. “You are so stupid.”

John almost huffed a laugh but the pain that went through him at the movement stopped him. “Why is that?”

“Because Mycroft was going to take out all the snipers and arrest Jim Moriarty. Instead, you had to go and shoot Jim, causing one of the snipers to shoot you before Mycroft's team stepped in.”

John swallowed, his body heavy and achy and he gave Sherlock a stern look. “Thanks for the heads up that you had everything under control. We should have some kind of signal next time. I wondered why I wasn't shot dead by the other snipers.”

“Next time? John, there will never be a next time,” Sherlock said earnestly, his hand grabbing John's and squeezing.

“You never know,” John said. “How did Mycroft even know something was going on?”

“You remember before my marriage they looked into the merger carefully, well they also went deep into Jim's history with other companies. They didn't find much, but they found enough to be suspicious so he's been keeping an eye on him. Mycroft picked me up on my way to where you were and explained everything. I was wearing a wire to record what Jim said to us. Worked like a charm until you got shot.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, can you pass me my medical file so I can see the damage?”

Sherlock silently went and retrieved his file, handing it to John. “You'll be in hospital and then physiotherapy for a while but they'll be no long term effects. You're very lucky considering what an idiot you are,” Sherlock said fondly.

“Second time I've been shot in the past couple years. My new years resolution for next year will have to be trying not to get shot.”

“Perhaps a rule to live by,” Sherlock said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

John finally looked around his private room and at the large flat screen TV and leather chairs spread around. “Private hospital?”

“Obviously. I don't trust the NHS with you.”

“Don't be such a snob,” John admonished before feeling his cheeks go a little red. “The, err, thing I said to you in the car park, before I shot him. Just forget it, OK?”

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. You never said you loved me and tried to die to save me.”

“Good.”

Sherlock's phone gave a ping and he pulled it out. “A murder.”

“What? Who's died?”

Sherlock grinned. “Don't know yet but Lestrade is letting me onto crime scenes now. It's Christmas.”

John smiled at the light in Sherlock's eyes, realising how much Sherlock needed something to do and enjoy in life.

“You can go. It's fine. I'm just going to be lying here bored.”

Sherlock jumped off the bed like a kid who'd just been given permission to go swimming. “I'll be back.”

“Oh Sherlock, what happened? With Jim?”

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment. “He's... in critical condition but stable. Once he wakes, he'll be questioned and Mycroft will ensure he doesn't see the light of day.”

“Are the police involved considering I did shoot someone?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Mycroft took care of it. Can't have a murderer sullying the Holmes name.”

“I'm a Watson,” John argued.

“We'll see.” And with that, Sherlock strode out of the room, coat billowing behind him. John rested back on the bed and picked up the remote to the TV and settled in for some daytime trashy TV.

…

Lestrade let me onto the murder crime scene. It's like heaven but better. SH

I'm watching Jeremy Kyle in which some girl gave birth to her brother's baby at 17. Please distract me. JW

Your taste in TV is an embarrassment. Victim is mid-to-late twenties female with tattoos of turtles and snails. No sign of struggle but clear shot to the head and gun no where in sight so suicide ruled out. SH

Any suspect ideas? JW

Four so far. SH

John huffed a laugh and thought it'd be best to leave him to it. It was only a few minutes later when he got another message.

Wish you were here. SH

Me too. On the plus side, the food here is brilliant. JW

Be back soon. Off to victim's boyfriend's house to see if he owns a ceramic flower pot. I'll explain later. SH

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

Notes:

Longer last chapter. Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Four Months Later...

“It's unusual to see you standing around a dead body without your dear husband by your side keeping you in line,” Mycroft commented as he swung his umbrella by his side and approached Sherlock. Sherlock was down a small alleyway, police milling around in high vis jackets as a dead body lay face down on the pavement.

“He's at a physio appointment. What are you doing here?” Sherlock snapped, turning to look at his brother.

“I'm here to remind you about the event on Saturday night. Mildred Hayes birthday party. It would be a good time for you to introduce John to our society. People are eager to meet him as you can imagine.”

“I have no tolerance for such an insufferable event, Mycroft. We won't be attending.” Sherlock crouched down next to the body, peering closely at the stained shirt the man had been wearing.

