See part 1 for A/N, warnings, and disclaimer (no, really, angry banks are scary)
…they fear the sun
I lean back in my chair and stare at the stack of patient notes I have to work through. It'll be a tedious task, but thankfully I only have three patients tomorrow and they are all in the morning. I sigh and close my eyes; it's been a long day.
I pull my phone out and see no text messages from Sherlock. I haven't heard from him since just after lunch when I'd asked him to pick up dinner. He'd sent back a short, "will see," and nothing else. I'm tempted to send another to remind him, but sigh, knowing that I won't. There is a 50/50 chance that he will have forgotten. If he has forgotten then I'll be eating toast for dinner and he will feel guilty. But if he has remembered, and I text again, he'll get defensive. Upset because he thinks I don't trust him. Remorseful Sherlock is highly favorable to sulking Sherlock. I'll take my chances, and maybe get a massage out of it if he feels guilty enough.
I straighten and quickly log out of our computer system, shutting my laptop down completely. If I stay here much longer I might as well just sleep on the examination table. I collect my wallet and phone, grabbing my coat as I walk towards the door. I nod good-bye to the other doctor, Matthew, and the receptionist, Natalie. I wonder if I would have noticed they were sleeping together before I met Sherlock. Probably, it is fairly obvious really.
It is already dark when I step outside. Autumn is upon us again and the evening is beautiful. I lock the door to the clinic behind me and head towards the tube station. Why can't I ever be chasing criminals around London with Sherlock on evenings like this? It's usually Artic cold or sub-Saharan hot. Not that it really matters; I'll continue to do it as long as he does no matter the temperature or weather.
Distracted by my thoughts I don't even notice him until his baritone cuts through the crisp evening air. "My dearest Doctor, while it has been approximately 12 hours since we last saw each other, I would have thought the picture on your desk or the many in your phone would have prevented you from forgetting my appearance."
I turn instantly and he is leaning against a brick wall eyeing me, amused. I can't prevent a stupid grin from crossing my face. I'd be embarrassed by it if he didn't enjoy it so much. I close the distance between us, managing to avoid a kid on a skateboard. I reach up and run my fingers through his hair as our lips meet. I expect just a quick hello kiss, but Sherlock pulls me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. He's almost desperate as he deepens the kiss, flexing his fingers against me. Naturally, I respond to him, but only for a few moments. He groans in protest as I pull back, so I leave my weight pressed against him as a compromise.
"What was that for?" I ask happily as our breath mixes between us. He grins.
"Is it not acceptable for me to have missed my husband and desire to spend every possible second with him?"
Oh fuck, he's burned the flat down. I pull back, separating myself from him. He frowns but there is amusement in his eyes.
"Sherlock?" I question and he laughs, out and out bellows. I can feel the back of my neck start to tense. My concern must show on my face as I take another step backwards because he points at me and laughs harder. Who the hell is this?
"John," he gasps it out stepping forward and settling a hand on my shoulder. "There is nothing wrong. I promise, love."
Love? The one and only time, previous to this, that he ever used an endearment with me was 'honey'. We had only been romantically involved for about 3 months. I'd been exhausted when I walked into flat. He charged into the room, kissed me and called me "Honey". I was so taken aback that I nearly missed the, "I pretended to be you the other day while trying to infiltrate a prostitution ring. Vice now has your name and are looking to question you in the murder of one of the prostitutes I spoke with." Needless to say the endearment doesn't sit well with me.
I stare into his eyes, patiently waiting for the other shoe to drop. He slides his hand to my neck and runs his fingers across the growing knot. He leans down and kisses my temple. Then he is gone, holding a hand up to hail a cab.
I climb in and sit across from him. I want to be able to watch him. He's relaxed, easily tossing one leg over the other and still has a huge smile on his face. He gives the address for Angelo's and I raise a questioning eyebrow.
"I feel like Italian. We are doing takeaway as you have had such a long day." Still smiling, usually he'd be angry that I'd worked late taking time away from him.
"You had a case today?" I ask, as it's the only explanation I can see that would explain this joviality.
"No," he glances out the window. "I did some research, but most importantly I bought you new pyjamas."
They must look ridiculous or something, giant pink bees or lime green cows. Although Sherlock's sense of humor doesn't usually work that way, he isn't one for pranks.
"I told you that you didn't have to replace…"
"I know. I know." Usually this would be an exasperated dismissal of my point, but today he still has laughter in his eyes. "You insist that you don't wear regular pyjamas frequently enough to warrant their replacement. What you seem to be unaware of is that you do wear them when you are angry with me." He offers me a grin from ear to ear. "Therefore, when you have them on I can see how long it takes for me to get them off. My record is 7 minutes 24 seconds."
