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Title: On His Majesty’s Secret Service (1/2)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/ John
Rating: NC-17
Words: 6600 (11600 overall)
Summary: It’s a question of limits, and a fine line that John treads in the struggle to balance his duties and his burgeoning affection for his flatmate. AU where John is a retired spy recruited for one final mission.
A/N: Title is both shamelessly borrowed from the Bond movie and an allusion to Sherlock’s jibe of Mycroft being a ‘queen’ in S2E01.
***
One never really leaves the Service.
John always finds his way back to it, one way or another. Sometimes it finds him.
And sometimes it kidnaps him just as he’s leaving his dreary bedsit with nary an exchanged pleasantry, and transports him to a cramped office at a construction site. Just to receive a mission briefing.
The Service does enjoy dramatics like that on occasion. If it even is them.
As the sleek black car he travelled here in departs, he’s ushered into the darkened room, its ceiling adorned by a single fluorescent tube. He doesn’t feel like a hostage, nor is he under immediate threat, but for all the secrecy surrounding this latest mission, he might as well be.
With a small measure of willpower, John quashes that thought. He should be grateful for this opportunity.
The last mission hadn’t gone so well; while masquerading as a medic in Afghanistan in order to retrieve a sensitive file, he’d been shot by a cleverly hidden sniper and invalided home instantly. Reason: a shattered shoulder, which even Britain’s finest surgeons could do little about, and a supposedly shattered psyche, rectified by a therapist who suggested mundane activities as “blogging” to relieve accumulated PTSD from his years in the Service.
There’s a word for people like him. The public calls it retired. The Service calls it repatriated.
John calls it abandoned, though he’d been thinking of resigning anyway. Only, “retirement” turned out to be four walls and whole lot of time he didn’t know what to do with. But now, there’s a chance to fuel his adrenaline urges again, and—well, it’s not as if he has a choice anyway.
The provenance of this second chance remains suspect, however; the people in the car explained that the remainder of his contract was bought out, not by an organization, but a single man. From what he’s heard in certain circles, however, it might as well be an organization. Rumors claim the man heads MI6, his own ex-agency, while other whispers weaving through the grapevine say he occupies a minor position in the British government.
Still, they must want him for something, or he wouldn’t be here.
They leave him in the room, seated on the single chair. He’s surprised at the lack of identification procedures—rudimentary fingerprint or retinal scans and the like. Maybe they’ve decided that he hardly poses as a threat since he’s been invalided home. It’s probably the same reason why his mission briefing is in some dingy basement instead of a crisp office at Vauxhall Cross.
A door opens into the gloom of the room, and a slow shuffle of steps approaches, punctuated by the tap of an umbrella point. The steps stop a few paces away, enough to capture the shadowed outline of a three piece suit, an umbrella, and immaculately polished shoes. A disembodied voice addresses him—by his number, as per protocol, never his name—and he’s handed a thin envelope, the color of burnt umber.
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it,” the voice states, “involves the infiltration of this man’s life. Document his comings and goings. Make note of all contacts, friends and acquaintances. Memorize his habits, mannerisms and anything else of importance.”
Good lord. John’s already wincing internally at the opening line. Taking cues from sub-par American spy movies?
He teases the crisp edge of a photograph from the envelope, breath catching in his throat at the sight; the subject is tall, with high cheekbones and eyes so leached of color they appear almost grey. The shock of dark, unruly hair makes him seem a wild creature, both beautiful and fey.
“This man,” John inquires, trying to swallow inaudibly. “Is he an operative for another country? How dangerous is he?” He assesses the picture and frowns; the subject doesn’t look armed, but John wonders if he’s got a signature style of attack that’s indiscernible from the photo.
The only response is a throaty laugh from the man in the shadows. “That information is on a need-to-know basis. You’ll be given further information as it pertains to your mission.”
What he does receive is the name of the supposed mark, however: Sherlock Holmes.
Other details are given: how he’ll be introduced to the man and when (by another retired operative, going by the name of Stamford), how the mission will involve his more latent abilities (John has to chuckle at that, as it means he’ll be needed for his ‘medical know-how’ again) and pertinent information standard with any mission.
It’s the last detail that catches his attention. He clears his throat. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“The alias you will be assuming for this mission is John.”
It’s nothing he didn’t know; his own name, simple and unassuming. Neither unique, nor one for challenging authority. But the surname—
“Watson.”
At this, he almost starts, though he has enough control over his own body for it to only appear like a nervous tic. “John…Watson?”
He’s being given use of his name for this mission, his real name, before any of this started, before he became an invisible force for Queen and country. Suddenly, the enormity of the situation crashes down on him: this will be his last and final mission, because he’s no longer a three digit number, or John-appended-with-a-serial-number—he’s John Watson again and this will be the closest mission he’ll ever have to civilian life.
***
Arranging the initial meeting with Sherlock Holmes is the easy part.
John’s discovered that the operative named “Stamford” is his old school mate Mike, who’s more than willing to play his part in the charade despite his quips about the Service. He brings John to the lab at St Bart’s, the hospital in which John trained, before his recruitment into the shadows of political influence and intrigue.
Upon stepping into the lab, John instantly makes his own assessment of Sherlock Holmes: he’s a handsome but useless academic type, with posh clothes likely tailor-made, probably born into money; his fingers are too pale and slim, belonging to hands that have never held a gun. It wouldn’t do to dismiss Holmes (Sherlock, John thinks, familiarize yourself) completely, though. Never underestimate the mark.
He doesn’t hesitate to ingratiate himself to the man, lending him his phone while continuing his assessment, before he’s distracted by “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I know you’re an army doctor,” Sherlock begins, and suddenly John’s own assessment of him is blown away in comparison to his potential flatmate’s, as the man reels off details about Afghanistan, an alcoholic brother (sister, really, but John’s kept her phone out of sentiment—stupid) and a psychosomatic limp. Besides the last two items, Sherlock’s managed to parse out the complete details of John’s cover story in Afghanistan.
He’s good, John decides, even if Sherlock hasn’t caught the traces of British operative that John’s taken pains to hide. Gathering that much detail, and only within seconds of their meeting. He can’t help but wonder who this man’s been trained by, or if he’s a rogue agent the SIS wants to keep tabs on. John represses a shiver of anticipation, wondering if he’ll actually have an opportunity to work with this man.
The intelligence they could gather; the phenomenal team they would make.
“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock’s sudden pause startles John out of his reverie, and he’s more than surprised to realize that he’s been standing there mesmerized by Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock flashes him a faux grin designed for swapping social niceties, all awkward lines around his mouth and eyes. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he nods, “and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”
With a dramatic flourish of his coat, Sherlock shuts the door, and John’s left standing there in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Not shock, as he’s performed retrieval missions of child geniuses and dueled with chess prodigies for missile launch codes, but still.
“He’s always like that,” Mike offers, with his characteristic cherub grin. His eyes are wide and round behind his spectacles, as if he’s equally awestruck by this Sherlock Holmes character. John nods absently, bidding him good day. As he limps out of the lab, he thinks Mike was right to leave the Service; he wouldn’t have lasted much longer, all pink and pudgy, his soft edges the telltale sign of a sedentary lifestyle.
Dismissing these thoughts, he decides that there must be more to Sherlock than his file provides, so when John returns to his bedsit, he runs a search on him through the Internet and combs his own special archive (copied verbatim from the SIS via an undetectable piggyback program).
Which is when he discovers that Sherlock has untraceable origins, and either an excellent cover story of his own, or a talent for wasting his intellect on a mere hobby.
If his sources are to be trusted. Sherlock Holmes is neither a former spy nor agent for MI6.
He’s a consulting detective. Whatever that is.
Eyeing the title of Sherlock’s website, The Science of Deduction warily, John begins to read.
***
221 B on Baker Street turns out to be a small, unassuming flat in central London. Within moments of his arrival, John slips a miniature audio bug into the skull on the mantelpiece. And while Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is busy puttering about the flat and hinting at the other bedroom upstairs (if they’ll be needing two bedrooms), he affixes a camera in the bookcase overlooking a table. A quick, surreptitious glance through the rest of the flat shows him other potential places for surveillance equipment, but he decides to leave it at the two; too many would be conspicuous, and Sherlock is nothing if not observant.
Two poisoned pills, one dead cabbie, and several weeks later, John’s formed a more detailed impression of the man he’s supposed to be observing. He calls this entry in his mental database Assessment of Sherlock’s Abilities. It reads as follows:
Would make a terrible operative. Has unparalleled observational skills, excellent grasp of chemistry and anatomy, but lacks knowledge regarding politics, astronomy and even basic self-preservation skills.