“As you wish. But I may remind that it would be highly unfortunate if John found out about this party, knew you and he had been invited, and knew you turned it down. He'd probably assume you were ashamed of him and his common ways.”

“Is that a threat?” Sherlock snapped, standing to his feet and shooting a glare at his brother.

“It's been four months, Sherlock. Four months of keeping him to yourself and refusing to share. You were always a selfish child. And let's not pretend all these crime scenes you both attend are helping him socialise. He needs to meet people as your husband. As a Holmes. Surely you can understand that.”

“What I understand is that we have no obligation to attend an event whereby John will be thrust into a society that values wealth above all else. You know people will attempt to take advantage of him due to his status as my husband and I refuse to let any of that happen. There is no need for us to be there and make small talk.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and shoved the umbrella into the pavement so he could lean on it. “I suppose I should remind you that without my interference you wouldn't even be married. It'd be Jackson Levinson on your arm at this party.”

Sherlock's jaw tightened and his fists clenched. “Am I to be indebted to you the rest of my life, Mycroft? Is that what you wanted?”

“It's a pleasant result from all of this. Don't make me order you. I've been turning my back on your little crime scene dalliances and keeping a number of photos out of the media for you. I've given you a husband you actually love and respect. You will come to this party. As a thank you.”

Sherlock huffed like a small child, bottom lip out in a sulk. “And then will the debt be repaid?”

Mycroft smirked. “We'll see. You know how I enjoy having some power over you.”

Sherlock turned away from him. “Go away, I'm working.”

“I shall see you Saturday,” Mycroft said, no room for argument in his tone, and turned to go back to his black town car, umbrella swinging by his side.

…

John drove up to his house on Baker Street, parking right outside and shutting off the purring engine. He ran a hand lovingly over the dashboard and grinned. It had been one of Sherlock's first presents to him; a custom-made black Aston Martin with Italian leather seats. It was a thing of exquisite beauty and his only real indulgence. There were days when Sherlock was being an arrogant prick that he would go so far as to say that he loved the car more than him.

He grabbed the Tesco bag from the passenger seat and stepped out onto the pavement, locking the car with a quick press of a button, and walked up the small stairs to let himself into his home.

He headed up to the living room and stopped dead on the threshold when he saw the back of Marvin. His eyes widened and he quickly wondered if he could creep away without being noticed but unfortunately Sherlock, who was sitting in the grey chair, had already clocked him.

“John, come in.”

John walked in gingerly as Marvin whirled around to gaze critically at him but fortunately his eyes lit up when he took John in.

“Oh my darling, look at how lovely he looks. I told you, clothes can do much for a stocky frame. Those jeans are perfectly fitted and that blue Brunello Cucinelli cashmere cardigan makes me want to cry. What a sight to behold. He no longer looks homeless.”

John's shoulders slumped. “Yeah well, you two got rid of all my other clothes without telling me.”

Marvin tutted. “Oh sweetheart, don't be a grump. Those clothes were old enough to have dressed dinosaurs. Look at you now. If you are a millionaire, you should at least dress like one.”

John forced a smile onto his face before crossing over to Sherlock to press a kiss to his cheek. Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on the Tesco bag.

“What did you get?” Sherlock asked.

“Just some milk and a few other things.” John tried to move away but he wasn't fast enough and Sherlock pulled the plastic bag onto his lap and opened it to look at the contents.

“Four packets of chocolate digestives?”

“I was hungry?” John tried. Sherlock raised a patient, amused eyebrow. “Fine, they were on offer. It was buy one get one free, OK? Thought I'd stock up.”

Marvin frowned in confusion and Sherlock sighed. “He keeps shopping like he's got the budget of a peasant. We have eight packs of sausages taking up valuable freezer space I could be using for body parts all because they were on offer,” Sherlock explained.

John grabbed at the plastic bag and threw a glare at Sherlock as he stomped over to the kitchen to put the items away. “Saving money is good practice,” he said over his shoulder.

“For poor people perhaps,” Marvin snidely commented, shooting a smirk at Sherlock.

“I'm going to the study downstairs because there's too much snobby asshole going on in this room,” John said with irritation, feeling like he was the butt of a joke.

“I'll pick your suit without you then,” Sherlock said casually as he pulled his cup of tea to his mouth and took a measured sip.

“Suit for what?” John asked, stopping on the threshold of the room on his way out.

