Disclaimer: I am not the BBC so you know I don't own Sherlock.
It was just another typical day like any other in flat b of 221 Baker street: Sherlock was lost in his mind palace, there was no milk to be had- at least none that could be safely ingested, unless you like your milk green, furry, chunky and slightly growling- and John was having to do all the clean up so that the rugs wouldn't dissolve, again.
With more force than was really necessary, or safe, the doctor tossed the newest bagful of, frankly, hazardous waste into the bin and started filling up a new one, his forth.
Four days. Four days! That was all it took for Sherlock to utterly trash the flat- again!
And what was worse was the blighter didn't even seem to care that John was the one forced to clean it all up before Mrs. Hudson- a positive Saint in his book for putting up with even half of what she did- had a fit and hired a cleaning crew. That he, John Watson, not even the man who had made the mess in the first place, would have to pay for when the cost was tacked onto the next month's rent!
It was times like this when he just wished there was a way to make Sherlock realize that actions had consequences, but nothing, not even a gun in the face or a knife on the ribs, ever seemed to affect him.
With a huff John pulled the cushions off the sofa and started raking the... he didn't even know- but he knew it didn't belong in a sofa!- out and into the bag when his hand made contact with something smallish and plastic.
Pulling the item out he found it was a phone, a pink phone. Specifically the pink phone Moriarty had sent Sherlock just before the Pool.
Placing the item on the table John went back to cleaning with a bit more viciousness than he had before, and absolutely not thinking about why Sherlock still had that phone.
He hated being reminded of that night and how they had almost died for no reason.
And what's more, he hated being reminded that Jim Moriarty, for all that they had only interacted for a brief while before Sherlock showed up, had shone more appreciation for him as an individual and a person than his own friend and flatmate did- and that was even as he was strapping John into the bomb vest!
Tossing the now full bag he opened another and eyed the phone sitting on the table as he also pulled out the industrial strength cleaners he had to use for his own peace of mind to sterilize everything.
Considering some of the things he's found before while cleaning he is still not fully convinced that it is sanitary to eat anything in the flat. That's why he orders so much take-out.
Dumping the toenails, and toes, out of the tea kettle- and making a mental note to by an electric one and keep it under lock and key in his room- and trying to ignore the burnt-moldy-sticky-bubbling thing growing in the only good skillet they had had, John caught his eye wandering back to the pink phone again.
An idea struck him, but he immediately started arguing with himself about whether or not it was a good idea, or if it was even doable.
It wasn't as if Jim would have kept that phone number active, it had been months now since the pool and he'd had no reason to.
But maybe he monitored it, just in case Sherlock decided he wanted to chat.
And then what? What would he say if the line was picked up: Hey Jim, it's John. Listen, you're the only man who can match wits with Sherlock, so could you please come over and teach him a lesson on cleaning up after himself? Thanks.
Though it might work.
No. He wasn't going to call Moriarty.
No matter how much the idea was starting to appeal to him.
He would be firm on this, unlike that squishy thing now growing in his favorite mug...
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to just try Jim's number, if it only connected to dead air then no harm done. Right?
Picking up the pink phone John hesitated.
Calling would be too... forward, wouldn't it? He should text, that might be better.
Opening up the messages he quickly typed one out:
Dear Jim, please, will you fix it for me? My flatmate is an inconsiderate arse.
The reply arrived surprisingly quickly.
Johnny-boy! Of course I'd be glad to teach Sherly a lesson for you! JM
John, now that he had Jim's attention, didn't know what to do. Why had he thought it such a good idea to involve the madman anyway?
Before he could start to panic a new message popped up.
Did you have any specific methods in mind? Or maybe a specific goal to acheive? JM
His mind blanked out for a moment at the thought of working with Jim to get to Sherlock, but then his eye wandered to the glitter and bloodstain covered oven and he felt suddenly resolved to see this through.
He just couldn't take living in a hazmat zone anymore.
As long as Sherlock learns to not trash the flat I don't care what your methods are.
John paused a moment and then quickly sent another text.
Just as long as no-one I know dies or gets tortured of course.
When the answering message arrived he didn't know whether to be relived or more apprehensive.
HA! HA! You know me too well! I'll see you in ten. JM
Wait... did that mean Jim was coming HERE?!
Don't worry Johnny-boy, Daddy will be gentle. ;-) JM
Glancing over at where Sherlock still sat, deep in his mind palace, John could only wonder at what he had just started.
"...phone, John." Not getting an immediate response Sherlock looked around and realized that he was alone and that John wouldn't be getting him his phone, but he also realized that something was off about the room.