Because while Sherlock may be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, it’s not exactly helpful when he can’t identify a person who’s out to murder him. In fact, on their first night as flatmates (or mark and assassin, John hasn’t puzzled that out quite yet), he even has to kill to save Sherlock.
After all, surveillance can only go so far when the object of it ceases to live.
Sherlock also has a tendency to run headlong into trouble, often brandishing the gun he’s lifted from John’s bedside table, while John’s spent most of his life doing covert operations. The word clandestine would be lost on Sherlock, despite the man’s ability to act and charm his way into people’s flats and crime scenes.
In spite of Sherlock’s affinity for rushing into dangerous situations half-cocked, however, John still think Sherlock Holmes makes a fantastic consulting detective. So much so, that he’s decided to re-appropriate his PTSD blog to write about Sherlock’s cases. He leaves out crucial details and changes names, and it seems safe enough that his mysterious employer hasn’t said anything against it.
Life continues thus: Sherlock Holmes solves crimes and John Watson blogs about them, while discreetly exterminating the flies that threaten Sherlock’s brilliance and hiding the bodies.
They still make a phenomenal team.
***
“What are you writing about?”
Sherlock’s head pushes into the space by John’s neck, and John’s caught between irritation that no one has ever taught Sherlock the meaning of personal space, and a touch of sadness, that perhaps no one’s ever tried to approach Sherlock’s personal space.
“Us. The case.” John shifts minutely in his beige jumper. He’s taken care to choose his wardrobe carefully, and now has a collection of unremarkable cardigans and jumpers that are surprisingly comfortable.
“Again?” Sherlock makes a small huffing sound. “I thought you’d have grown tired of cheapening our cases by blogging sensationalist tripe,” he says, before curling up on his grey armchair opposite.
A gentle warmth pulses through John’s chest at Sherlock’s use of the word our. There is precious silence for a moment, before Sherlock turns over and flings out a hand to jab John in the knee.
“Cup of tea,” he demands, before adding, “thanks?” as an afterthought.
“You’ve got limbs, make your own tea,” John says, not looking up from his laptop (recently hacked into again by Sherlock—thank goodness he’d cleared his browsing history and filled it with unsubtle searches for porn). He’s just changed his password again, though each time he’s careful to keep it generic, nothing to do with his occupation, his mission. All his observations about Sherlock are stored in his head, leaving neither paper nor electronic trail for the detective to stumble upon.
“You’re closer,” comes the nonchalant response.
“Closer to what?” He follows Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh.” To the kitchen, John supposes, and with a sigh, he sets down the laptop and pads over to the kettle.
With a mug of hot water in hand, he shuffles over to the covered bowl where they keep their sugar and discovers a few pitiful granules clinging to the sides. “Sherlock, we’re out of sugar again.”
“Oh. Right.” From the kitchen, he sees Sherlock’s hand wave in classic prima donna fashion. “I used the last of it for an experiment.”
John shakes his head and walks to the fridge. “Well. At least we’ve got milk,” he manages, before Sherlock bolts upright and steps over the table to get to the kitchen.
“Wait, no. Don’t touch the milk, I’m incubating—”
With a quick twist of his hand, John shuts the door to the fridge. “Right, okay. I’m…going to go buy some sugar and milk. And don’t use it to incubate anything this time.” Sherlock nods, but John knows the milk is only safe until Sherlock’s next flight of experiment fancies.
“Get some crisps too,” Sherlock calls, returning to his armchair.
“I just bought some yesterday, don’t tell me you’ve…”
Sherlock rummages under the chair and fans out his collection of empty crisp packets like a hand of winning cards. “They were readily available,” he says, a pout in his voice, as if he can’t understand why John would chastise him for actually eating. He holds the packets out in offering, fixing John with an imploring look.
“Fine.” John rolls his eyes, but it’s only to hide the quick grin he has at the thought of Sherlock eating without prompting.
As he shrugs his jacket on and heads down the stairs, he can see Sherlock settle on the armchair again, with a triumphant smirk. John shakes his head again, his fond smile resurfacing, until he remembers he still needs to make his first monthly report.
There isn’t much to disclose, besides the fact that Sherlock still eats the dietary equivalent of an anorexic runway model and still coerces John into doing the legwork he doesn’t want to.
Oh, and The Cases. Yes, there are those, and plenty of them.
***
After getting the shopping, John makes a call at a phone booth near the Tesco’s. Soon enough, a black car arrives, sliding effortlessly to a stop against the curb. It takes him to an obscure car park several minutes away, and though John feels a little self-conscious hefting a bag of grocery with him to the meeting, at least he’ll have a ride home.
Living with Sherlock has reduced him to becoming practical to an extreme—they can’t both be squandering the month’s rent on cab fare.
“You’re certainly looking better, John,” comes a familiar voice from behind a parked car. There’s the telltale step-step-tap of his employer again, and this time, John can see the entirety of the person he works for: impeccably dressed as last time, but now with noticeable frown lines and a receding hairline.
John fights the urge to wince; he knows how he must have looked before. Newly injured, emaciated and on tenterhooks about his future as an operative, before being given this new purpose. By “M”, as he’s taken to calling his employer in his mind, because his attitude exudes the reek of old money and most of all, mystery.
“Your findings, please.”
Digging deep into his mental database, John relates the different cases that Sherlock has solved (numerous), his contacts (fewer), his interpersonal skills (abysmal), and other habits he’s noticed while posing as Sherlock’s flatmate. It’s been agreed that his report will be entirely verbal, as John has long since informed his employer that Sherlock has a tendency to hack into John’s laptop and worm through his personal effects like a curious toddler.
“And his sleeping habits? Is he tolerating his meals well?”
John reports that Sherlock takes infrequent naps, and meals more infrequently than that. “Though I have been able to convince him to consume takeaway and tea, on the odd occasion,” he adds.
He pauses, before pondering the importance of these minor details. It’s odd that his employer would be asking after his surveillance object as one would a worried lover or family member. “Are his…eating and sleeping habits important?” John asks, his brow crinkling involuntarily before he remembers to straighten it out again.
“Every detail is important, John. That is our agreement,” M replies, each word punctuated carefully. His expression is as neutral as ever.
John nods to himself. Perhaps these mundane details will aid in a quiet, effort-free assassination through prolonged insomnia or starvation.
M seems to have caught his train of thought, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Sherlock Holmes is not a mark, John. Ensure that he maintains some semblance of a normal lifestyle, and continue to assist him in the same capacity that you are now. I’ll expect your report again next month.” He swings his umbrella leisurely as he leaves. “Sooner, if necessary.”
It’s only when John’s back in the black car, en route to Baker Street, that he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It’s a sigh of relief, because now he knows Sherlock isn’t a mark, or an assassination target.
He would’ve been sad to see Sherlock go.
***
“You certainly took your time,” Sherlock remarks when John returns with the bag of shopping. In addition to the milk he left to buy, there are beans and meat, along with a new carton of eggs. John doesn’t trust the ones in the fridge, because not even eggs are safe from Sherlock’s inquiring mind.
“I had a row with the chip and pin machine,” John replies, rankling at the memory of card not authorized, please use alternative method of payment. With the funds available to him, he thinks M could at least provide a piece of plastic that bloody works.
“And decided to stop at a car park afterward, I see.” Sherlock closes the newspaper he’s been perusing and looks pointedly at John.
“How did you—”
“Oil slick in the print you left by the doorway and the faint odor of motor exhaust on the jacket you’ve just taken off, do try to keep up, John.”
John huffs indignantly as he sets the shopping on the kitchen table, and rescinds his opinion that he’d be sad to see Sherlock go.
Sometimes he wants to throttle the man himself.
***
“Anything in the papers, John?”
John takes a swig of tea from his mug and straightens the paper in his hands. When they’re not running across London to fight crime, he enjoys a cup of tea (these days he automatically makes two) and a newspaper (often shoved into his hands by Sherlock with demands to search for crime goings-on). “Three dead after botched boat rescue,” he reads.
Sherlock throws him a dark look, and flops down on the sofa. Earlier, he’d paced the room with frenetic energy, but now he only curls into an irritable lump. “Nothing of importance?”
It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock off that three deaths are important, but it’s Sherlock and John knows better by now. Instead, he says, “Look, there’ll be a case. We’ve just got to find it.”
And after the case, John knows there’ll be celebratory meals at a good Chinese or leisurely breakfasts across from Sherlock in the morning.
It was only last week, after a series of teas, newspapers, dinners and cozy breakfasts that it struck John just how easily they’ve fallen into the camaraderie they now share. They’ve settled into something resembling comfortable domesticity, and John would give almost anything to stay this way, with Sherlock.