“Party this Saturday. It's going to be worse that torture but we must endure it. Mycroft will feel entitled to manipulate me for longer if I don't.”

John just rolled his eyes and turned back around to exit the room. “Pick whatever you want. I have the fashion sense of a goldfish after all.”

Marvin clapped his hands with a nod. “Brilliant. I'll pick something for him.”

John walked down to the foyer and over to the recently renovated study, collapsing into the thick leather chair in the corner and opening a book. It was his one space that was all his and he used it sometimes to get away from Sherlock when he was being particularly annoying.

…

“You're nervous,” Sherlock commented as they were driven to the party in a black car, John fidgeting beside him, adjusting his jacket several times.

“I'm fine,” John replied, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “It's just different from before isn't it? I was just that random house mate that most people assumed was your way of doing charity. Now I'm...you know... your husband.”

“They're all vain and obnoxious, John. Don't take anything they say to you seriously. They will all suck up to you no doubt because of the influence you now hold but just ignore them all and we'll be out of there in no time.”

“OK, good,” John said, still moving awkwardly next him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved his hand across to John's thigh to give it a reassuring squeeze.

“How's the case?” John asked, trying to distract himself.

“Solved. Overdose. So incredibly boring and easy. Even you could have figured it out.”

“Thanks,” John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes, before noticing the beautiful lit up house they were coming up to. “We're here.”

There were some official photographers standing at the entrance taking pictures of guests arriving and they noticed Sherlock immediately once they were approaching the entrance to the large stately home. Sherlock stood for about two seconds for his photo to be taken and John just awkwardly stood off to the side, unsure what to do, but then Sherlock took his hand and pulled him inside where everyone was gathered.

John looked around, feeling uncomfortable as he watched people sneaking glances at him before turning away and saying something to the group they were stood in.

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” someone squealed across the room. Sherlock's face broke into a reluctant smile as a tiny brunette approached, holding up her dress at her sides so she could walk faster without tripping over it. She couldn't have been more than eighteen years old at a push and seemed full of buzzing energy.

“Fiona. How lovely to see you.”

“You never mean it but that doesn't matter. I'm pleased you've come. I was hoping you'd attend more functions now you're not scared of people constantly hitting on you. You have been the talk of the town for months now. Don't be rude, introduce me to your darling husband.”

John smiled, feeling strangely at ease around her. She seemed slightly less fake than everyone else and her smile was sincere in a sweet, innocent way.

“This is John. John, this is a Fi. She is a cousin of Anthea's.”

John sagged a little in relief that she was family and he wouldn't have to be quite as on his guard. “Nice to meet you.”

She stared at him for an uncomfortable minute before pushing her hip into Sherlock teasingly. “He's cute. Good choice.” She turned and addressed John. “Don't suppose you have a brother my age do you?”

He shook his head with an apologetic smile. “No. I have a sister who only makes contact when she wants money from me. Those calls have rapidly increased recently.”

She just grinned a toothy smile at him. “Anthea was right. You're adorable.”

John felt a bit put out at people describing him like some puppy but he kept the smile on his face for as long as he could.

She turned to Sherlock. “I'll be back later. I need to go flatter your brother because I want him to persuade my mum and Anthea to let me have another horse. I only have two but everyone at my school has at least three. It's so unfair. I may as well just sign on to the dole at this rate.” She whirled around, hiked up her dress again and started walking away, full of hyperactivity.

“She's slightly out of touch isn't she? Although, I'd argue the same with you to be honest. You thought the tube was a myth until a few weeks ago.”

Sherlock snorted. “It just seemed so stupid. Who would ride a train underground where it's hot and smelly? How ridiculous.”

John just rolled his eyes. “I'm going to go and grab another drink,” John remarked and noticed Sherlock smirking. “What?”

“They'll all attack when you're defenceless.”

“You mean when you're not standing next to me?”

“Exactly. Good luck. I'll come and save you later. It'll be interesting to see how you fare.”

“Nothing better than the support of a husband,” John teased, leaning up to press a firm kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock tried to deepen it but John was far too aware of their surroundings to permit that and so he gave Sherlock a brief smile, took a deep breath and headed for the bar area.

John was only five steps away from Sherlock's protection when people descended on him.

