35 - To Celebrate a Victory

After Sherlock had wiped himself free of his imaginary semen, he tossed the dry tissue in the bin and disengaged from John, reaching for his phone and feeling irrationally resentful as John started waxing lyrical behind him.

"So good, Sherlock, that was…wow. God, the way you look when you come. Perfect. Sinful," he babbled, lovingly palming the detective's unsatisfied cock, and frotting gently against him.

"We need to get to the crime scene. Now that we've wasted so much time," Sherlock snapped, thumbing through his phone and letting Lestrade know that he and John would be on their way. He glanced back at John who was still sprawled inelegantly on the bed, looking shagged-out and happy. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Hurry. Put your clothes on. We leave in another minute."

John rolled his eyes, too engorged with endorphins and, it had to be said, smugness at the thorough seeing-to he had given Sherlock, too sated to be overly irritated at the detective's abrupt manner.

"I'm sure the body won't be going anywhere soon," he observed, stifling a small yawn as he pawed about for his clothes, far too languidly for Sherlock's liking.

"I know that."

"And neither will you, presumably. Tired, yeah? Knees weak? Heart still racing a bit? We can give the case a pass, if you're not feeling up to it?"
Sherlock felt a stab of irritation. He was feeling none of those things. Couldn't John see?

"No, thank you, I'm perfectly healthy enough to go on this case."

"I can't argue that you do look very...fit," John smirked, eyes focussing pointedly at Sherlock's firm backside as hthe detective bent to pull his underwear and tailored trousers back on. His un-spent cock gave a little, sore twitch as the fabric caged it once more.

It didn't help that John, as he got dressed and followed Sherlock downstairs and into the cab, was relaxed and loose-limbed. Sherlock couldn't stop envy rising inside his chest.

Sherlock usually experienced post-coital John in much more domestic, relaxed settings, certainly not in the back of a grubby black cab with an out-of-date tax disc and faulty heating. The rapidly darkening evening was just nudging over the line of 'comfortably cool', and becoming distinctly, pervasively chilly. John seemed unflappably happy beside him, holding his hand and squeezing it (fondly? Possessively? Both? Sherlock wasn't sure).

Either way, for the first time since he could remember, it was the slightest bit...annoying. John's blissful mood was irritating while Sherlock was distinctly not happy and there was a persistent, niggling heaviness in his groin from unsatisfied lust. Not to mention his arse was throbbing from earlier and - Sherlock suddenly realized - John hadn't even checked to see if he and his arse were okay. He suddenly felt vindicated in his bad mood.

It wasn't too far to the pet store, which, according to Sherlock's speedy background check, had unusually late opening hours, sometimes staying open till 9pm. Could be important. He was sifting efficiently through some slim but detailed files in his Mind Palace regarding commercially available hybrid spider breeds, when he was disturbed by a slightly-stubbled kiss on his knuckles, followed by a cheeky sequel on his jaw, accompanied by a soft, smiling huff of breath.

He frowned and turned to John. "What was that for?"

His quelling look surprised John. He saw the unease flicker across his otherwise happy, open face- and felt rather guilty at dampening John's good mood...then his arse twinged as the cab rounded a corner, and Sherlock stopped feeling guilty.

"I kissed you? Just...thought you'd enjoy it." John scooted back to his side of the cab. "Guess I was wrong."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just closed his eyes as he endeavoured to return to his Mind Palace. Moments later though, John spoke up whimsically, and Sherlock bit back a sigh of impatience.

"I had a pet tarantula when I was a teenager. Called him Bodie, you know, after that bloke from The Professionals."

Sherlock didn't know, but he nodded cautiously anyway, hoping John had quite finished.

"I used to like to scare Harry with him. She always hated spiders." John grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes, losing patience.

"Yes, fascinating story, but at the moment I'm trying to piece together everything Lestrade's told me so if you could please...be quiet."

"Sure," John murmured distantly, turning to gaze out the window at the passers-by on the chilly street, highlighted with neon signs and blinding streetlights, at the same time they were shadowed with grime and iniquity. Sherlock had no doubt that the plebians traversing the pavement would know who 'Bodie' was. Frowning, he went back to his mental files, but couldn't focus, and found himself reading the same page over and over, not remembering a word of it.

The entire store was cordoned off, officers stationed outside to keep anyone who wasn't authorized from going in, but John and Sherlock were let through without question. John had to struggle to keep up with the detective, whose long legs were striding along at a brisk, although uneven pace. John smirked, liking the idea that he'd fucked Sherlock so well he was limping afterward. That had to be some sort of record.

He had to admit that he really wasn't quite in 'case-solving' mode at the moment, but couldn't quite bring himself to feel guilty about it. He felt giddy, high with an addictive cocktail of pride, lust, and adoration.

Sherlock was obviously in a bad mood, but John thought that had more to do with the fact that they'd had to leave the flat, post-shag, the semen barely cooling on their bodies, to solve a case. Well, maybe he could make it worthwhile, he thought.

John shamelessly let his mind wander to where he might be right now, if there hadn't been a case. Perhaps he'd keep Sherlock up all night and see how many orgasms he could give him. And when dawn broke, he'd massage him into a doze and then wank all over his shoulderblades...

He cleared his throat and had the decency to blush when Sherlock threw him a questioning look, as they approached a series of glass tanks, where all kinds of invertebrates were dwelling lethargically.

He trailed behind Sherlock to where Lestrade was waiting for them near the back of the shop, looking tense and worried, but relieved when he spied them. "Where the hell have you two been? I expected you here an hour ago!"

"John insisted on delaying us," Sherlock said bluntly, and there was no hint of humour in his cold green eyes. "I'm guessing that with the new-found complacency of the perpetrator, you have some half-decent physical evidence this time? Don't place too much value on it, there's a good chance it will have been planted and will have an obscure provenance to throw you off track. You're better off looking at past crimes with similar MOs. And this man will have a juvenile record of anti-social behaviour against non-specific individuals. Possibly even minor arson."

"How in hell did you get all that?" Lestrade asked. "I only sent you a few pictures-"

"That's right. You only sent me a few pictures. As usual. Because you know that's all I need. Why do you continue to be surprised at my excellence?" Sherlock snapped irritably.

Lestrade gave him a look before rolling his eyes. "All right. Come on. It's through that door back there. Watch your feet- there's glass everywhere."

"I'm not blind," Sherlock muttered defensively, but he followed without further complaint. His face, however, could have soured milk. Until, that is, he glanced around at the storage tanks in the high-ceiling, musty, warehouse-like room. He peered quizzically into a few smashed-up tanks that had very recently had little, multi-legged occupants.

"A few of these animals have been stolen to make the crime appear to be a straight-forward robbery," he pondered aloud. "The other victims all suffered death once they had taken their pets home...spiders that had been replaced with a similar-looking, deadly variety. That was done neatly, cleanly, and without anybody noticing until too late. This is overt. I think someone else is trying to get in on the act. They messed up, panicked...the victim died here. The victim was the female sales assistant, yes?"

"Uh, yeah. It was." Lestrade confirmed. "So wait. You're saying we're looking for someone else?"

"I did say the evidence was fabricated to make it appear-" Sherlock broke off, lunging toward one of the tanks, and kneeling to inspect a scuff at the bottom of one of the legs. Lestrade swore. He glanced around, shuddering at the occupants in the tank closest.

"I always hated spiders," he muttered to John.

"I used to have one as a kid-"

"Yes, John, we all know about your childhood fascination with arachnids." Sherlock snapped.

The detective sighed and expounded some more, while his companions stood by. "She knew, or at the very least, knew of, the true criminal. She attempted to help him with the fake robbery here...the 'stolen' animals are probably in the bins outside. It's worth retrieving them to be sure. She was an amateur, the spider turned against her, stung her, she died. One less person to apprehend," he hummed.

"Amazing, isn't he?" John murmured to Lestrade good-naturedly. "Ignore his attitude. He didn't get enough sleep," he grinned, and the naked lasciviousness on his face was impossible to misinterpret.

Lestrade chuckled, a bit uncomfortable because it was Sherlock but willing to share the joke all the same. Sherlock pursed his lips, spinning away from the two men, disgruntled.

John followed him as he continued to look at the rest of the shop's storage and Sherlock let him. He was being quiet, unobtrusive-

"John!" Sherlock yelped at the sudden pinch to his bottom.

Eyeing John's innocent, annoyingly-kissable face with a calculating pout, he cleared his throat. "Actually, you can help me with something." He abruptly opened the heavy bolted doors in a corner, leading out into a grimy, half-lit alley full of skips , bashed-up cardboard boxes, and bits of plastic wrapping. He opened the chilled lid of a discoloured green skip, and made a pondering noise as he examined the contents. "Ah yes, here we go," he announced calmly, before reaching gently into the container. Cradling something in his large hands, he half-turned towards John. "Evidence. Put it somewhere safe." he said noncommittally.

John cupped his hand and allowed Sherlock to gingerly tip a furry thing into his palms. His eyes widened when he realized-

"Jesus fuck!"

"What? You said you had one as a beloved pet as a child."

"Yeah but...you didn't tell me you had one-" John grimaced as the tarantula stirred in his hand, sluggishly tapping its legs on his hand.

"It needs to be placed back in a safe tank as soon as possible, it's pretty weak. Poor thing." John quirked an eyebrow at this, but Sherlock didn't appear to be joking; his striking face was straight, his features calm, if a little distant. "We need to give Lestrade some bad news. Come on." He turned and held the heavy, chipped back door open for his partner.