He mulls over that thought again. With Sherlock.
Suddenly, John wonders why his mission was never stamped with a time limit. If M doesn’t mention it, neither will he, and maybe he and Sherlock can continue playing doctor and detective for just a little longer.
“Well?” Sherlock demands, his imperious gaze sweeping over John from the comfort of the sofa. “Anything?” He’s toying with the harpoon again, jabbing it into the horrid floral wallpaper of their flat. Like he’s attempting to carve out teeth on the spray-painted smiley face.
John clears his throat to dispel his errant thoughts, although it’s really the sight of dried pig’s blood on the harpoon that’s more effective than his coughs. With a silent prayer of thanks that at least Sherlock’s not unloading bullets into the wall this time, he straightens out the newspaper and continues reading headlines aloud.
***
After another month, John pulls the bug from the skull and the camera from the bookcase, because his conversations with Sherlock are his business and no one else’s. He readies the lie that the equipment is broken (no surprise, considering they’re several years out of date and he hasn’t exactly been provided with cutting-edge technology), if he’s asked.
M never asks.
His reports to M start dropping in size and quality, though he relates just enough detail to keep M interested, lest they assign someone else to Sherlock. At times the gaze from his employer seems almost knowing, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget guiltily under that intense stare. Meanwhile, the money he’s earning from his surveillance on Sherlock is starting to feel dirty somehow, and every time he observes a little-known facet of Sherlock, he feels even worse.
Still, John counts himself lucky to have been privy to them.
They’re little things, like the way Sherlock winds his hands inside John’s pockets or under John’s jumper when it’s freezing in the flat. (“That’s bloody cold, Sherlock,” John complains, but he doesn’t slap Sherlock’s hands away. Instead, he rubs his hands together for warmth and wraps them around Sherlock’s. Sherlock only murmurs an odd, surprised sound, his cool fingers burrowing deeper under John’s jumper like heat-seeking missiles and curling about John’s waist for his life-giving warmth.)
Or the way he’ll lean against John’s shoulder while they’re watching crap telly, a sure sign that Sherlock’s tired. It usually starts with his head knocking into John’s shoulder, and while most times he just lets Sherlock sleep, head pillowed in John’s lap, John takes it as his cue to bundle Sherlock off to bed when it’s a case-related, insomnia-induced fatigue, overriding any and all mumbled protests.
And if John strokes Sherlock’s brow after, to calm him when the detective’s tossing and turning in his sleep, no one has to know.
After all, he’s woken to Sherlock doing the same for him when he’s been in the throes of a nightmare (the same one, each time: Your partner’s been compromised, the Service had said, retire him upon completion of the mission, and he’d done what his country needed of him, only to discover that he’d killed an innocent man, that guilt had a way of creeping into his life and pervading his sleep, until he woke up screaming with blood on his hands that was no longer there), and the nightmares now come fewer and far between.
It’s these little things that slowly erode the walls around John’s heart, chip at the fine line between duty and the behemoth that is Sherlock’s presence, Sherlock’s endearing habits, Sherlock.
He secretly files these moments under Hidden Fragilities.
***
The turning point occurs at the next crime scene Lestrade calls them in to investigate.
It only takes an offhand word from Lestrade—which turns out to be a lead in the case they’re investigating—for Sherlock to jump up from his perusal of the corpse with a haphazard, “Coming, John?” and take off. By the time John’s caught up to him, he’s just near enough to see a suspect bolting from the scene, Sherlock haring after him.
The ensuing scuffle results in Sherlock’s mobile (complete with resplendent array of photographs of the nude corpse) falling into the Thames. While the police apprehend the suspect, John can already spot Sherlock against the side of the bridge, contemplative.
He manages a “Sherlock!” as in, Sherlock, there’s a bank at the end of the bridge where I can slide down to retrieve your mobile, but a sharp intake of breath is all the warning he has before the detective dives in to retrieve the damned thing.
Naturally, John dives in after Sherlock, who sinks like a stone in his single-minded pursuit, oblivious to how much his dense designer coat weighs him down.
By the time John’s dragged him to shore, Sherlock is miserable, shivering, and wet, and no amount of sliding his clammy hands into John’s pockets will keep him warm. It’s not much, but John manages to steal a shock blanket from the boot of a police car to wrap around Sherlock.
He’s hustling them toward a cab when Lestrade hurries to catch up and calls after him, “Wait, I still need a statement from the two of you.”
“Yeah, it can wait until morning,” John replies, shoving Sherlock unceremoniously into a cab. “I’ve got to get this idiot home before he dies of hypothermia.”
A sigh of deliberation follows before Lestrade gives an understanding nod. “All right, go on then. We’ve got our man, anyhow,” he says, waving them off with the barest of grins.
Not a single word is exchanged between John and Sherlock during the course of the ride.
They’re halfway up the stairs to 221 B when Sherlock attempts his usual spiel of reassurance. “You can rest easy, John.” Sherlock thumbs nonchalantly at his mobile. “The data’s safe, and the photos I took of the crime scene are—”
There’s a solid thud of impact as John shoves Sherlock into the wall, pinning him. “The data is safe? You could have died there in the river, and you’re worried about the data being safe?” John growls, incredulous. He doesn’t mention the depth of the river, the speed of the current, how Sherlock could have drowned and the world would never know his brilliance because he had to rescue his fucking phone.
Sherlock blinks at him. “I thought you—”
“No,” John bites out, cutting him off. “You thought wrong.” He can’t stop now that he’s started, because the storm of fears and worries that have been brewing inside him need a voice. “You don’t get to sod off to god knows where for a case and leave me behind, just because you can. You don’t get to risk your life for something trivial or to prove you’re clever.”
As his voice rises in pitch and intensity, Sherlock only stares at him, mouth slightly agape. As if the idea of someone caring about him is a completely foreign concept.
“Do you hear me?” John hisses, hands fisted tight in Sherlock’s collar. “Never again.”
“Going above and beyond the call of duty, aren’t you, doctor?” Sherlock appears to have collected himself, and his lips twist into a sneer. “What are you, my handler?”
“No, I’m just…” With a pause spanning a single breath in which the words friend, partner, admirer flit through his mind (none adequate, all of them wanting), John says, “Your friend.” He wonders when Sherlock transitioned so smoothly from mission objective into something far transcending what words could describe.
If he had to give a name to what Sherlock’s become to him, the closest word that would encompass it all is 'everything'.
“I don’t…” Sherlock begins, as if to toss out an acerbic I don’t have friends, before closing his mouth again. “Right, that…that’s good.”
In the near darkness, John can’t figure out what Sherlock is thinking; he’s spent all his time observing Sherlock, knows his facial tics, the nervous twitches, the quirk of his mouth that counts as a shy smile, but right now…
Right now, Sherlock isn’t showing a tell at all. Except, perhaps, for the twin spots of crimson rising high in his cheeks, and the way he’s examining the floor with the same intensity as a crime scene but the awkwardness of a social situation he’s unsure how to navigate.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock starts, “I’d like to be more than—that is, if you’re amenable to—”
John reaches up greedily, hands tangling in those dark curls like he’s wanted to for so long, and tugs Sherlock down for a kiss. “Yes,” he gasps against Sherlock’s mouth, lips pressing against his, tongue darting out to lick like he can’t get enough. John pulls back for the briefest of moments, to see if Sherlock will follow, and Sherlock does, surging forward to catch John’s lower lip in his teeth, nipping it harshly as John forces him back against the wall.
He touches the tip of his tongue to Sherlock’s, just as the other man lets out a small, whimper. “Not here,” Sherlock breathes. “Mrs. Hudson.”
Ah. There’s also the matter of their wet clothes, which are now uncomfortably damp, having barely dried during their cab ride. “Right,” John nods, leading them upstairs.
They half-stumble their way up to John’s room, where Sherlock strips off the rest of his clothes and towels himself off with the shock blanket. Meanwhile, John pitches his clothes onto the floor, kicking them beside the bed. They can dry on the floor, and alternatively, they’ll be there if he needs something to clean them both up after.
God, his body’s moving leaps and bounds ahead of his brain.
“John?” The sound of his name, cautious and hesitant in Sherlock’s voice snaps him out of his dazed fantasy, and it’s only now that he notices just how close Sherlock is. They’re near enough for the detective to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders if he wanted to, but Sherlock only stands there, willing John to navigate them to the next step through a small, hopeful smile. As the warmth of Sherlock’s breath ghosts over the cool skin of his neck, a shiver of anticipation thrills through John’s spine, and he decides to take the initiative, looping his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and leading him to the bed.