I immediately think that he might be trying to anger me so that I'll wear the new pyjamas and he can play his game, but dismiss it. Despite whatever game he makes of it, he is usually genuinely distressed when I'm angry with him.
"You could just apologize like a normal spouse." Sherlock hates anything that might be labeled normal, except for tonight apparently.
He brushes my shin with the toe of his shoe. It is the only gesture outside of our initial kiss that has had any sexual undertone to it. I'm honestly having a twilight zone moment.
"How bored would you be if I acted like a normal spouse? That's just a silly thing to say John."
True. I watch him and he doesn't falter. He appears happier than a case or a successful experiment would make him. It is stupid happy, like when he realized that I loved him back or when we got married. I have absolutely no idea what could have brought…
"Clara Cosgrove," he offers. I stare at him trying to process this unrequested clue into whatever sent my husband into….oh.
Realization must show on my face because he nods approvingly. Clara. He figured it out. This does surprise me because all it took was a completely discreet conversation on a street corner. One without cameras so Mycroft couldn't watch, Sherlock had long ago taught me all the blind spots.
Harry had set up the meeting, explaining that I had some information that Clara would be interested in. Clara had seemed genuinely glad to see me again, even for a moment. And she was happy to help as we'd helped her friend.
It was actually Harry who gave me the idea. She'd noticed, while Sherlock was working for her, that I was unusually angry and on edge. She'd pushed me for answers, because that is what she does. I'd dismissed it as a former client, a banker, I was thinking about murdering. She didn't need details.
She'd laughed at me then, the way only an older sibling can. The way that made me want to punch her instead of Sebastian.
"Don't murder him, John, and land yourself in prison. If you have dirt on him just report him to the regulatory agency. They'll eat him for breakfast, guilty or not. In banking all it takes is rumors, you'll essentially ruin his career."
I distinctly remember cocking my head and looking across the table at my sister. Sherlock was digging through the client's basement ignoring us and I had been impressed with how morally deviant my sister was. She'd winked at me before pouring another cup of coffee. A week later Clara had called me at work and we met in passing that evening. I hadn't even been late getting home.
"Did you know that Scotland Yard did not report to the FSA that an account executive at Shad Sanderson, working under Sebastian Wilkes, was smuggling ancient Chinese artifacts into the UK?" His words draw me completely back into the cab. He is still looking happy, but somehow being in on the joke has made it look a little less manic.
He leans over and hands me his mobile. It's an article about Sebastian. Well, that obviously explains how Sherlock learned about it. I read the story quickly, noticing that Clara is named. Yet another surprise this evening is that Sherlock didn't long ago delete the name of Harry's ex-wife. I can't contain my smile as I answer his previous question.
"I did know that. Though, I do hear that it was finally brought to the attention of the FSA two months ago. Apparently, there is some concern that if a bank executive is willing to overlook smuggling, then there obviously very little oversight."
"Indeed," he looks out the window. We are almost to Angelo's. "Apparently an anonymous source finally alerted them to the situation."
"As Sebastian is a waste of oxygen, we should thank whoever it was." His head snaps around at that and the smile on his face now is very familiar. It sends jolts straight to my groin.
"Oh, I have every intention of thanking him. It was a him, by the way." The shoe reaches up again and brushes across the inside of my knee. I spread my legs slightly just a centimeter or two higher would be just fine. He smirks and drops his foot. "I'm buying him dinner, taking him home, and making him eat. Then I'm going to spend all night, every last second of it, relearning every millimeter of him head to toe."
I have to clear my throat. "Lucky him," I shift in my seat, a series of feelings that aren't appropriate for a cab ride flooding my body.
He smiles, it's the jolts to my groin smile, again. The cab stops and I'm vaguely aware we are outside of Angelo's. Sherlock leans forward, awkwardly, in the short space and places a hand on either of my knees.
"There is exactly one human being on this planet that is able to interest me on a daily basis. And some days, like today, he actually takes my breath away." He places his mouth against mine and gently darts his tongue against my lower lip. "Lucky me," he whispers. He's out of the cab in a flash, that beautiful voice telling the cabbie that he'll be right back.
I glance at the phone I'd forgotten I was holding. I stare at the article for a long moment before closing it. I smile; Sebastian Wilkes is no longer relevant.
*And in sticking with tradition, the title comes from Arcade Fire's Black Wind/Bad Vibration