He actually missed being invisible or disregarded as he found himself surrounded by women who all seemed to tower over him in their expensive heels and dresses. He felt like he was being pulled in a million directions as he was bombarded with questions about Sherlock, his money, where he was going to invest this year, which charities he was supporting, where he was going to summer this year, and then the invitations started flowing in. Everyone wanted he and Sherlock at their houses, their holiday homes, their charity functions. Then the men started showing up and they would casually enquire as to who they use as an investment broker, whether he was interested in buying into any companies through shares, if he could put a good word in to Mycroft about them and so on. Half the time he just mumbled non-committal answers because how he was supposed to know where all their shares were or whether he and Sherlock were free next March to attend someone's birthday party. The whole thing was exhausting.

But what made it worse was that it all seemed somewhat fake. To his face everyone would smile and flatter him constantly, trying to get him to agree to come to whatever dinner they wanted him at, but then he'd tune in to the small gatherings he wasn't stood at and hear snide remarks about why someone like Sherlock would pick someone like him. They'd attack his looks by muttering about how short he was, how he didn't even have a good body, his thinning hair, the bags under his eyes and John swallowed, trying not to listen or react. One particular man who was stood a few feet away didn't even lower this voice when he joked that John must be very good in bed if a Holmes was going to lower himself to marrying him. The woman standing next to the unknown man laughed and said he probably got all that sort of experience from the army.

He couldn't take it any more and apologised to the people who were around him, some of them actually seemingly quite nice, and escaped toward the hallway and found a small bathroom.

…

Sherlock found him a few moments later as he let himself in to the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

“Hiding?” Sherlock said with a smirk as he came to stand next to John.

“I think I've just been invited to fifty things and I don't remember one of them.” John let out a shuddery sigh and loosened his tie slightly before running a hand over his hair.

“It's what happens when you're rich. People want you for their new investments or to be on the board of their charity.”

“It's exhausting,” John complained, bracing himself on the sink, eyes downcast so Sherlock couldn't look him in the eye because if he did, he'd see how upset he was and he couldn't let that happen.

Sherlock came up behind him to slide his hands around John's waist and push his nose into the back of John's neck. “We can go soon.”

“Good. If I'm asked where I'm going to summer one more time I might scream,” John said with a sigh as he stood up straight and relaxed back into Sherlock's embrace.

There was something so intimate and affectionate about Sherlock some times. Sure, there'd be days when Sherlock would almost blow up the kitchen and they'd argue for hours on end over who was going to clean up the mess and then they'd go to bed that night on opposite sides of the bed. But then there were days when it felt like Sherlock couldn't bear to not be with him for even a second. Sherlock was one hell of a cuddler when he was in the mood and it was always a challenge to extract himself from under Sherlock in the mornings. And yet, Sherlock hadn't uttered the three words John wanted to hear so badly and he tried to not care, not even think about it, but it was hard when it felt like his own chest would burst with all the love he felt toward Sherlock. It hurt that it was clearly not the case for Sherlock.

“I don't want to go back out there,” John admitted quietly.

There was a beat of silence. “Can I give you a blowj*b?”

John huffed out a laugh. Sherlock had recently become ever so slightly obsessed with John's dick but he didn't think right that second it was appropriate.

“Maybe later.”

Sherlock ran a hand along John's shirt to his crotch and gave John's penis a quick squeeze over his trousers. “I like you in this suit.”

“You like me in everything.”

“You speak the truth,” Sherlock murmured in John's ear before dropping a few kisses to the side of John's neck.

Before John could reply he was spun around, pressed against the sink and his trousers undone and dropped to around his ankles. Sherlock gave him a pleased smirk and dropped to his knees shamelessly. That was all it took for John's co*ck to harden considerably because he had yet to discover anything that got him as hard as Sherlock on his knees in front of him. Sherlock sucked lightly on the head of his co*ck, sloppily licking at the slit which made John groan and throw his head back. Then Sherlock started bobbing his head, keeping a light suction, and John stared down at him, one hand absently going to run through Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock glanced up and stopped all movement as their eyes locked. John frowned in confusion when Sherlock pulled off, stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You're upset,” he observed, voice worryingly blank with emotion.

“Well, not right then I wasn't. You going to finish me off or?”

“Stop deflecting. It's painfully obvious. Who said what to you? I know how to blackmail these people and ruin their lives. Tell me who it was.”

John swallowed and looked away. “Nothing was said, I was just being overly sensitive. It's all fine.”