“Is this what you want, Sherlock?” he asks, gently tracing the carotid artery from which Sherlock’s pulse point springs and licking a wet stripe up Sherlock’s neck. He’s careful, though—nothing as overtly sexual as sliding his hand lower, in case Sherlock changes his mind.
John receives only a wide-eyed look in return, before the nearly imperceptible nod. “All right,” he continues, moving forward to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He rolls them over in the bed, pressing Sherlock into the soft, rumpled sheets until Sherlock’s settled beneath him, all damp messy curls and alabaster skin, and John just wants to take and take and take.
“Yes,” Sherlock moans, writhing as John lays greedy, stinging kisses against Sherlock’s neck, licking and sucking a path down his chest. “More.” His hands twine under John’s shoulders, legs crossing over John’s back, as if pressing up and into John will give him that desired more. As John reaches down to palm Sherlock’s growing erection, Sherlock shakes his head. “Not enough—I want—”
“Ah.” John nods, getting to his knees. “It’ll be easier if you lie on your stomach.” He guides Sherlock into a prone position, before Sherlock bucks John’s hands off defiantly and lies supine.
“No, I want to see you,” Sherlock insists, maneuvering his thighs to trap John in the missionary position.
With a sigh of acquiescence, John thumbs open the drawer of his bedside table and extracts a condom and the bottle of lubrication he keeps handy on nights when he desperately needs a wank but can’t afford to chafe from it. Repositioning Sherlock’s legs and sliding a pillow beneath his hips, John spreads some of the lube on his fingers, and circles the tight pucker of muscle.
“Will this hurt?” Sherlock inquires, the slight waver in his voice betraying the mask of indifferent calm on his face.
“A bit, yeah. At first.” John kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose reassuringly. “But not for long.” He works the tip of his finger inside, stroking Sherlock’s erection as distraction, until the whole digit is in, and then he’s working another finger in, and another, a slow, insistent slide intent on probing, locating—
A shuddering gasp escapes Sherlock and his hips twitch involuntarily as John impacts his prostate.
“Good?” John asks, tongue dipping into Sherlock’s navel, to taste, to tease.
Sherlock nods, and tries to speak, but a half-formed name is at his lips when John nudges against his prostate again, and his cries turn incoherent to all but the most attentive of lovers. John twists his digits inside Sherlock, alternating between stroking, pressing, and impacting, whispering, “Yes, Sherlock, like this. Let me see you come undone.”
Sherlock’s breaths come faster, hotter against John’s neck, short puffs of air with strangled words, and just as John deciphers, “more,” and “right there”, Sherlock reaches up to twist needy, grasping hands into John’s hair. “I want you inside me,” he whispers fiercely. “Now.”
John has to bite back a laugh—even in bed, Sherlock demands and cajoles in the same imperious manner. He rolls the condom over his cock and spreads some extra lubrication over it, slicking himself thoroughly. After a permissive nod from Sherlock, John presses inside of him, reveling in Sherlock’s sharp, indrawn breath, his eyes fluttering shut, and the low, wanton moan that issues forth. It’s hot and tight, and John stops moving for a moment, just to keep from coming inside Sherlock right then and there.
“John?” Sherlock sounds almost worried, as if John doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him.
“Yeah. Just. Give me a moment,” John manages to pant between breaths, his elbows braced by Sherlock’s head. When he’s got his breath back, he rocks experimentally against Sherlock, trusting him with his weight as he eases off his elbows. Then Sherlock cups his hands over John’s arse, literally pushing John into him, again and again, and all self-control goes to hell as John starts rocking harder, thrusting, then slamming into Sherlock, smothering his cries with kisses.
“John. John,” Sherlock moans, the second uttering of his name drawn out, like a fervent prayer. “Wait, it—”
“Need to…teach you a…lesson,” John whispers forcefully. “You can’t just…wander off when you feel like it. Can’t leave me behind. What if I’m not there and you…” The thought of the alternative is too much to bear, and John drives his hips deep and hard into Sherlock to make his point, relishing the startled cry from his detective. “I won’t…I won’t lose you.”
“John.” A strangled gasp. “John, please.”
He looks to Sherlock, whose knuckles have gone white from clutching the pillow, likely in an effort to restrain his cries, his teeth gritted. He’s trembling.
John eases back, his thrusts growing gentler, less feral. “God, Sherlock…I’m sorry.” He tries to sit back on his knees and pull out, ashamed, before Sherlock seizes John by the arms, stopping him. He wraps his own arms around John’s shoulders, to reassure, to comfort.
“No, I should be the one who’s—well.” Sherlock pauses awkwardly and pulls him down for a kiss, which is about as much apology and acknowledgment of John’s fears as John knows he’ll get.
This kiss is slower, sweeter, just a gentle and warm touch of lips. In it is a sense of vulnerability, of trust, and a side of Sherlock that he will only ever show John, and John loves him for it, for all the moments he’s let John in, loves him even when he’s cold and caustic but brilliant, loves him so much it hurts.
John freezes with that realization, unsure whether to be more horrified that he’s fallen in love with his mission objective, that his employer will probably murder him for it, or the revelation that he loves Sherlock. In that order.
“John. You’ve gone tense. Is there a problem?” Sherlock’s frowning now, and John hears, rather than sees Sherlock’s expression in the low lighting.
He laughs. Leave it to Sherlock to state the obvious, despite how much he hates doing so. “It’s nothing,” he says, twining his fingers between Sherlock’s to pin it back to the bed. “I was just thinking of how damned beautiful you are.” On the inside, and out.
And when Sherlock’s palms slide into place over his hips, warm and soothing, all John can think of is being held by these hands not just for now, but for as long as they both shall live.
“John,” Sherlock gasps, hips bucking desperately against John’s. “I’m close, I…”
“Easy there, breathe,” John instructs. He hikes Sherlock’s legs higher into the crooks of his elbows and pushes deep into him just as Sherlock cries out in a ragged sob, fingers digging into John’s shoulders, shuddering as he spills over his own stomach.
John manages a few more thrusts before Sherlock’s muscles contracting around him sweep him along into an orgasm of his own, and he pulses deep within Sherlock, collapsing on top of him.
He’s pressing light, feathery kisses along Sherlock’s neck, his cheeks, when Sherlock bats him away.
“Tired,” Sherlock grumbles. But there’s the familiar quirk of his mouth that John calls a smile, before it breaks into a broad grin (Just for me, John thinks wistfully). He answers with a smile of his own, and slides behind Sherlock, the arm of his bad shoulder resting just over Sherlock’s waist, keeping the detective safely enveloped in his embrace.
Later, even as the soft, snuffling sounds characterizing Sherlock’s sleep emerge, John lies awake, staring unseeingly into space. I want to stay, he thinks, but I can’t, and you’re only a mission objective but you’ve become so much more and I love you but how is this going to work?
He’s breathing in the scent of Sherlock (a heady mixture of sleep, sex and life), when the man in question turns in his sleep, head nestling under John’s chin, his breath a soothing warmth against John’s heart. And just like that, John’s made his decision: he’ll live this life, with Sherlock, and no amount of money can coerce him into continuing his espionage mission on this man. A small pit of fear settles in his stomach, however—M doesn’t seem the type to simply concede defeat and forget this.
Maybe they’ll run away. Bear the consequences, come what may. But that would be asking Sherlock to give up the puzzles, the crimes, and the people who’ve come to accept Sherlock for who he is, like Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.
John sighs. It can all wait until tomorrow. They can work through this together; Sherlock will think of something, and John will think of something, and with a bit of luck, their collective somethings might just be enough to get them out of this.
He rests his palm lightly over Sherlock’s hip, listening to Sherlock’s breathing fill the silence between them, each breath an ebb and flow synchronized to the affection John feels pulsing in his chest.
***
As it turns out, things come to a head the next morning. And not at all according to plan.
(tbc - Chapter 2)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/ John
Rating: NC-17
Words: 6600 (11600 overall)
Summary: It’s a question of limits, and a fine line that John treads in the struggle to balance his duties and his burgeoning affection for his flatmate. AU where John is a retired spy recruited for one final mission.
A/N: Title is both shamelessly borrowed from the Bond movie and an allusion to Sherlock’s jibe of Mycroft being a ‘queen’ in S2E01.
One never really leaves the Service.
John always finds his way back to it, one way or another. Sometimes it finds him.
And sometimes it kidnaps him just as he’s leaving his dreary bedsit with nary an exchanged pleasantry, and transports him to a cramped office at a construction site. Just to receive a mission briefing.