It took him several full seconds to realize what it was, it was almost as if his mind didn't want to provide him with an answer- which was an interesting thought really, that his mind could pick and choose just what it wanted to reveal all on its own; he'd have to do a study into this at some point- but he eventually got there.
John had been on one of his futile yet frequent cleaning sprees- he lost more good experiments that way, sometimes didn't know why he put up with the man- but that wasn't the most interesting thing to happen in the flat that day.
Through the tiny clues left all over the place he deduced what had happened as if he were watching it take place right in front of him.
There had been a ring at the door, an expected visitor but not one that was expected too long before their arrival- He could see it in the placement of the newspaper on the table.
A man, taller than John but not as tall a Sherlock himself- The pattern of footprints by the door, it clearly showed John had been looking up at the new arrival but not as far as he was used too; and the slight aroma of a mans cologne still hung in the air, so a man.
John had been surprised when he'd been pushed onto his back on the sofa, the man climbing on top of him- Knee marks on the armrest were the giveaway there.
John had struggled but had quickly given in, though not because of a physical threat. (A verbal one, then?)- The cushions- which John had helpfully cleaned- showed signs of a struggle but no marks of a weapon, he didn't yet have enough data to know why John gave in.
They stayed in that position for sometime, only slightly moving- The cushions still bore imprints of both their bodies. (Were they talking or something else? If not talking the what?)
They had then moved from the sofa and into the kitchen, the unnamed male having helped John to his feet- The table had been bumped slightly, showing two people had stood close together in the same small space.
Following their movement into the kitchen he saw signs of a struggle- things knocked over, chairs scrapped against the floor as they were bumped into- but also he saw no signs of an attack- no blood, no objects picked up to use as a weapon or as a shield- it looked as if the two men, walking closely together and pushing each other around, hadn't been attempting to do each other harm.
Their path led back towards his bedroom. (Why would they go in there?)
Attempting to puzzle this out he opened his door- and froze.
Every thought he had swirling around his mind seized, every muscle in his body locked, all he could do was look on in horror.
John, his John, precious friend and blogger, lay in the middle of his bed... His mind refused to process beyond this for several moments.
Eventually he forced his mind back into gear and started to deduce everything he could as fast as he could in order to avoid having to think about it.
Starting with the floor: pink phone, John's cloths scattered everywhere, pink phone, was recently scattered with the other man's cloths as well but he took those with him when he left, pink phone.
The other man... The other man...
Then the bed: head-board damaged from where someone had been tied to it recently, mattress askew from vigorous... movement, sheets torn up and blankets tossed off.
He'd need a new bed.
Finally John: John, John, John.
Barely covered by a corner of a sheet his nakedness was grossly apparent, covered in bruises- hickeys, hickeys, hickeys, not bruises- with wax burns across his chest and... no signs of any restraint marks.
Had the other man been the one tied to the head-board?
The other man... The other man... Why couldn't he deduce anything about him? He had more than enough data to do so.
Was this another instance of his mind not wanting to give him answers?
Back to John then: finger shaped bruising on the visible hip from where he was taken from behind- But John wasn't gay! Never has been and never will be! How could he have missed something so blaring obvious as bisexuality?- and now staring at him with a satiated smile.
John then rolled over on his side, revealing his back and the message written there.
"I don't know what he wrote, he wouldn't tell me, but he seemed pleased with it before he left." The doctor said with a yawn and started drifting off to sleep again, leaving a horrified Sherlock to stare at the message written in permanent marker on his flatmates back.
Sherly! Things like this wouldn't happen if you would just keep your flat clean. Love, Jim
Sherlock felt light-headed, he felt sick, he felt... confused.
Why would Moriarty care about the state of his flat?
Spotting the pink phone he hadn't fully registered when his mind was trying to protect him from the truth he picked it up and opened it.
Reading the recent messages he then threw it against the wall, rendering it useless to anyone.
All this just because John didn't want to do a little cleaning? It wasn't as if the flat ever got really messy anyway, so why the overreaction?!
Stepping out of his room- air, he needed air- he finally saw what should have been clear at first glance:
John let Moriarty into the flat, he'd been nervous but willing.
Moriarty surprised John with a kiss and they fell back on the sofa.
John struggled a bit until Moriarty explained that it was the best way to get under Sherlock's skin.
They kissed some more, probably where John gained some of his hickeys.
They moved through the kitchen, never letting each other go, knocking things over and not caring.
They reached the bedroom, his bedroom... he can't think about tha- doesn't WANT to think about that- but his mind, now that it's not hiding anything from him, has one last observation for him.
Jim had arrived several hours ago and left less than ten minutes before he came out of his mind palace.
John had been alone with Moriarty having... having... THAT for several hours.