Sherlock's eyes darkened and a storm of anger whirled in them. “How dare you lie to me to cover up for those pathetic human beings out there. I knew we shouldn't have come.”

John quickly leaned down to grab his trousers from where they were still around his ankles, knowing that he didn't want to have this conversation with his now soft dick out. “Can we go home then?”

“Not until you at least describe the people who said things to you.”

“No one said anything to me.”

Sherlock tapped his lip with his finger thoughtfully as he narrowed his eyes at John. “Ok, then. Let's go out there together. I'll be able to tell by your body language fairly quickly.”

“Can't you just leave it?”

“You expect me to just sit idly by while people insult my husband? You are the very best human being I've even known and you are a Holmes now which means you are above all of this. You should be god to these people, not a subject of ridicule.”

And with that, John was pulled out of the bathroom by Sherlock, their hands tightly entwined together. It was no good trying to hide from Sherlock because the second he saw the arrogant asshole who'd made a comment about his bedroom skills being the sole reason Sherlock was with him, he was done for. Sherlock was like a sniffer dog and paused the second he felt John react and that was that.

“Simon, how are you?” Sherlock said pleasantly, coming to stand opposite the man, John still tightly holding his hand. Next to the man was the woman who'd also made an unpleasant remark.

“It's, err, Sam, but I'm wonderful. This is Maria by the way.” Sam stood up straight with a look on his face like he'd just struck gold by being addressed by Sherlock. “And how are you Mr Holmes?”

“Married. To John. How's your marriage?”

Sam's smile froze as Sherlock's face dropped into a dangerous, cold glare.

The woman next to him, Maria, widened her eyes at Sam in horror. “You're married?”

Sam swallowed guiltily. “No, we're separated. We don't love each other, not like I love you.”

“He probably says that to his personal assistant too. Who is having his child. And let's not even discuss his male lover in Greece.” Sherlock gave an innocent smile and walked away, an arm thrown around John's shoulder keeping him tight up to his side.

“You didn't have to do that,” John mumbled to him.

“Of course I did. I can't have people insulting the man I love. Oh god, Anthea's coming over.”

John didn't even hear or register anything after the word 'love'. Love. Such a simple term, and arguably over used by naive teenagers, but from Sherlock it meant everything. John blinked dumbly a few times, wishing Sherlock could repeat that sentence over and over again for the rest of their lives.

“How are you two? Other than ruining Sam Martin's life that is. Good job.” She leant forward to press a quick kiss to John's cheek. Even since he'd been married he and Anthea had become members of an unspoken 'Married to a temperamental Holmes' club and spent a good portion of time texting each other with help and advice. It was mainly one way from Anthea to John for now because she had far more experience in dealing with them.

“We're going to go,” Sherlock said firmly and Anthea nodded with an understanding smile. “You should probably go and drag Mycroft away from the buffet.”

“I happen to like him a little round,” she said teasingly as she brought her glass to her lips and took a sip of her drink.

Sherlock's face screwed up into disgust as John let out a loud laugh and Anthea winked at him. “See you soon, John. Sherlock, try not to get into too much trouble.”

John smiled as she turned and walked away. “God, if I weren't mostly gay, she'd be my dream woman.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a playful huff as he took John's hand in his and led him out of the party.

…

“Harder, John!” Sherlock snapped from his position on his back in bed, knees up and spread loosely around John's hips which were thrusting fast into him.

“I'm going hard,” John said back with a grunt as the noise of their skin slapping together filled the room.

“Faster,” Sherlock said loudly and desperately, his hands clawing at John's back.

“I need to shove a ball gag in your mouth or something,” John mumbled breathlessly as he changed his angle slightly and pushed in hard enough that Sherlock cursed loudly, eyes shutting in bliss.

“There, right there, don't change your angle,” Sherlock ordered and John almost laughed at what a power bottom Sherlock was turning in to. He couldn't complain because it got him hot that Sherlock liked being the bottom but still dominant and controlling. Trying to keep Sherlock on his back was an uphill battle because he seemed to much prefer riding John and so it was generally only a matter of time before John was shoved onto his back so Sherlock could take the wheel.

John shoved his face into Sherlock's neck, huffing out air and grunting as he tried to keep his pace so Sherlock wouldn't yell at him even more. “You feel amazing.” Sherlock widened his legs even more so John's stomach was brushing the erection lying on Sherlock's stomach. “I love you so much,” John rushed out quietly as he felt his org*sm approach.