The Service does enjoy dramatics like that on occasion. If it even is them.
As the sleek black car he travelled here in departs, he’s ushered into the darkened room, its ceiling adorned by a single fluorescent tube. He doesn’t feel like a hostage, nor is he under immediate threat, but for all the secrecy surrounding this latest mission, he might as well be.
With a small measure of willpower, John quashes that thought. He should be grateful for this opportunity.
The last mission hadn’t gone so well; while masquerading as a medic in Afghanistan in order to retrieve a sensitive file, he’d been shot by a cleverly hidden sniper and invalided home instantly. Reason: a shattered shoulder, which even Britain’s finest surgeons could do little about, and a supposedly shattered psyche, rectified by a therapist who suggested mundane activities as “blogging” to relieve accumulated PTSD from his years in the Service.
There’s a word for people like him. The public calls it retired. The Service calls it repatriated.
John calls it abandoned, though he’d been thinking of resigning anyway. Only, “retirement” turned out to be four walls and whole lot of time he didn’t know what to do with. But now, there’s a chance to fuel his adrenaline urges again, and—well, it’s not as if he has a choice anyway.
The provenance of this second chance remains suspect, however; the people in the car explained that the remainder of his contract was bought out, not by an organization, but a single man. From what he’s heard in certain circles, however, it might as well be an organization. Rumors claim the man heads MI6, his own ex-agency, while other whispers weaving through the grapevine say he occupies a minor position in the British government.
Still, they must want him for something, or he wouldn’t be here.
They leave him in the room, seated on the single chair. He’s surprised at the lack of identification procedures—rudimentary fingerprint or retinal scans and the like. Maybe they’ve decided that he hardly poses as a threat since he’s been invalided home. It’s probably the same reason why his mission briefing is in some dingy basement instead of a crisp office at Vauxhall Cross.
A door opens into the gloom of the room, and a slow shuffle of steps approaches, punctuated by the tap of an umbrella point. The steps stop a few paces away, enough to capture the shadowed outline of a three piece suit, an umbrella, and immaculately polished shoes. A disembodied voice addresses him—by his number, as per protocol, never his name—and he’s handed a thin envelope, the color of burnt umber.
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it,” the voice states, “involves the infiltration of this man’s life. Document his comings and goings. Make note of all contacts, friends and acquaintances. Memorize his habits, mannerisms and anything else of importance.”
Good lord. John’s already wincing internally at the opening line. Taking cues from sub-par American spy movies?
He teases the crisp edge of a photograph from the envelope, breath catching in his throat at the sight; the subject is tall, with high cheekbones and eyes so leached of color they appear almost grey. The shock of dark, unruly hair makes him seem a wild creature, both beautiful and fey.
“This man,” John inquires, trying to swallow inaudibly. “Is he an operative for another country? How dangerous is he?” He assesses the picture and frowns; the subject doesn’t look armed, but John wonders if he’s got a signature style of attack that’s indiscernible from the photo.
The only response is a throaty laugh from the man in the shadows. “That information is on a need-to-know basis. You’ll be given further information as it pertains to your mission.”
What he does receive is the name of the supposed mark, however: Sherlock Holmes.
Other details are given: how he’ll be introduced to the man and when (by another retired operative, going by the name of Stamford), how the mission will involve his more latent abilities (John has to chuckle at that, as it means he’ll be needed for his ‘medical know-how’ again) and pertinent information standard with any mission.
It’s the last detail that catches his attention. He clears his throat. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“The alias you will be assuming for this mission is John.”
It’s nothing he didn’t know; his own name, simple and unassuming. Neither unique, nor one for challenging authority. But the surname—
“Watson.”
At this, he almost starts, though he has enough control over his own body for it to only appear like a nervous tic. “John…Watson?”
He’s being given use of his name for this mission, his real name, before any of this started, before he became an invisible force for Queen and country. Suddenly, the enormity of the situation crashes down on him: this will be his last and final mission, because he’s no longer a three digit number, or John-appended-with-a-serial-number—he’s John Watson again and this will be the closest mission he’ll ever have to civilian life.
Arranging the initial meeting with Sherlock Holmes is the easy part.
John’s discovered that the operative named “Stamford” is his old school mate Mike, who’s more than willing to play his part in the charade despite his quips about the Service. He brings John to the lab at St Bart’s, the hospital in which John trained, before his recruitment into the shadows of political influence and intrigue.
Upon stepping into the lab, John instantly makes his own assessment of Sherlock Holmes: he’s a handsome but useless academic type, with posh clothes likely tailor-made, probably born into money; his fingers are too pale and slim, belonging to hands that have never held a gun. It wouldn’t do to dismiss Holmes (Sherlock, John thinks, familiarize yourself) completely, though. Never underestimate the mark.
He doesn’t hesitate to ingratiate himself to the man, lending him his phone while continuing his assessment, before he’s distracted by “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I know you’re an army doctor,” Sherlock begins, and suddenly John’s own assessment of him is blown away in comparison to his potential flatmate’s, as the man reels off details about Afghanistan, an alcoholic brother (sister, really, but John’s kept her phone out of sentiment—stupid) and a psychosomatic limp. Besides the last two items, Sherlock’s managed to parse out the complete details of John’s cover story in Afghanistan.
He’s good, John decides, even if Sherlock hasn’t caught the traces of British operative that John’s taken pains to hide. Gathering that much detail, and only within seconds of their meeting. He can’t help but wonder who this man’s been trained by, or if he’s a rogue agent the SIS wants to keep tabs on. John represses a shiver of anticipation, wondering if he’ll actually have an opportunity to work with this man.
The intelligence they could gather; the phenomenal team they would make.
“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock’s sudden pause startles John out of his reverie, and he’s more than surprised to realize that he’s been standing there mesmerized by Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock flashes him a faux grin designed for swapping social niceties, all awkward lines around his mouth and eyes. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he nods, “and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”
With a dramatic flourish of his coat, Sherlock shuts the door, and John’s left standing there in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Not shock, as he’s performed retrieval missions of child geniuses and dueled with chess prodigies for missile launch codes, but still.
“He’s always like that,” Mike offers, with his characteristic cherub grin. His eyes are wide and round behind his spectacles, as if he’s equally awestruck by this Sherlock Holmes character. John nods absently, bidding him good day. As he limps out of the lab, he thinks Mike was right to leave the Service; he wouldn’t have lasted much longer, all pink and pudgy, his soft edges the telltale sign of a sedentary lifestyle.
Dismissing these thoughts, he decides that there must be more to Sherlock than his file provides, so when John returns to his bedsit, he runs a search on him through the Internet and combs his own special archive (copied verbatim from the SIS via an undetectable piggyback program).
Which is when he discovers that Sherlock has untraceable origins, and either an excellent cover story of his own, or a talent for wasting his intellect on a mere hobby.
If his sources are to be trusted. Sherlock Holmes is neither a former spy nor agent for MI6.
He’s a consulting detective. Whatever that is.
Eyeing the title of Sherlock’s website, The Science of Deduction warily, John begins to read.
221 B on Baker Street turns out to be a small, unassuming flat in central London. Within moments of his arrival, John slips a miniature audio bug into the skull on the mantelpiece. And while Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is busy puttering about the flat and hinting at the other bedroom upstairs (if they’ll be needing two bedrooms), he affixes a camera in the bookcase overlooking a table. A quick, surreptitious glance through the rest of the flat shows him other potential places for surveillance equipment, but he decides to leave it at the two; too many would be conspicuous, and Sherlock is nothing if not observant.
Two poisoned pills, one dead cabbie, and several weeks later, John’s formed a more detailed impression of the man he’s supposed to be observing. He calls this entry in his mental database Assessment of Sherlock’s Abilities. It reads as follows:
Would make a terrible operative. Has unparalleled observational skills, excellent grasp of chemistry and anatomy, but lacks knowledge regarding politics, astronomy and even basic self-preservation skills.
Because while Sherlock may be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, it’s not exactly helpful when he can’t identify a person who’s out to murder him. In fact, on their first night as flatmates (or mark and assassin, John hasn’t puzzled that out quite yet), he even has to kill to save Sherlock.
After all, surveillance can only go so far when the object of it ceases to live.
Sherlock also has a tendency to run headlong into trouble, often brandishing the gun he’s lifted from John’s bedside table, while John’s spent most of his life doing covert operations. The word clandestine would be lost on Sherlock, despite the man’s ability to act and charm his way into people’s flats and crime scenes.
