John Was a Good Boy
(But It Feels Great To be a Liar)
"Give me back my badge, Sherlock." Lestrade demanded as Sherlock was leaving a crime scene. For once, though, he had not been the one to take it, and turned to face the detective in a curios expression. A quick searching with the eyes left him with no clues as to where it had gone.
"I know you pick pocket me. Don't make me arrest you." He only knew that because Sherlock allowed him to know that. Otherwise he wouldn't have the least idea. Sherlock was simply glad that he kept an extra one on him for 'safety' purposes. He opened his coat a little to remove the badge and returned it to his rightful owner. He had tons of them, one wasn't going to do any harm. Lestrade snatched it away as if Sherlock was going to attempt to steal it back.
"I'm getting tired of your games, Holmes." The DI growled, but Sherlock's attention was already elsewhere. John, specifically. He stood by his taller partner looking no more different than he usually did, besides the scolding look he carved into the side of his pick pocketing friend. He hadn't! Honestly! Sherlock frowned with more lip than was necessary.
"I- I could have sworn I had one." Molly went through her pockets almost desperately, though Sherlock couldn't say he needed a pen that bad. She searched her hair as well, but found no trace of said pen.
"My mother engraved that pen for me." She sighed softly, her shoulders falling as she crossed her clipboard over her stomach. He frowned at him.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. I'll go grab one." Ever so eager to please her crush, she hurried off to find a pen. Grey eyes turned to John, watching nonchalantly beside the door.
"Unless a pen magically appeared in my pocket since the last time you asked, no, I still don't have a pen." John insisted with only a hint of annoyance. Sherlock wouldn't have called it 'magic'.
Lestrade approached him once again as they were leaving for home and Sherlock was sure he knew what it was about.
"You have to give Anderson his house key back."
"Why on earth would I want Anderson's house key?" Sherlock demanded. Just because he pick pocketed occasionally did not mean he was a kleptomaniac. He only did it when he was bored and when people were being irritating. Lestrade stared knowingly at him.
"Okay, fine, I admit, I was the one that put the raccoon in his house, but I didn't even need a key for that. His wife hides the spare under the rug." He'd found it instantly, why would he have to steal his key. More accusing staring.
"Yes, I suppose it would be like me to take it just to annoy him, but he started it." Sherlock complied like a child. When Lestrade continued to drive the stare through his face, he spread his arms and legs.
"Fine. Search me. I don't," He said slowly. "Have. It."
Lestrade didn't even hesitate, searching out every part of the tall man, every pocket, and only stopped once he was satisfied. Even so, the man was still sure he had it and left grumbling.
"Very thorough, Detective. I expect dinner now." Sherlock called after him. Only after he was gone did he look toward John again. Three times in one day seemed a bit excessive, but again, John blinked at him curiously, obviously expecting Sherlock to say something to him.
"I didn't take his key."
"I'm sure you didn't, Sherlock."
Sherlock watched the blonde man on his couch suspiciously. John didn't seem to even be aware of his stealing habits as he typed away on his laptop. However, since he hadn't seen him do it, Sherlock knew better than to simply accuse him. John would get mad at him and that was something he would prefer to avoid. John looked at him and closed his laptop in irritation.
"Okay. You've been looking at me like that all day. What is it?" He demanded. Sherlock watched him for several more moments.
"Nothing." The answer finally came, but John didn't accept it.
"Really? It's nothing." John put his little computer aside and left the room, but not Sherlock's sight. He stood before the stove, making himself a cup of tea, but there was no sign of him trying to pocket anything. Of course not, he was in his own home. Sherlock would have to catch him in the act.
"Why don't we go out for dinner, tonight?"
"Aren't you suppose to be on a case." Rarely did Sherlock eat during a case.
"It was the butler, obviously."
"And you didn't tell this to Lestrade why?"
"He was too busy groping me." Which roughly translated to: 'He pissed me off so I'm going to drag him along for as long as possible'. John shook his head a little and took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"I'm going to have a cup of tea and then I'm going to bed." John explained and he did and Sherlock watched him the entire time. He waited an appropriate amount of time before going through all of John's stuff. John's sleeping habits were erratic, though, leaving Sherlock a very fine area of time to poke through his room. He didn't find anything he was looking for.
Even after going through John's pockets of the clothes he had worn, there was nothing. Sherlock quietly exited the room and flopped down on the couch. He was positive John was showing kleptomatic tendencies, even if the man hadn't realized it himself, that much was sure, but what was he doing with it? He would have noticed if John disposed of the items on the way home, which only meant he had to hide them.