John lifted his head to look at Sherlock as his balls tightened and the look of adoration that was in Sherlock's eyes threw him straight over the edge as he shuddered through his org*sm, unloading hard and deep into Sherlock with a grunt. He was only vaguely aware that Sherlock was moaning at the same time and there was suddenly some wet stickiness between their bodies which confirmed that Sherlock had come.

John flopped onto Sherlock, not bothering to pull out quite yet as he felt Sherlock's hand come up to stroke through his hair. “I... same,” Sherlock said with a kiss to his forehead. John grinned and it was the type of smile he could imagine having forever because the ball of happiness inside him felt indestructible.

“If you had to choose between a triple murder and me, what would you choose?” John asked as he leant down to pull himself out and roll off Sherlock's body to curl up against his side, arm thrown across his chest.

“Are the murders obvious or difficult to solve?”

“Difficult. Very, very difficult.”

Sherlock's expression took on mock thought. “Hmm. Not sure.”

John laughed as he caught the smile on Sherlock's face. “You're such an idiot.”

“You mean genius. Don't pretend my intelligence isn't a turn on for you. You think I don't notice but I do. Especially when I'm deducing on a crime scene and you start adjusting yourself subtly.”

John blushed a little bit, having always thought he was being discreet when he got a semi when Sherlock was showing up half of Scotland Yard. “Yeah well, I'm only with you for your money,” John replied jokingly.

Sherlock let out a loud laugh that was like a beautiful song to John's ears. “I thought you were with me because of my looks.”

“You are lovely to look at,” John agreed, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's chest.

They dipped into comfortable silence, the only noise being traffic from London outside the window.

“I do, you know.” Sherlock swallowed, stealing himself. “Love you. Maybe not as much as I will one day because we're still new and everyday I find something new and exciting about you that increases how I feel for you.”

John smiled and rubbed the tip of his nose against the tiny bit of chest hair Sherlock had. “I needed to hear it. So thank you.”

“Also, you have a large penis which I really approve of.”

John chuckled. “You had to go and ruin a beautiful moment by mentioning the size of my dick.”

“It's big, John. I was stating the obvious.”

John leaned up to press a wet, sloppy kiss to Sherlock's mouth and grinned against his lips. “Every guy likes to hear that so thanks.”

Sherlock ran a hand over John's hair and curled his fingers around the base of John's neck as they kissed slowly again, both of them letting out contented hums.

A few minutes later John's eyes slipped shut as sleep overcame him and that night, as he lay in Sherlock's arms, he didn't dream of the war or his injury or Jim Moriarty. Instead, he dreamt of Sherlock and their future together in which they solved crimes in overly expensive clothes and lived a life filled with luxury and privilege that he'd never have imagined. He dreamt of his gorgeous car and the way Sherlock had looked so proud of himself when he'd given it to John. He dreamt of the ridiculous and scary experiments he would often come home to. He dreamt of that day he was working as a waiter to make ends meet after returning from Afghanistan and he got told to step outside because he'd embarrassed himself with his bad leg. He dreamt of the moment he came face to face with a man who was wonderful and crazy and beautiful and going to change his life.

When he woke in the morning, he stared at Sherlock with a happy grin on his face knowing that none of it was a dream.

The End

Notes:

Aaaaaand it's finished. A couple people have asked if I'm doing a sequel or will write more in this universe and I will never say never but right now I'm finishing off some unrelated one-shots. I may come back to this though.
I have to say thank you so much to everyone who has read/commented/kudosed/stuck with it etc. When I started writing this I had an aim for 60 kudos overall and now I'm on 460+ I'm a little overwhelmed. I used to be mainly in Star Trek fandom but now my love has turned towards Sherlock and you're all so wonderful and welcoming. Sherlock fandom - stay awesome you beautiful people.
Thank you again everyone!

Spare Change - Ermerness - Sherlock (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One

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Chapter 2: Chapter Two

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Chapter 3: Chapter Three

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Chapter 4: Chapter Four

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Chapter 5: Chapter Five

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Chapter 6: Chapter Six

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Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

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Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

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Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

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Chapter 10: Chapter Ten

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Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

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Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve

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Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen

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Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

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References