In spite of Sherlock’s affinity for rushing into dangerous situations half-cocked, however, John still think Sherlock Holmes makes a fantastic consulting detective. So much so, that he’s decided to re-appropriate his PTSD blog to write about Sherlock’s cases. He leaves out crucial details and changes names, and it seems safe enough that his mysterious employer hasn’t said anything against it.
Life continues thus: Sherlock Holmes solves crimes and John Watson blogs about them, while discreetly exterminating the flies that threaten Sherlock’s brilliance and hiding the bodies.
They still make a phenomenal team.
“What are you writing about?”
Sherlock’s head pushes into the space by John’s neck, and John’s caught between irritation that no one has ever taught Sherlock the meaning of personal space, and a touch of sadness, that perhaps no one’s ever tried to approach Sherlock’s personal space.
“Us. The case.” John shifts minutely in his beige jumper. He’s taken care to choose his wardrobe carefully, and now has a collection of unremarkable cardigans and jumpers that are surprisingly comfortable.
“Again?” Sherlock makes a small huffing sound. “I thought you’d have grown tired of cheapening our cases by blogging sensationalist tripe,” he says, before curling up on his grey armchair opposite.
A gentle warmth pulses through John’s chest at Sherlock’s use of the word our. There is precious silence for a moment, before Sherlock turns over and flings out a hand to jab John in the knee.
“Cup of tea,” he demands, before adding, “thanks?” as an afterthought.
“You’ve got limbs, make your own tea,” John says, not looking up from his laptop (recently hacked into again by Sherlock—thank goodness he’d cleared his browsing history and filled it with unsubtle searches for porn). He’s just changed his password again, though each time he’s careful to keep it generic, nothing to do with his occupation, his mission. All his observations about Sherlock are stored in his head, leaving neither paper nor electronic trail for the detective to stumble upon.
“You’re closer,” comes the nonchalant response.
“Closer to what?” He follows Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh.” To the kitchen, John supposes, and with a sigh, he sets down the laptop and pads over to the kettle.
With a mug of hot water in hand, he shuffles over to the covered bowl where they keep their sugar and discovers a few pitiful granules clinging to the sides. “Sherlock, we’re out of sugar again.”
“Oh. Right.” From the kitchen, he sees Sherlock’s hand wave in classic prima donna fashion. “I used the last of it for an experiment.”
John shakes his head and walks to the fridge. “Well. At least we’ve got milk,” he manages, before Sherlock bolts upright and steps over the table to get to the kitchen.
“Wait, no. Don’t touch the milk, I’m incubating—”
With a quick twist of his hand, John shuts the door to the fridge. “Right, okay. I’m…going to go buy some sugar and milk. And don’t use it to incubate anything this time.” Sherlock nods, but John knows the milk is only safe until Sherlock’s next flight of experiment fancies.
“Get some crisps too,” Sherlock calls, returning to his armchair.
“I just bought some yesterday, don’t tell me you’ve…”
Sherlock rummages under the chair and fans out his collection of empty crisp packets like a hand of winning cards. “They were readily available,” he says, a pout in his voice, as if he can’t understand why John would chastise him for actually eating. He holds the packets out in offering, fixing John with an imploring look.
“Fine.” John rolls his eyes, but it’s only to hide the quick grin he has at the thought of Sherlock eating without prompting.
As he shrugs his jacket on and heads down the stairs, he can see Sherlock settle on the armchair again, with a triumphant smirk. John shakes his head again, his fond smile resurfacing, until he remembers he still needs to make his first monthly report.
There isn’t much to disclose, besides the fact that Sherlock still eats the dietary equivalent of an anorexic runway model and still coerces John into doing the legwork he doesn’t want to.
Oh, and The Cases. Yes, there are those, and plenty of them.
After getting the shopping, John makes a call at a phone booth near the Tesco’s. Soon enough, a black car arrives, sliding effortlessly to a stop against the curb. It takes him to an obscure car park several minutes away, and though John feels a little self-conscious hefting a bag of grocery with him to the meeting, at least he’ll have a ride home.
Living with Sherlock has reduced him to becoming practical to an extreme—they can’t both be squandering the month’s rent on cab fare.
“You’re certainly looking better, John,” comes a familiar voice from behind a parked car. There’s the telltale step-step-tap of his employer again, and this time, John can see the entirety of the person he works for: impeccably dressed as last time, but now with noticeable frown lines and a receding hairline.
John fights the urge to wince; he knows how he must have looked before. Newly injured, emaciated and on tenterhooks about his future as an operative, before being given this new purpose. By “M”, as he’s taken to calling his employer in his mind, because his attitude exudes the reek of old money and most of all, mystery.
“Your findings, please.”
Digging deep into his mental database, John relates the different cases that Sherlock has solved (numerous), his contacts (fewer), his interpersonal skills (abysmal), and other habits he’s noticed while posing as Sherlock’s flatmate. It’s been agreed that his report will be entirely verbal, as John has long since informed his employer that Sherlock has a tendency to hack into John’s laptop and worm through his personal effects like a curious toddler.
“And his sleeping habits? Is he tolerating his meals well?”
John reports that Sherlock takes infrequent naps, and meals more infrequently than that. “Though I have been able to convince him to consume takeaway and tea, on the odd occasion,” he adds.
He pauses, before pondering the importance of these minor details. It’s odd that his employer would be asking after his surveillance object as one would a worried lover or family member. “Are his…eating and sleeping habits important?” John asks, his brow crinkling involuntarily before he remembers to straighten it out again.
“Every detail is important, John. That is our agreement,” M replies, each word punctuated carefully. His expression is as neutral as ever.
John nods to himself. Perhaps these mundane details will aid in a quiet, effort-free assassination through prolonged insomnia or starvation.
M seems to have caught his train of thought, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Sherlock Holmes is not a mark, John. Ensure that he maintains some semblance of a normal lifestyle, and continue to assist him in the same capacity that you are now. I’ll expect your report again next month.” He swings his umbrella leisurely as he leaves. “Sooner, if necessary.”
It’s only when John’s back in the black car, en route to Baker Street, that he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It’s a sigh of relief, because now he knows Sherlock isn’t a mark, or an assassination target.
He would’ve been sad to see Sherlock go.
“You certainly took your time,” Sherlock remarks when John returns with the bag of shopping. In addition to the milk he left to buy, there are beans and meat, along with a new carton of eggs. John doesn’t trust the ones in the fridge, because not even eggs are safe from Sherlock’s inquiring mind.
“I had a row with the chip and pin machine,” John replies, rankling at the memory of card not authorized, please use alternative method of payment. With the funds available to him, he thinks M could at least provide a piece of plastic that bloody works.
“And decided to stop at a car park afterward, I see.” Sherlock closes the newspaper he’s been perusing and looks pointedly at John.
“How did you—”
“Oil slick in the print you left by the doorway and the faint odor of motor exhaust on the jacket you’ve just taken off, do try to keep up, John.”
John huffs indignantly as he sets the shopping on the kitchen table, and rescinds his opinion that he’d be sad to see Sherlock go.
Sometimes he wants to throttle the man himself.
“Anything in the papers, John?”
John takes a swig of tea from his mug and straightens the paper in his hands. When they’re not running across London to fight crime, he enjoys a cup of tea (these days he automatically makes two) and a newspaper (often shoved into his hands by Sherlock with demands to search for crime goings-on). “Three dead after botched boat rescue,” he reads.
Sherlock throws him a dark look, and flops down on the sofa. Earlier, he’d paced the room with frenetic energy, but now he only curls into an irritable lump. “Nothing of importance?”
It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock off that three deaths are important, but it’s Sherlock and John knows better by now. Instead, he says, “Look, there’ll be a case. We’ve just got to find it.”
And after the case, John knows there’ll be celebratory meals at a good Chinese or leisurely breakfasts across from Sherlock in the morning.
It was only last week, after a series of teas, newspapers, dinners and cozy breakfasts that it struck John just how easily they’ve fallen into the camaraderie they now share. They’ve settled into something resembling comfortable domesticity, and John would give almost anything to stay this way, with Sherlock.
He mulls over that thought again. With Sherlock.
Suddenly, John wonders why his mission was never stamped with a time limit. If M doesn’t mention it, neither will he, and maybe he and Sherlock can continue playing doctor and detective for just a little longer.
“Well?” Sherlock demands, his imperious gaze sweeping over John from the comfort of the sofa. “Anything?” He’s toying with the harpoon again, jabbing it into the horrid floral wallpaper of their flat. Like he’s attempting to carve out teeth on the spray-painted smiley face.