Sherlock tore the house apart. Then put it back together, of course. He found nothing. John was smarter than he appeared sometimes, so he wouldn't have used any of the usual hiding spots he hid things he didn't want Sherlock to find (usually things John confiscated for not using them 'appropriately'). He hadn't hidden them in the safe John didn't know he knew about.
He didn't sleep at all that night, which wasn't unusual for Sherlock. John awoke at the usual time and went about his usual morning routine. He stalked down the stairs in little more than his pants, began to heat a bit of water, and searched the kitchen for something to eat. Sherlock watched him as intently as he had the night before, but John didn't even seem worried that he'd been found out. Perhaps he really wasn't aware of it.
"John. John." Rarely did he receive a response before John was fully awake. "John. John. John. John."
John. John. John. John. It was best to answer him now and get it out of the way, but John couldn't bring himself to respond to him at all. It was probably something bizarre and irrelevant and Sherlock could wait. He'd had the sneaking suspicions that Sherlock was in his room in the night and his military mind wouldn't let him sleep well with that knowledge. He did still sleep, though, since Sherlock was constantly invading his things and person. There was no personal space in this house and it was starting to rub off on him, which was immensely bad.
He had always tried to keep physical distant from people due to his unwanted sticky fingers. He had managed to control it for a long time and had thought it had been cured in his stay in the war, but Sherlock had so wonderfully turned it back on. It felt awful, though something at the back of his mind allowed him to relax. It was built into his brain and to do it again, no matter how much against his will, was immensely sweet. Yes, he felt bad Sherlock was taking the blame for most of it, but it was his own fault for pick pocketing in the first place. John didn't approve.
He returned everything he stole as often as he could, anonymously of course, though he was sure everyone knew it was from him only him returning it for Sherlock. He knew his flat mate was suspicious of him, but John wouldn't admit to anything. For one, he didn't know how Sherlock would respond, and for two, it was incredibly embarrassing.
"I know." The man murmured. Yes, Sherlock loved to play mind games, but John was quicker on the catch than most people. Not to mention, most people Sherlock attempted to rile didn't live with him.
"Yes. You know everything relevant. What does that have to do with anything?"
"I know about you." He insisted and John made a small 'hmm' of annoyance at the back of his throat.
"Yes, Sherlock. We live together and you deduce everything. I'd be a little insulted if you didn't." Then Sherlock was quiet and he was more than glad for it. Of course Sherlock knew. John didn't think he could hide it, but as long as he could, he would. He took his tea and the morning paper Mrs. Hudson was always so kind to bring up, and sat on the couch.
Before he could have a proper sip of tea, Sherlock was on him. The movement alone startled him. The taller man leaned against the couch, a knee on either side of his own, and hovered over him. His hands instantly went around him and dug into the crevices of the couch, apparently looking for something. When he found nothing, he returned, only leaving John mildly dazed and confused. Sometimes he had to wonder if even Sherlock's actions were bizarre for Sherlock.
John had learned to shake it off. Mostly just glad he hadn't spilled scolding water all over himself, he returned to his paper with 'I don't even care' sigh. Sherlock glared angrily at him from the other side of the room.
"I guess you didn't take Anderson's key." Lestrade steeled his face and Sherlock smirked. He knew an apology was coming and that alone was enough to make the DI change his mind. However, he eventually managed it out.
"I'm sorry for accusing you. But I still think you did it. I found my badge and Molly's pen in the same place; so perfectly buried under some documents on my desk." He explained, his suspicious eyes watching the taller male firmly. Sherlock's eyes were more focused on John, of course.
"Is that right?"
"Would you just do us all a favor and stop being a menace to society."
"Now, Detective, that's very insensitive. Some people just can't help themselves, you know." Sherlock insisted. John glanced toward him a little, breaking his attention away from the curious little device on Lestrade's desk. It didn't last long, though, and he turned back to being less than interested in their conversation.
"So you're a Klepto, too."
"Why do you assume it's me?" Sherlock yelped loudly.
"Oh, what? John's been stealing our stuff?" The blonde glanced up at his name, but didn't put forward any effort to prove or disprove the statement.
"Maybe." Sherlock scoffed.
"I don't know how you put up with him, John." Lestrade calmed himself with a single deep breath.
"He has his moments." John assured him, patting his partner's shoulder. Sherlock yanked away like an enraged child and jerked to his feet.
"It was the butler." And with a loud 'hm', Sherlock stormed out. The shorter male hurried after him. He nearly crashed into him when he stopped so suddenly.
"Empty your pockets." In the middle of the sidewalk, none the less. John couldn't make heads or tails of Sherlock's attitude. Surely he wasn't that upset. People blamed him for stuff all the time and he never acted like this.
"What for, Sherlock?" John demanded, taking a step back. He didn't obtain a response, rather Sherlock decided to check for him, stepping into the none existent bubble of personal space and shoving his hands into the other man's pockets. He had no choice but to let him. Sherlock searched every pocket but, once again, found nothing. A side thought sent him to check John's sleeves as well, but again came up empty handed.
"Are you done? It's no wonder people think we're a couple." He patted out his jumper, ignoring the frustrated look on his face. John didn't know all the things Sherlock did, and he would never completely know how the man's mind worked, but he knew enough to slip through the cracks for now. Which was a lot harder than it seemed, but John put Sherlock's disposable memory to work in his favor.
"You're hiding something." Sherlock glowered.
"Of course I am!" John exasperated. "Everyone's hiding everything from you all of the time! You're just so great! I can't help but feel inferior compared to you!" He watched as Sherlock's shoulders fell. Great. Now he was going to sulk. Of course he was going to sulk. He sighed sensitively, his hand coming to rest on the other's elbow.
"I'm sorry. Okay? You don't have to know everything, you know."
"You took my phone." Grey eyes looked down to find John's other hand, resting at his side as if it hadn't moved an inch. Definitely involuntary.
"What? I did not." John squared his shoulders off definitely. Sherlock smiled at him.
"You sneaky, brilliant man. You thought I wouldn't look." The taller man knelled on the sidewalk, instantly making John's face light up red. With both hands, Sherlock patted down his thigh before swiftly shoving a hand down the other man's pants and groped at the pale skin beneath.
"It's incredible you even got it there without me knowing." The praise was unheard, John was too busy trying to get Sherlock out of his pants. Thankfully, he withdrew on his own, shaking his phone at the short blonde in a scolding motion.
"You thought I wouldn't look there because there's no room, but you're not carrying your gun. You only like to carry your gun when you think we're going to be in immediate danger, but that doesn't mean you're not wearing that thing." He motioned to it with a skinny finger before violently shoving his hand back down his pants to find what else he was hiding.
"That's very sly of you, John. But you must have known I'd look there and you return them before I have a chance to look for them. But it's elastic, which means you can carry your gun and Lestrade's badge goes under the band." He snapped it against John's leg, making his leg jerk in surprise.
"Will you stop that." He hissed lowly, doing everything he could to not kick Sherlock in the face. Or smash him into the ground. Or break his nose.
"Oh. Stealing more keys, John. What on earth do you want with keys? I doubt you even know what most of these are to." John felt the little items drop out from the bottom of his pants, face flushed with embarrassment.
"Pens, boring. A credit card. Tape measure," Sherlock murmured to himself as he worked, though it wasn't appreciated. Not to mention they were still in the middle of the street with Sherlock's hand in his pants. This didn't look good for him.
"Oh! Little Sally's phone." Sherlock smirked and John quickly snatched it away from him.
"You are not taking advantage of this situation!" John snapped angrily, taking a hurriedly step away from him.
"It's nothing to be embarrassed of, John." He stood, held his hand out. "You took my phone again. It's a nervous tick, that's all." The blonde only frowned though. Of course it was nerves. Sherlock was constantly making him nervous, or worried, or any other emotion John couldn't help.
"This isn't a joke."
"I cured your limp, didn't I? That was all in your head, too. Don't worry. I'll help you." John didn't like the sound of this.
He was right. This was an awful idea. Allowing Sherlock to do anything was an awful idea. He needed to stick to solving cases and even those went horribly awry basically all of the time. He should have known it was going to be awful when Sherlock decided he needed to carry his crop everywhere for no reason.
"BLOODY FUCK! Bollocks! Git, damned, fuck, prick, bastard, bitch, cock." The entire room turned to examine the outburst, though John was more concerned with tending to his bruised hand than anything else. Almost habitually, eyes switched to Sherlock.
"Did you just-" Lestrade began.
"Certainly not." Sherlock answered simply.
"John," The DI turned his attention back again. "Did Sherlock just-"
"No!" John snapped, though his eyes narrowed at his flat mate said otherwise. Quietly, everyone went back to work with only a few murmurs among them, mostly against Sherlock. It was a common thing, however, and was ignored as usual.
"Give me the crop." He demanded under his breath, pulling Sherlock to face them away from the rest of the room.
"I will not." Sherlock huffed. "It's for your own good. I saw you going for Lestrade again."
"Sherlock, if you do not give me the crop-"
"The body's over here, Sherlock." He turned away immediately, not giving John the chance to finish. This continued all day, unfortunately. Which seemed to be hurting more than helping. Though John didn't acknowledge it, he crop made him very nervous, especially when Sherlock started 'playfully' swinging it around, which only made him more inclined to snatch and made Sherlock hit him more. Which he didn't like!
"Bloody bitch tits!"
"Tosser fucking git!"
"Hell fuck shite!"
"You know a lot of curse words."
"Aw. Is your guy's love life so dull you have to resort to violence?" Anderson smirked as he set down a tray of test tube.
"Walk away!" John demanded loudly, holding his possibly broken hand with his good one. He was just glad it seemed to be a left handed problem. He couldn't imagine having bruises on both hands.
"Anderson! Wait." The blonde didn't look at him, but held out wallet that had magically formed in his pocket. Sherlock shrugged innocently as if he hadn't seen it happen. Now that he knew it was happening and he knew it was John, it was much easier to spot him. Of course, he had to be watch carefully. John was surprisingly sly and quickly. And Sherlock didn't have a problem with pick pocketing Anderson. He deserved it.
The man scowled, snatched it away and violently glared at Sherlock before retreating. No one was going to think John did it, though Sherlock didn't see why not. It was obvious he hadn't done it. Then again, Anderson was a moron.
"I think we can call it a day, don't you think John?" Sherlock suggested pleasantly.
"Yes," John gritted out. "Let's go home."
It was quiet the entire way home. Sherlock got a total of three steps inside before he heard the door close and John lunged at him.
"John!" Sherlock was glad for his abnormally long arms. He held his crop out of the reach of the blonde man as John clung to his neck with full strength and tried to pull him down.
They struggled in a mass of limbs. John yanked his scarf and pulled at his hair and Sherlock responded with face pushing and struggling. It would have been easier to punch him, sure, but even Sherlock knew that making John angrier wasn't going to go well for either of them.
"John! It's for your own good!"
"You almost broke my hand!"
The fight continued for several more minutes before they ran out of breath. John slumped against the wall, catching his breath. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet using the couch, sitting on the armrest. He straightened out his scarf and fixed his hair with a few little strokes.
"I hope you got that out of your system." He huffed between breaths. John glared at him, but didn't respond. He had gotten the crop, at least.
"I think we might have gone about this the wrong way."
"We?" John demanded.
"Let's try Covert sensitization. Instead of actually punishing you, just imagine being caught whenever you steal." Perhaps they should have started with that. Sherlock wiped his chin on the backside of his hand and was glad there was no blood. He was glad John at least was careful enough not to hurt his face.
"That would be great, but I don't realize I'm doing it, Sherlock." John reminded him bitterly.
"Right. Then Aversion therapy."
"Don't. Realize. I'm doing. It. Sherlock."
"Let's start with you realizing you're doing it."
Against his better judgment, John allowed Sherlock to continue helping him. This idea was slightly better. There was less hitting, at least.
"Alright. I bite. Why is John ringing?" Lestrade usually tried not to ask, but the noise was hard to ignore. Not as hard as the crop, but still. The little bracelet of bells jingled excessively whenever he moved his hands. Sherlock had put them on both, just in case.
"Forget I asked." He shook his hand in a brush off movement. This was getting to be a little much. John, though he refused to show it, was thoroughly embarrassed. This was worse than if they actually knew he stole against his will. It was only helping a little, in which he meant that the sound drew attention and therefore naturally he didn't thief. The only reason Sherlock had caught him was out the corner of his eye.
It appeared to be working, however embarrassing, up until they returned home.
"See, you didn't steal anything all day." Sherlock smirked with self satisfaction. John raised his eyes brows and ran his tongue over the front of his bottom teeth. He approached the little table and casually empties his pockets. Rings, bracelets, watches, cuff links. He only stole when he wasn't noticed, then.
"I think I've found the solution."
"No. No more, Sherlock. This isn't working." John insisted firmly, trying to remember what belonged to who. He had a feeling this was all a game to Sherlock, anyways. This wasn't an experiment. This was a serious problem. Sure enough, the brunette wasn't going to give up so easily. Not when it was so fun, anyways.
"Kleptomania is a compulsion." John was ignoring him now as he went on into his own diagnosis. Instead, he seated himself before the table and began to label envelopes. He blocked him out completely, up until the point Sherlock put hands on him. The taller male placed a hand on either shoulder and John stopped what he was doing for a moment.
"Whatever it is, no." He went back to work. Then the hands traveled lower, resting on his chest.
"You don't even know what it is, John." The blonde man's skin jumped with goose bumps. That was a voice he'd heard before, but never directed at him. Only when Sherlock wanted something from someone who wanted him. Slim hands traveled lower, resting on his belly. John swallowed.
"Sherlock?" Then the hands were in the waist band of his pants and not in the way they had been before. There was no response, though John could feel the man drop to his knees, Sherlock's warm breath on the back of his neck. His heart beat away violently in his chest.
John sucked up a surprised breath as the cool hands touched his cock. Confident hands ran over the length until his prick stood proud. He couldn't believe these hands belonged to Sherlock Holmes. This was a bad idea, a very bad idea. An awful idea! Of course, his body though otherwise.
"Ha," He threw his head back against the back of the chair. "Sherlock," It had been a while, he convinced himself and he would be lying if he were to say he hadn't thought about it. With everyone insinuating that they were a couple, it was hard not to think about it. Skillful hands undid the button on his jeans and pulled the elastic of his pants down to expose his hard on. Delicate touches followed the underside, and swished over the head, taking up a bit of the precome there and using it as lubrication.
"Ah!" Sherlock's hands moved quicker, stroking him from base to tip with one hand and cupping his balls with the other. He breathing quickened to match his heart.
"Oh, oh. Oh, Sherlock," He groaned, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth. Lips touched the back of his neck and John found it to be too much. His orgasm was intense and the fingers continued, drawing out the force of pleasure.
"Hmm." John moaned behind his hand.
"That should do it." Sherlock withdrew his hands, wiping them on his pants much too casually for what he'd just done.
"What?" The shorter male could question stupidly.
"Goodnight, John." John decided it wasn't worth it. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he was glad for it for once.
"Didn't steal anything all day." Sherlock flopped down on the couch, smirking at his flat mate. He hadn't really thought about it all day. John searched his person and was incredulous to find that, in fact, he hadn't stolen a thing.
"As I thought. When you have girlfriends, you don't steal. Sexual frustration makes you nervous and stress which you respond to by thieving. That's what you get for bottling up your emotions, Doctor Watson." Sherlock shook a finger at him. John shook his head in disbelief.
"That doesn't explain why it stopped while I was in Afghanistan."
"Ah, but it does. You see, when you were a teen, you had all these emotions you didn't know what to do with and for one reason or another, it manifested itself as Kleptomania. It was never caught because you were really good at it, plus you have that gross thing that makes you feel guilt,"
"That thing. So it wasn't a problem, it wasn't really a problem now, either."
"And this has to do with the military because?"
"Because you're an army idoctor/i. Sexual frustration is just another form of stress. You see, it only stopped when you were on the battlefield. Right? Of course I'm right. You didn't feel sexual tension because you were always cutting people open and shooting stuff and what else it is you do in the army. The point is, it's stress triggered. Now that you have no one to cut open, it's harder to relieve stress. It was nothing but a problem at rest."
"iYou/i stress me out." John reminded him.
"And I unstress you. So I don't see the problem." There was a moment of silence while John thought. He wasn't sure Sherlock knew what he was insinuating.
"Are you suggesting what I think you are?"
"If you're thinking sex, then yes."
"Was this just some over complicated way to become a couple?"
"God your thick sometimes." More silence. John rubbed the lower half of his face in contemplation.
"I think I can do that." He nodded. A rather pleased smile fell over Sherlock's face.
"I got his car keys, iboyfriend/i." Sherlock whispered to the smaller man, holding in a giggle.
"Stop," John whispered back. "There's people around." Though his own amused expression was hard to ignore.
"Oh, pish. They thought we were a couple before. What did you get?" The consultant pestered pleasantly. John glanced around a little.
"I got his wallet and his belt." He held up the two objects in one hand.
"How'd you get Lestrade's belt off?"
"Oh. You know. Secrete method of John." Sherlock snorted. Pick pocketing was much more fun as a competition, after all.
"Run, Sherlock, Run."