lostwithoutmyblogger | shock therapy

shock therapy

Sherlock tries to keep out of Scotland Yard as much as possible, physically speaking, ever since the incident where he'd run into Anderson's wife in the lobby. What followed had resulted in a massive fight. So really, Sherlock doesn't try to keep out of Scotland Yard so much as is technically banned from the premises, but either way, his visits have become much more scarce, his texts much more frequent.

Still, they're in Lestrade's office today, to wheedle six year old crime scene photos out of him on an apparently unrelated string of double homicides, when the consulting detective finally loses his temper at the meaningful, searching glances and snaps, voice impressively even;

"Yes, Lestrade, we shag one another frequently. In fact, we're going to marry and adopt a small child or dog, I'm not sure which one I ended up agreeing to. Now, will you give me the papers?"

The resulting sputter is impressive, to say the least.

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John's mouth falls open. Up until now, he's been content to sit and referee the small bickering going on between the detective inspector and his consult. Sometimes it's nice to just watch someone else argue with the man a while.

Now, it could be just him, but what John thought Lestrade was trying to ask with his glances went along the lines of 'What evidence is he hiding from me? Do you know how far ahead he is?' and not 'Are you two shagging?'. With the outburst, though, there were some startled looks to be had, along with a glance of 'Are you?'.

John's ears were tinting red, but he sincerely hoped that Lestrade took his rolling eyes and his pointed stare as 'Don't let him get to you' and not 'Please tell no one'.

To his credit, Lestrade recovered admirably, enough to say that was all well and fine, but Sherlock still needed to give him a better reason than Sherlock's say-so to dredge up the photos, and that they'd be copies.

"Surely it's not that big of a stretch for you to get into the archives, Greg. You're the one that's asked him here, if you recall..." John passed a small look toward Sherlock, something stormy and bit not good.

It only takes a little more grumbling, and one or two imploringly frustrated looks from Sherlock, before Lestrade exits the room to go see about getting into those archives, with strict instructions to John not to let Sherlock nick anything while he's gone, and to keep an eye on him.

"Too late," Sherlock murmurs, once the door slides shut, pulling the mobile out of his pocket to begin thumbing through Lestrade's address list, committing a few of the more interesting numbers to memory. "I'll put it back if you prefer, though."

Since Lestrade would surely notice and get cranky about this one.

"What are you playing at?" John inquires, his tone wearing the flatness he usually reserves for the times when he's less than amused with Sherlock's antics and inherent callousness. It's a don't lie to me tone. His eyes flick from the mobile to rest on Sherlock's face, lips tightening expectantly.

"His eyes kept flicking from the bruise on your throat- which is really very, very visible, I'm sorry- to my mouth."

He informs him, shrugging.

"And he knew I saw him looking. It might be too obvious if you lift your collar up right now."

John's hand begins to lift to touch said spot before he catches himself and reaches out to try and pluck up the stolen mobile instead. There's a low, frustrated puff of air through his nose.

"And you couldn't, I dunno, ignore it? It's not like you're the only one that could have--" His brow furrows momentarily as a small realization (possibility) hits him. "Did you do that on purpose?"

Mark him in a place too high for his collar to reach. It doesn't seem like it should be a detail Sherlock would miss.

"No."

He says, and then remembers that he really isn't justified in feeling affronted, that that's a perfectly reasonable deduction for John to make, based on past evidence.

He turns to start going through the books Lestrade keeps behind his desk.

"I'll practice better self-control in the future."

Sherlock won't, therefor, get to see the arch of John's brows as the man turns away. The other was claiming loss of self-control?

Instead of responding, John leaned back in his seat, peering over his shoulder into the office. Like hell he was going to let Sherlock get caught, even if they were sort of having an argument.

"You think he's keeping something from you?"

"I know he is. He only lies when it's out of a sense of loyalty, though. So what I need to find is-"

Employee discipline and misconduct forms. That means picking the lock on the filing cabinet, but that's done with before John can realize what he's doing and stop him. He drags the binder down and starts thumbing through it in a hurry.

John isn't going to stop him. He can see the other in the reflection of the window and hear him rustling around. He knows Sherlock is breaking in, but he trusts the man isn't doing it for a laugh.

"You think someone here has something to do with it."

A terrible accusation to make, but.

"You wanted him to just leave the room."

"Well. I do what those photos."

They'll be helpful. But nothing compared to the document he's pulling out now, snapping a picture of one side, then the other, with the camera phone, then thumbing back into its sheaf and tossing back into the cabinet, just in time.

"Done."

Lestrade doesn't even notice his misbehaviour, the ungainly lean away from the cabinet, as though no, he hasn't done anything, when he returns with the pictures. He's too preoccupied with not meeting either of their eyes.

John makes a noise when he sees Lestrade show up in the hall, but luckily, Sherlock is finished. He silently grinds his teeth at the way the detective's eyes shy away from them both. Needless to say, he's a bit annoyed. But... At least it's somewhat true this time. In this instance, the best thing to do is act like nothing is off and thank Lestrade for dusting off the file.

He snaps a few careful pictures of it as well, and slides out of the room with his trademark disregard, already thumbing off the next text, presuming that John will follow.

Actually, he wouldn't be surprised if he stayed behind a moment, but he supposes it would probably be a good idea to let them speak.

What he offers is an apology and a brief, friendly (awkward) conversation with the DI, all the while keeping the look of 'You don't honestly believe we'd get married with children, do you?' about him and neither confirming nor denying the earlier outburst. He doesn't think for a moment that Sherlock will wait around for him, however, so he does make it quick before he's heading out of the Yard as well.

He's by the front door, smoking. So he did nick something off Lestrade's desk after all. But if the detective inspector has fallen through the cracks, then surely Sherlock is allowed one.

Standing squarely underneath a 'do not smoke within so and so many meters of entrances to public buildings' sign.

He's not. John reaches up to try and pluck the aforementioned cig out of the younger man's fingers.

"You quit," He reminds. Really, Sherlock? Did it not seem like John was annoyed enough.

He goes violently tense, for a long moment, then flicks the lit cigarette away and tosses John the pack, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He had, hadn't he?

John's eyes narrow, but he doesn't back down, and he catches the pack one-handed. Yes, you quit, Sherlock. And now, hopefully, Lestrade was back on the wagon too. The DI was a sharp man, despite how he might pale in comparison to Sherlock - he'd figure out soon enough what sort of advantages his consult had taken in his absence.

"What's next?" Tucking that pack into his inner jacket pocket until he can find a bin for them.

"Nothing now. It was a murder of self-defense. Lestrade doesn't know it, but the young officer who was on the scene last night did, in fact, adequately perform his duties. He simply neglected to report what he saw, which was the 'victim' assailing a young woman. One of the same height, build, and ethnicity as the one in the photos we just saw. Jane Doe 2006, all of her nails broken fighting him off, murdered in the same hunting ground as our man found this morning. His hunting ground. The network say there have been other bodies found- and not found, in fact- in the area, all women like her.

A young police officer stumbles upon an altercation between a serial killer and a young woman who stands to be deported if she becomes known to the authorities. He has a past disciplinary record for similar bleeding-heart tendencies and sexual involvement with persons of interest. I suspect she's sobbing in his sitting room right now, while he offers her tea and sets his hand on hers, consolingly. So, we do nothing."

Damn it, he's eying the cigarettes again. What are the odds of his being able to steal them back?

John listens, of course. It's very simple when Sherlock explains it to him, but...

"How do you know what this woman looks like if you've never seen her?"

Even if it is a leap, it makes sense to John. His lips twitch briefly at the 'bleeding-heart tendencies', but he doesn't make an objection if he's got one.

"So all that... for nothing." Not that he's saying they turn in this young officer. How could he? No, John's just lamenting the fact that Sherlock had to go and throw a scene even though no one else's life was in danger, and now Lestrade has to deal with the thought of them being married with children.

"Because of the past victimology, and the crust on his socks. He stood in the rain for a long time that night. He could have gone after any number of people walking that street, but he stood out in the rain until the moisture had traveled all the way up his socks, and up his pants nearly to the knee. Capillary action in fabric takes time to work like that. He was in clothing that was clean otherwise, specific to not being seen for the hunt. Ergo, he hunted for some time."

He explains, as he starts them into a taxi. Might as well go home.

"Besides which, he had the elbow of a neo-nazi. But it's over. I dare say you can't blog about it, and now you don't have to worry. Lestrade will dismiss all his concerns incredulously, and I'll get you a scarf for Christmas, just in case."

"The crust on his socks," Well, that's disgusting, finishes the wrinkling of his nose. He unconsciously moves along with Sherlock toward the cab, having no objections toward heading home after that bit of mortification. Almost reluctantly, he finally snorts at the mention of a neo-nazi elbow. Now John was going to be looking at elbows for the next week or so.

"Or I don't let you put your mouth on me anymore," John murmurs as they reach the door of the taxi. He means his neck, and even if he might sound it... he's not serious. They really should talk about what's allowed in this sort of friends-with-benefits thing they've got going on.

For a moment he looks utterly stricken at the idea, being that he spends a lot of his time with his mouth on John and likes it that way.

"What about just under clothes?" But John is probably, he recalls, not serious, so he gives the cab driver directions back to 221B, and then adds, in a more private voice, "Or perhaps just put me face down. Or gag me."

Johns eyes watch the back of the cabbie's head, though his own tilts slightly toward the younger man.

"Could be both," He replies, voice low and fingers curling about the bottom of Sherlock's muffler, tactfully beneath the sights of the rearview mirror. "Though I think you'll miss the sound of your own voice after a while."

Definitely teasing.

"If I said yes, right now, please, would I be forgiven?"

He asks, quietly. Their serious conversations keep getting derailed by Sherlock's surprisingly wide array of peculiarly imaginative fantasies, which John is generally all too game to help act out.

Quite the good Samaritan, Doctor Watson.

"You're apologizing by offering sexual favors - is that how I'm to interpret this?"

A brow tilts slightly, directed at the windshield.

John follows Sherlock practically anywhere. It seems reasonable that he should be the same when it concerns sex, which is a novel idea to the younger man at the moment.

"Yes."

He agrees, immediately, seeing nothing ethically dubious about this in the slightest (of course he wouldn't, it's Sherlock.)

"Though I must admit, it's not particularly selfless. Or punitive."

He could certainly be offended if he wanted to be. But then, that sort of descriptor can cover the majority of things that come out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Actually seems like it'd promote bad behavior if I let it work."

His foot slides across the floor, tilting to slip behind Sherlock's ankle as their legs meet thigh to thigh.

"You aren't angry any more."

Is his expert deduction. He leans back in his seat, smiling. New (and mutually beneficial) strategy found.

"Good."

Really, the admittance that you'd bother with any sort of apology kind of does it for John, Sherlock.

"No. Think it'll be alright."

He might also be thinking of right here, right now. Hard to get into position in the back of a taxi, and hardly proper, but they'd be able to manage something decent. Of course, John won't go there, but it doesn't mean he can't imagine it. And how the cabbie might react to the two in his backseat suddenly going at it to such an extent...

John snorts, shaking his head.

Sherlock looks sideways at him, and then arches his eyebrows and grins at him, utterly knowingly. Like he can see every thought going through John's mind, in his skin pigmentation, pupils, fingertips where they're creasing fabric.

"Which leaves us utterly caseless."

John doesn't mind that Sherlock knows; it's actually quite intentional, what with the way he lets his eyes size up the car. Sherlock is way too long a body to do anything very cramped.

He goes for a politely curious expression at the other's leer and the statement (the suggestion), but he's pressing his teeth to the inside of his lip to stop from grinning back.

"Think the last time you said that, you exploded a stomach."

"Are you saying there are better things to do than exploding stomachs?"

Arching his eyebrows.

"That was incredibly entertaing, and you thought so too. Even Mrs Hudson agreed- once she got over the state of her rug." Which is still rather the worse for wear after that misadventure.

"I could think of a few alternatives."

The barest hint of a smirk.

"It was disgusting. Better than the beer, though, I suppose." He'd needed a drink after trying to clean that up. He had to admit, though, the method had been amusing.

The car pulls up, and Sherlock leans forward to pay their fare, so happening to brush against John's leg slightly on the way, but that's only natural in the cramped space.

Unavoidable, really.

Unavoidable as the fact that John is going to have to unhitch his foot from around Sherlock's ankle if the other expects to get out without tripping. He does so, dragging his toe somewhat up the back of the younger man's calve as he goes. That's before he's shifting closer, pressing somewhat against the younger man in the clear expectance that he'll get out of his side of the car so John can follow.

He grabs his arm for balance as he negotiates his way out of the car- it's a difficult thing to manage, really. But also manages to focus, because this conversation isn't entirely avoidable, as much as he'd like to dismiss it all and just screw away the rest of the afternoon.

"Mrs Hudson suspects. I take it I shouldn't handle it the same way?"

"Unless she asks, I don't see a reason to say anything about it at all," Is the reply, quiet as John brings out the house key and opens the door to the building.

"She's always suspected anyway."

A roll of eyes. Everyone knew before they did.

"All right."

He agrees, a tiny bit uneasy with this nuance- people say so much more than they are saying, like Lestrade did today, and not everyone seems to see it like he does.

Sherlock resolves to tell her, no matter what, to just ask John.

People were going to talk; John had come to accept that. Confirming the gossip, however, was quite another thing.

John climbed the steps to the flat, gaze flickering momentarily to Mrs. Hudson's door to try and gauge if the woman was actually in. It left as he climbed high enough, opening the flat and leaving the door open for the younger man.

Was he being cruel? It wasn't that John was exactly ashamed of what he was doing, or even concern for what others might think of him. It was just that this new development was... unstable, in his mind. And the less people knew about it, the less obligation they had to be a certain way around one another. Sherlock had said he'd be alright with anything... but was he? Was he bothered by this?

As John takes off his jacket, he casts a sidelong look toward the younger man, trying to read him.

He isn't precisely bothered, but he certainly doesn't understand, either. It would probably be a good thing to explain, even just for them to learn to talk to one another about their relationship like adults.

Sherlock falls onto the settee dramatically, shedding his scarf and tossing it at the desk, letting his long coat pool around him. All slouched, he looks like a child playing dress up in his own clothes.

They really ought to talk about it. It's just... Not exactly easy. Not what they're used to, certainly. John puts aside his coat and shuts the door before approaching the settee. Sinking into the empty space, he considers the younger man, opens his mouth, then shuts it.

His hands clench over his knees temporarily before one extends, making to touch Sherlock's arm.

"Come here."

He smiles, and straightens up, unbuttoning his coat and shifting over to drape himself over John's side, groaning faintly and relaxing into him.

"Going to check the blog in a moment."

He needs a case. But in the mean time, he's happy to sprawl into him.

John finds himself relaxing partially as well, shifting his arm onto the back of the sofa to better open up his side to the other. Turning slightly toward Sherlock, John's other hand drags along the seam of that coat before pushing inside and wrapping loosely around the detective's side. It's warm there; that, along with the closeness, is something of a comfort.

For the mention of the blog, there's a hum of acknowledgement. For the moment he's got Sherlock here, John settles his chin on the taller man's shoulder, nosing against the soft flesh of the nearby neck and just pressing his lips there. Nothing seductive, just intimacy.

Edited 2012-04-30 23:05 (UTC)

He makes a soft, throaty sound and tucks himself closer, letting a leg twine around his. It surprises him, how good he is at staying still when he has John's body to distract himself with. Again, not sexually, just by being close to him.

It's another few minutes before he speaks.

"Would you like to do something tonight?"

John doesn't mind it at all, allowing himself to be manipulated for Sherlock's comfort and trying to think of little more than the simple enjoyment he gets from the proximity. His fingers stroke up and down, tracing slow, nonsensical patterns into the younger's lower back.

"Did you have something in mind?"

It's probably going to be 'yes', whatever it is.

"Chinese and a new sexual act?"

Conversational and comfortable. He doesn't see anything wrong with being so blasée about it. John knows he likes their experimentation, and responds well to Sherlock's enthusiasm.

"And maybe a film? You can pick."

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