John clears his throat to dispel his errant thoughts, although it’s really the sight of dried pig’s blood on the harpoon that’s more effective than his coughs. With a silent prayer of thanks that at least Sherlock’s not unloading bullets into the wall this time, he straightens out the newspaper and continues reading headlines aloud.
After another month, John pulls the bug from the skull and the camera from the bookcase, because his conversations with Sherlock are his business and no one else’s. He readies the lie that the equipment is broken (no surprise, considering they’re several years out of date and he hasn’t exactly been provided with cutting-edge technology), if he’s asked.
M never asks.
His reports to M start dropping in size and quality, though he relates just enough detail to keep M interested, lest they assign someone else to Sherlock. At times the gaze from his employer seems almost knowing, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget guiltily under that intense stare. Meanwhile, the money he’s earning from his surveillance on Sherlock is starting to feel dirty somehow, and every time he observes a little-known facet of Sherlock, he feels even worse.
Still, John counts himself lucky to have been privy to them.
They’re little things, like the way Sherlock winds his hands inside John’s pockets or under John’s jumper when it’s freezing in the flat. (“That’s bloody cold, Sherlock,” John complains, but he doesn’t slap Sherlock’s hands away. Instead, he rubs his hands together for warmth and wraps them around Sherlock’s. Sherlock only murmurs an odd, surprised sound, his cool fingers burrowing deeper under John’s jumper like heat-seeking missiles and curling about John’s waist for his life-giving warmth.)
Or the way he’ll lean against John’s shoulder while they’re watching crap telly, a sure sign that Sherlock’s tired. It usually starts with his head knocking into John’s shoulder, and while most times he just lets Sherlock sleep, head pillowed in John’s lap, John takes it as his cue to bundle Sherlock off to bed when it’s a case-related, insomnia-induced fatigue, overriding any and all mumbled protests.
And if John strokes Sherlock’s brow after, to calm him when the detective’s tossing and turning in his sleep, no one has to know.
After all, he’s woken to Sherlock doing the same for him when he’s been in the throes of a nightmare (the same one, each time: Your partner’s been compromised, the Service had said, retire him upon completion of the mission, and he’d done what his country needed of him, only to discover that he’d killed an innocent man, that guilt had a way of creeping into his life and pervading his sleep, until he woke up screaming with blood on his hands that was no longer there), and the nightmares now come fewer and far between.
It’s these little things that slowly erode the walls around John’s heart, chip at the fine line between duty and the behemoth that is Sherlock’s presence, Sherlock’s endearing habits, Sherlock.
He secretly files these moments under Hidden Fragilities.
The turning point occurs at the next crime scene Lestrade calls them in to investigate.
It only takes an offhand word from Lestrade—which turns out to be a lead in the case they’re investigating—for Sherlock to jump up from his perusal of the corpse with a haphazard, “Coming, John?” and take off. By the time John’s caught up to him, he’s just near enough to see a suspect bolting from the scene, Sherlock haring after him.
The ensuing scuffle results in Sherlock’s mobile (complete with resplendent array of photographs of the nude corpse) falling into the Thames. While the police apprehend the suspect, John can already spot Sherlock against the side of the bridge, contemplative.
He manages a “Sherlock!” as in, Sherlock, there’s a bank at the end of the bridge where I can slide down to retrieve your mobile, but a sharp intake of breath is all the warning he has before the detective dives in to retrieve the damned thing.
Naturally, John dives in after Sherlock, who sinks like a stone in his single-minded pursuit, oblivious to how much his dense designer coat weighs him down.
By the time John’s dragged him to shore, Sherlock is miserable, shivering, and wet, and no amount of sliding his clammy hands into John’s pockets will keep him warm. It’s not much, but John manages to steal a shock blanket from the boot of a police car to wrap around Sherlock.
He’s hustling them toward a cab when Lestrade hurries to catch up and calls after him, “Wait, I still need a statement from the two of you.”
“Yeah, it can wait until morning,” John replies, shoving Sherlock unceremoniously into a cab. “I’ve got to get this idiot home before he dies of hypothermia.”
A sigh of deliberation follows before Lestrade gives an understanding nod. “All right, go on then. We’ve got our man, anyhow,” he says, waving them off with the barest of grins.
Not a single word is exchanged between John and Sherlock during the course of the ride.
They’re halfway up the stairs to 221 B when Sherlock attempts his usual spiel of reassurance. “You can rest easy, John.” Sherlock thumbs nonchalantly at his mobile. “The data’s safe, and the photos I took of the crime scene are—”
There’s a solid thud of impact as John shoves Sherlock into the wall, pinning him. “The data is safe? You could have died there in the river, and you’re worried about the data being safe?” John growls, incredulous. He doesn’t mention the depth of the river, the speed of the current, how Sherlock could have drowned and the world would never know his brilliance because he had to rescue his fucking phone.
Sherlock blinks at him. “I thought you—”
“No,” John bites out, cutting him off. “You thought wrong.” He can’t stop now that he’s started, because the storm of fears and worries that have been brewing inside him need a voice. “You don’t get to sod off to god knows where for a case and leave me behind, just because you can. You don’t get to risk your life for something trivial or to prove you’re clever.”
As his voice rises in pitch and intensity, Sherlock only stares at him, mouth slightly agape. As if the idea of someone caring about him is a completely foreign concept.
“Do you hear me?” John hisses, hands fisted tight in Sherlock’s collar. “Never again.”
“Going above and beyond the call of duty, aren’t you, doctor?” Sherlock appears to have collected himself, and his lips twist into a sneer. “What are you, my handler?”
“No, I’m just…” With a pause spanning a single breath in which the words friend, partner, admirer flit through his mind (none adequate, all of them wanting), John says, “Your friend.” He wonders when Sherlock transitioned so smoothly from mission objective into something far transcending what words could describe.
If he had to give a name to what Sherlock’s become to him, the closest word that would encompass it all is 'everything'.
“I don’t…” Sherlock begins, as if to toss out an acerbic I don’t have friends, before closing his mouth again. “Right, that…that’s good.”
In the near darkness, John can’t figure out what Sherlock is thinking; he’s spent all his time observing Sherlock, knows his facial tics, the nervous twitches, the quirk of his mouth that counts as a shy smile, but right now…
Right now, Sherlock isn’t showing a tell at all. Except, perhaps, for the twin spots of crimson rising high in his cheeks, and the way he’s examining the floor with the same intensity as a crime scene but the awkwardness of a social situation he’s unsure how to navigate.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock starts, “I’d like to be more than—that is, if you’re amenable to—”
John reaches up greedily, hands tangling in those dark curls like he’s wanted to for so long, and tugs Sherlock down for a kiss. “Yes,” he gasps against Sherlock’s mouth, lips pressing against his, tongue darting out to lick like he can’t get enough. John pulls back for the briefest of moments, to see if Sherlock will follow, and Sherlock does, surging forward to catch John’s lower lip in his teeth, nipping it harshly as John forces him back against the wall.
He touches the tip of his tongue to Sherlock’s, just as the other man lets out a small, whimper. “Not here,” Sherlock breathes. “Mrs. Hudson.”
Ah. There’s also the matter of their wet clothes, which are now uncomfortably damp, having barely dried during their cab ride. “Right,” John nods, leading them upstairs.
They half-stumble their way up to John’s room, where Sherlock strips off the rest of his clothes and towels himself off with the shock blanket. Meanwhile, John pitches his clothes onto the floor, kicking them beside the bed. They can dry on the floor, and alternatively, they’ll be there if he needs something to clean them both up after.
God, his body’s moving leaps and bounds ahead of his brain.
“John?” The sound of his name, cautious and hesitant in Sherlock’s voice snaps him out of his dazed fantasy, and it’s only now that he notices just how close Sherlock is. They’re near enough for the detective to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders if he wanted to, but Sherlock only stands there, willing John to navigate them to the next step through a small, hopeful smile. As the warmth of Sherlock’s breath ghosts over the cool skin of his neck, a shiver of anticipation thrills through John’s spine, and he decides to take the initiative, looping his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and leading him to the bed.
“Is this what you want, Sherlock?” he asks, gently tracing the carotid artery from which Sherlock’s pulse point springs and licking a wet stripe up Sherlock’s neck. He’s careful, though—nothing as overtly sexual as sliding his hand lower, in case Sherlock changes his mind.
John receives only a wide-eyed look in return, before the nearly imperceptible nod. “All right,” he continues, moving forward to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He rolls them over in the bed, pressing Sherlock into the soft, rumpled sheets until Sherlock’s settled beneath him, all damp messy curls and alabaster skin, and John just wants to take and take and take.