On his bed.
It was a very pale and shaken Sherlock that hailed a cab outside his flat that night.
It was a composed and non-condescending Mycroft that ended up with the in shock Consulting Detective in a guest room for the night. He didn't need to ask any questions, his hidden cameras all over 221b had shown him exactly what had happened, but he did take care to tuck his baby brother in snugly before retreating to his office.
And then he started thinking about John Watson and just how this situation could now be turned to his personal advantage.
It had been a week since John had disappeared off the face of the Earth and Sherlock was ready to pull his hair out.
Every text he had received from the doctor had been infuriating in its vagueness.
You wouldn't believe this view!
I nearly cried at the theater last night.
I had no idea caviar was so salty. It's good though.
Would you like a souvenir?
Mycroft says hi!
It was maddening.
At least Jim had only screwed John and run, but Mycroft had to go and do one better and abscond with the man to another country- that was as far as his tracing got before the trail went utterly cold.
And he wouldn't return him until Sherlock solved the entire pile of boring cases he'd been left with!
Last case solved, it was the pilot as I'm sure you well know. Now return John! SH
Always so impatient, dear brother, Dr. watson will return when he is good and ready. MH
Sherlock stared at his phone in horror before dropping it and refusing to look at it again.
One little mistake, just one little mistake that's all it was, but coming from his brother it spoke volumes.
Volumes that all said the same thing: Mycroft was... distracted when he wrote that text.
And as Sherlock knew that even an ongoing assassination attempt wouldn't distract his brother there was only one conclusion to be had:
John was doing the... distracting.
With a shudder Sherlock turned towards the kitchen and gave a sigh.
Grabbing a plastic bag he began to clean up, he would hate for John to think he had to do it all himself after all.
In a small café in Paris Mycroft looked up from his phone with an inordinately pleased expression on his face.
"What did you do to him now?" His blonde companion asked before taking a sip from his latte.
"Nothing that you won't thank me for later, I'm sure." He replied as he lifted his own cup.
"He's made Sherlock think you two are going at it like rabbits." The third, and last, person at their table stated.
"Mycroft!" John exclaimed in mock horror even as he tried to stifle his giggles.
"Mr. Moriarty, you know very well that I told Sherlock nothing of the sort." Though his face remained neutral the gleam in his eye said that he found it all humorous as well.
"Fine, you didn't say anything. But you heavily implied it by not mentioning it." John was nodding at this.
"That sounds about right." Mycroft just looked at the two in bemusement before standing.
"As enjoyable as all this has been I must really be off. John, if you could prevail on your boyfriend to see you home in the next day or two Sherlock is waiting." With a half nod he turned and exited, leaving the two lovers to their own devises.
"At least we can say we had Paris." John said with a sigh before continuing.
"It was nice of Mycroft not to have us shot on sight once he found out about us." This got a snort from his companion.
"Yeah, so nice of Mycy. He got Sherlock to do all his legwork and now I owe him a favor. John Watson, you are a corrupting force." John leaned in and stole a kiss from the brunette before commenting.
"I learned through osmosis I'm sure." Jim cracked up at that.
"Then let's go back to the hotel and I can give you another lesson or three before taking you home. I'm sure Sherly is beside himself without you there mother-henning him." They shared a laugh as they left and climbed into a cab, John doesn't even look back as the café blows up once they are a few blocks away, he just rests his head on Jim's shoulder with a sigh.
"How long do you think it will take him to realize that I was with you and not Mycroft?" John finally asks as emergency crews pass them going in the opposite direction.
"He's not going to want to think about it- at all- so I'd say... one and a half days." Jim looks at his phone as it pings. It's Mycroft, thanking him for blowing up the café and decimating the terrorist cell brewing inside. Jim smirks, he no longer owes the Ice Man that favor.
"Only one and a half? That won't give me very long before he starts questioning me all about you then." They are at their hotel by now and are getting into the elevator.
"Don't worry about it, he won't bug you about details. Maybe about your motivation, but not about details." Jim unlocks their room door.
"Oh? And why is that?" Instead of an answer John gets pressed up against a wall.
"Oh... Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, my boy. Do you really think young Sherly would care to know about this?" Jim then proceeds to show John, in great detail, over the next few hours, just what it is he's talking about.
And John has to agree- especially after Jim gets out the peanut butter- that Sherlock would not want to know the details, but that doesn't stop him from thinking of all the ways he can use said details to tease his friend.
The next day as he enters 221b John meets Sherlock's scowl with a wide grin and one sentence.
"Best vacation EVER!" He then blushes while making a peanut butter sandwich and watches Sherlock go pale.
Yes, definitely the best, he thinks.