Chapter 10: Taken
There's a saying that all the world loves lovers. That may or may not be true, but apparently London's criminal elements had a soft spot for romance, because three blissfully sweaty and shagalicious days went by without Lestrade running into a case that required the assistance of Sherlock Holmes.
In those three days John discovered that:
1. Sherlock was a far more sensual creature than anyone could ever possibly have imagined;
2. Sherlock loved having the small of his back licked with long, flat strokes of John's tongue almost as much as he liked that same tongue-work when done on the same latitude but 180 degrees 'round his torso;
3. the way Sherlock said John just before orgasm would be the one sound John would have chosen to take with him into a world of deafness;
4. it was indeed possible to be so happy that it hurt.
Sherlock, in those same three days, discovered that:
1. he had far, far underestimated the value and pleasure of sex, to a degree which made him question his own intellectual conclusions about everything for a time (fortunately, a simple answer to that error in judgment was just John, which, really, was all there was to say about it);
2. French kissing was unbelievably brilliant;
3. there was not a more heart-stoppingly, achingly gorgeous expression he could invoke on anyone, anywhere, than the one that flushed John's cheeks and deepened the blue of his eyes in the second when he went from you nutter, not again! to oh god, don't you fucking stop.
But, eventually, there was a case, and Sherlock was in a vibrantly good mood as he threw on his clothes after receiving Lestrade's text. And John, after three days of a sex-and-sleep marathon, was so relaxed he practically poured down the stairs after his one true love, grinning relentlessly. Neither of them thought about the calendar, or about Mr. August, at all until they arrived at the crime scene.
Where they both promptly received a pail of ice cold water straight in the face.
That the world at large had no clue that some major planetary axis had shifted became abundantly clear as Sherlock and John ducked under the crime scene tape.
Sally Donovan hovered just inside as usual. She ignored Sherlock as he went past, her eyes locked on John.
"Hi, Sunshine," she said, introducing his new moniker with a snicker. She reached out and pinched his arse, hard.
Sherlock spun around – the word Sunshine and the strange little yip from John grabbing his attention. John's face was frozen as if he'd just remembered a very unpleasant thought, and Donovan's hands were, to her endless good fortune, already back in her personal space by the time Sherlock looked at her. She was smirking.
"What did you say?" Sherlock said, in a shocked voice. "What did you—"
"Ignore. Move." John said, pushing him forward.
The 5'7" doctor shoved him quite effectively, but Sherlock managed a few glares in Donovan's direction over his shoulder regardless. He would have made more of it, but it was Donovan and a dead body was waiting.
Inside the large, swanky home the body of the victim lay in an upstairs bedroom, still bound to the bed – at least according to Lestrade's text. The sweep of two grand curved staircases in the large, audacious foyer made it clear where 'upstairs' would be. But the detective's eager dash towards the corpse was hindered by a good half-dozen blue-clad crime scene personnel. They stopped whatever they were doing, blocking the steps and lingering near the door, as the presence of the detective and his blogger registered. All of them stared.
"Oh, get a life!" Sherlock snapped, loudly, as the dopey smiles, waggled eyebrows, licked lips and overall bodily pertness (aimed at John) became apparent. "Maybe you'd all like to take a bloody picture!"
"Already have one," one man purred. There were general snickers of agreement all around.
Sherlock's face went rather apoplectic. John felt a thrill of fear in his stomach.
"It's alright," John muttered. His hands pushed at Sherlock's back to keep him moving up the stairs. "Just go. Body. Murder. Much to be observed."
Sherlock face was thunderous as he stomped up the stairs. He looked rather like a black storm cloud being reluctantly parted around a mountain.
"John," he muttered, shakily, "these people have it, they've seen it and they're looking at you like the prize goose in a shop window and I don't think I can—"
"Doesn't matter," John said. "Nothing we can do about it. It'll blow over."
The dual staircase ended in a top floor landing and a hallway with several bedroom doors. It was clear which room contained the body by the open door and the flashes from a camera flickering inside.
But Sherlock paused at the landing, taking strategic advantage of the high ground to glare down in warning at the people below. Said people did not notice the glare because they were too busy staring up at John, some of them clearly checking out his arse from this new vantage point. A woman sighed.
Sherlock made a queer growling sound in the back of his throat.
"Sherlock, is that you?" Lestrade stepped out of the bedroom. "Come on and look then, the coroner wants—oh. Hello, John."
Lestrade ducked his head down on this last, smiling with a maidenly blush.
Anderson stuck his head out. "Freak and porn star. Wonderful." His eyes went to John's crotch with a look that married disgust and envy.
Sherlock snapped. Or was about to. John felt as much as saw Sherlock's body tense beside him in a way that he instinctively felt was very, very bit not good. Indeed, verbal evisceration on a wide scale was imminent. Possibly people would not survive.
John sighed. In one motion, he yanked on Sherlock's arm, pulling the stiff and enraged detective around and against him, raised himself on his toes, put a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him into a kiss. It was not a long kiss, but it was openly sexual and clearly involved a liberal, expert and familiar use of tongue.
For a moment Sherlock was too shocked to respond, and then the energy in his body shifted from outrage to possession. He grabbed John around the waist and pulled him closer, returning the kiss with obvious tongue of his own. From downstairs came the faint sound of a moan.
When they broke apart there was a silence in the room that felt like a communal breath-holding ceremony. It was so quiet that the words John spoke carried well, even though they were said with a quiet determination. "There," John said. "Taken. Exceedingly taken. Clear?"
John turned on his heel and shoved his way past Lestrade and Anderson into the bedroom.
Sherlock Holmes followed slowly. Well, strolled, really. There was a smug smile on his face and a gleam in his eye that said, "Oh, I am brilliant."
And if all jpgs on Scotland Yard's entire network were wiped out by a virus the following day, well, they never did pin it on Sherlock Holmes.
That's the conclusion, ladies and gents. Thank you for sticking with me. Hope you enjoyed it! Are these two characters the best ever, or what?