“Yes,” Sherlock moans, writhing as John lays greedy, stinging kisses against Sherlock’s neck, licking and sucking a path down his chest. “More.” His hands twine under John’s shoulders, legs crossing over John’s back, as if pressing up and into John will give him that desired more. As John reaches down to palm Sherlock’s growing erection, Sherlock shakes his head. “Not enough—I want—”
“Ah.” John nods, getting to his knees. “It’ll be easier if you lie on your stomach.” He guides Sherlock into a prone position, before Sherlock bucks John’s hands off defiantly and lies supine.
“No, I want to see you,” Sherlock insists, maneuvering his thighs to trap John in the missionary position.
With a sigh of acquiescence, John thumbs open the drawer of his bedside table and extracts a condom and the bottle of lubrication he keeps handy on nights when he desperately needs a wank but can’t afford to chafe from it. Repositioning Sherlock’s legs and sliding a pillow beneath his hips, John spreads some of the lube on his fingers, and circles the tight pucker of muscle.
“Will this hurt?” Sherlock inquires, the slight waver in his voice betraying the mask of indifferent calm on his face.
“A bit, yeah. At first.” John kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose reassuringly. “But not for long.” He works the tip of his finger inside, stroking Sherlock’s erection as distraction, until the whole digit is in, and then he’s working another finger in, and another, a slow, insistent slide intent on probing, locating—
A shuddering gasp escapes Sherlock and his hips twitch involuntarily as John impacts his prostate.
“Good?” John asks, tongue dipping into Sherlock’s navel, to taste, to tease.
Sherlock nods, and tries to speak, but a half-formed name is at his lips when John nudges against his prostate again, and his cries turn incoherent to all but the most attentive of lovers. John twists his digits inside Sherlock, alternating between stroking, pressing, and impacting, whispering, “Yes, Sherlock, like this. Let me see you come undone.”
Sherlock’s breaths come faster, hotter against John’s neck, short puffs of air with strangled words, and just as John deciphers, “more,” and “right there”, Sherlock reaches up to twist needy, grasping hands into John’s hair. “I want you inside me,” he whispers fiercely. “Now.”
John has to bite back a laugh—even in bed, Sherlock demands and cajoles in the same imperious manner. He rolls the condom over his cock and spreads some extra lubrication over it, slicking himself thoroughly. After a permissive nod from Sherlock, John presses inside of him, reveling in Sherlock’s sharp, indrawn breath, his eyes fluttering shut, and the low, wanton moan that issues forth. It’s hot and tight, and John stops moving for a moment, just to keep from coming inside Sherlock right then and there.
“John?” Sherlock sounds almost worried, as if John doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him.
“Yeah. Just. Give me a moment,” John manages to pant between breaths, his elbows braced by Sherlock’s head. When he’s got his breath back, he rocks experimentally against Sherlock, trusting him with his weight as he eases off his elbows. Then Sherlock cups his hands over John’s arse, literally pushing John into him, again and again, and all self-control goes to hell as John starts rocking harder, thrusting, then slamming into Sherlock, smothering his cries with kisses.
“John. John,” Sherlock moans, the second uttering of his name drawn out, like a fervent prayer. “Wait, it—”
“Need to…teach you a…lesson,” John whispers forcefully. “You can’t just…wander off when you feel like it. Can’t leave me behind. What if I’m not there and you…” The thought of the alternative is too much to bear, and John drives his hips deep and hard into Sherlock to make his point, relishing the startled cry from his detective. “I won’t…I won’t lose you.”
“John.” A strangled gasp. “John, please.”
He looks to Sherlock, whose knuckles have gone white from clutching the pillow, likely in an effort to restrain his cries, his teeth gritted. He’s trembling.
John eases back, his thrusts growing gentler, less feral. “God, Sherlock…I’m sorry.” He tries to sit back on his knees and pull out, ashamed, before Sherlock seizes John by the arms, stopping him. He wraps his own arms around John’s shoulders, to reassure, to comfort.
“No, I should be the one who’s—well.” Sherlock pauses awkwardly and pulls him down for a kiss, which is about as much apology and acknowledgment of John’s fears as John knows he’ll get.
This kiss is slower, sweeter, just a gentle and warm touch of lips. In it is a sense of vulnerability, of trust, and a side of Sherlock that he will only ever show John, and John loves him for it, for all the moments he’s let John in, loves him even when he’s cold and caustic but brilliant, loves him so much it hurts.
John freezes with that realization, unsure whether to be more horrified that he’s fallen in love with his mission objective, that his employer will probably murder him for it, or the revelation that he loves Sherlock. In that order.
“John. You’ve gone tense. Is there a problem?” Sherlock’s frowning now, and John hears, rather than sees Sherlock’s expression in the low lighting.
He laughs. Leave it to Sherlock to state the obvious, despite how much he hates doing so. “It’s nothing,” he says, twining his fingers between Sherlock’s to pin it back to the bed. “I was just thinking of how damned beautiful you are.” On the inside, and out.
And when Sherlock’s palms slide into place over his hips, warm and soothing, all John can think of is being held by these hands not just for now, but for as long as they both shall live.
“John,” Sherlock gasps, hips bucking desperately against John’s. “I’m close, I…”
“Easy there, breathe,” John instructs. He hikes Sherlock’s legs higher into the crooks of his elbows and pushes deep into him just as Sherlock cries out in a ragged sob, fingers digging into John’s shoulders, shuddering as he spills over his own stomach.
John manages a few more thrusts before Sherlock’s muscles contracting around him sweep him along into an orgasm of his own, and he pulses deep within Sherlock, collapsing on top of him.
He’s pressing light, feathery kisses along Sherlock’s neck, his cheeks, when Sherlock bats him away.
“Tired,” Sherlock grumbles. But there’s the familiar quirk of his mouth that John calls a smile, before it breaks into a broad grin (Just for me, John thinks wistfully). He answers with a smile of his own, and slides behind Sherlock, the arm of his bad shoulder resting just over Sherlock’s waist, keeping the detective safely enveloped in his embrace.
Later, even as the soft, snuffling sounds characterizing Sherlock’s sleep emerge, John lies awake, staring unseeingly into space. I want to stay, he thinks, but I can’t, and you’re only a mission objective but you’ve become so much more and I love you but how is this going to work?
He’s breathing in the scent of Sherlock (a heady mixture of sleep, sex and life), when the man in question turns in his sleep, head nestling under John’s chin, his breath a soothing warmth against John’s heart. And just like that, John’s made his decision: he’ll live this life, with Sherlock, and no amount of money can coerce him into continuing his espionage mission on this man. A small pit of fear settles in his stomach, however—M doesn’t seem the type to simply concede defeat and forget this.
Maybe they’ll run away. Bear the consequences, come what may. But that would be asking Sherlock to give up the puzzles, the crimes, and the people who’ve come to accept Sherlock for who he is, like Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.
John sighs. It can all wait until tomorrow. They can work through this together; Sherlock will think of something, and John will think of something, and with a bit of luck, their collective somethings might just be enough to get them out of this.
He rests his palm lightly over Sherlock’s hip, listening to Sherlock’s breathing fill the silence between them, each breath an ebb and flow synchronized to the affection John feels pulsing in his chest.
As it turns out, things come to a head the next morning. And not at all according to plan.
(tbc - Chapter 2)
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no subject
Date: 2012-08-30 07:58 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-30 09:22 pm (UTC)From:Loved your Hearts At Home series, by the way. :3
no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 12:13 am (UTC)From:Discovered Sherlock last weekend, bought and watched the rest of it and have been reading good fanfic since.
This is one of the best I've read so far. I look forward to the continuation.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 03:59 am (UTC)From:Aw, thanks, glad you enjoyed it. Next part will be up soon. ^^
no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 08:15 am (UTC)From:But poor John he doesn't know he is working for the evil brother!
I wonder whay Mycroft will do when he knew that John wants Sherlock, and Sherlock wants John?
What Sherlock will think when he knew that John was a minion? That will be bad, he will feel betrayed? I hope not!
no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 06:16 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 11:41 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 06:16 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 12:18 pm (UTC)From:Paleom
xx
no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 06:20 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 11:57 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-09-01 12:28 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-09-06 10:41 pm (UTC)From:Saving the next part for tomorrow night as a treat. =)
no subject
Date: 2012-09-07 02:51 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-09-07 01:36 am (UTC)From:The milk - oh the humanity of it all!
Sherlock initiating little instances of physical contact with John is LOVE!
*fans self* Well, then.
I'm enjoying this! You've made John into a BAMF!Spy!John very convincingly and your Sherlock rings true.
Thanks so much for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2012-09-07 03:12 am (UTC)From: