New Fic: A Study in Doubles 3/?
Title: A Study in Doubles
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5.5K this part. 35k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
Previous: Part One Part Two
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Three
*
The racket felt good in his grip, like it was meant to be there.
Sherlock - or more accurately Lestrade - had gotten them time on a practice court and it felt sublime to swing at the yellow ball and watch it fly back over the net to bounce on the blue court. Grass had always been his preferred surface, the one he had always performed the best on, but he had no real problems with the hard court, other than the increased wear and tear on his knees. It was the quickest game out there, the ball bouncing harder, faster and higher.
He was, however, as he had expected, somewhat out of shape, although not as badly as he had feared. The long five set matches during the second week at Wimbledon had pushed his fitness levels higher than they normal would be and although it had of course dropped again, his newly discovered confidence in the game meant he was able to make shots that he would never have dared to try just a couple of months earlier.
Had it really only been a couple of months? It was hard to believe just how much his life had changed in that time.
He was certainly holding his own in this practice, but he also suspected that Sherlock was going rather easy on him… which was considerate of him, but unless he started to play properly then it was going to be more irritating than considerate very, very soon.
Two hands on his racket, he powered the next ball back with barely controlled strength, revelling in the stretch of his shoulder muscles and the expression of surprised admiration on Sherlock’s face as it whistled past the Frenchman, not giving him enough time to respond.
“Good shot,” Sherlock said straightening up from where he had been positioned for the return.
“Yes, it was,” he said back pulling another ball from his pocket. “Pity then that my opponent doesn’t appear to be up to an equal standard.”
There was a familiar twitch to Sherlock’s lips. “Maybe your opponent doesn’t want you to feel overwhelmed knowing as he does how long it has been since your last practice and mindful of your more mature years.”
He bounced the ball on his racket head. The rackets Wilson had provided were indeed incredibly nice and made to his own specifications and requirements. They had even come with the words - John Watson, Wimbledon Men’s Champion, 2010 - etched onto the frame.
“In that case,” he called back, “my opponent should consider getting his head out of his arse and stop going easy on his elders and betters.”
He served the ball fast and down the line, firing back Sherlock’s forehand return with one of his own as a rally of twelve strokes had Sherlock’s final backhand whistling past him with pin point accuracy.
“Nice,” he said acknowledging the stepping up of Sherlock’s game.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, a satisfied smile creeping across his lower face under the shade of his navy and white prune Lacoste tipped tennis cap. “I rather thought so myself. More, Mr Watson?”
He spun the racket in his hands as he readied himself to receive Sherlock’s serve. “Always,” he promised.
*
“How do you feel?”
Sat on the edge of the bed, he groaned slightly as the question drew his attention back to the persistent ache across most of his body, but especially his thighs and shoulders. He really should have taken it easier at practice, but he had been so caught up in the fun and delight of playing again to care that he might have been overdoing it somewhat. However, you reap what you sow, as they say, and unfortunately for him he wasn’t as young as he used to be.
“Old,” he muttered as Sherlock appeared looking far too refreshed and lively for his liking, and, for that matter, far too young. Twenty-five. Just twenty-five. Middle age for a professional tennis player, young by any other standard, younger looking still at times, like now with his bare feet and his hair in need of a trim, and wearing a faded French Connection t-shirt.
“Well, we certainly can’t have that.” The sharp gaze swept down him, lingering on his arms and then legs before returning to his face. “Shoulder, back, hamstrings,” he said phrased as a statement not a question.
He snorted. “Something like that.” Of course Sherlock would be able to deduce where exactly it hurt.
“Hold on then.”
He stayed where he was until Sherlock reappeared, a large towel slung over his arm and a wash-bag in his hand, although not his everyday wash-bag.
“Here, stick this on the bed and lie down.”
He caught the towel as it was thrown at him and looked at it with some surprise. “Are you offering what I think you’re offering?” he asked wryly.
Sherlock was critically looking between two bottles of something. “I am more than proficient with my hands, as you well know, and unless you want me to call Lestrade in here and have him pin you to the bed in submission, take off your shirt and lie on that towel.
He shook his head slightly but carefully tugged his shirt up over his head and spread the towel across the centre of the bed. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” He lowered himself onto the towel and turned his head so he could continue to watch his lover.
“Of course,” Sherlock said mildly, the chosen bottle now in his hand and an expression of a slightly unhinged scientist eying up a new experiment on his face. “But then I’ll make you feel good.”
He snorted as the bed dipped with Sherlock’s weight. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
He heard the chuckle and then warm hands were rubbing something cold into his shoulders and his body alternated between sensations of pain and pleasure until it all rolled into one and he was sure he could feel his body melting. Sherlock was good, hell, Sherlock was better than good. He seemed to know exactly where to press and by how much and didn’t seem put off by groaning caused by either discomfort or relief. While it wasn’t perhaps as sharp or as brutal as a professional massage, it was Sherlock, who already had an uncanny hands-on knowledge of his body, and there was no embarrassment for either of them as hands strayed to touch more sensitive or more intimate places.
His shoulder and back kneaded into submission, the deft fingers slipped under the waist of his shorts before pulling his hips up in order to tug his remaining clothing down and then off.
“Any excuse,” he mumbled into the pillow as hands stroked across his arse cheeks and down to the tops of his thighs.
“You know I have a healthy appreciation for your bum,” Sherlock said before he felt lips press against the small of his back. “It is quite glorious.”
Glorious or not, Sherlock certainly took his time worshiping the muscles there before moving onto his legs and then back up again.
“John.”
“Hmmm?” He was starting to feel like a puddle; all shiny and damp and shapeless.
“How do you feel?”
“Good.”
He groaned as a slippery finger slid between his arse cheeks and pressed carefully but firmly against what felt like the last tense muscle in his body. The warm stirrings in his stomach area that had been simmering for a while now sparked into something more and he couldn’t help but push back against the pressure.
There was a pause, then a gentle hum, and then the finger was moving, just slightly and slowly, coating the edge of his hole in slippery clear liquid.
“Yes?” he heard Sherlock ask in that deep, rich burr of his and it was all he could not do to push back further and let the finger slide in deep to where it was most needed.
“God, yes,” he said and the pressure increased momentarily before disappearing.
A whole rant about bloody insatiable and evil teasing Frenchmen was on the tip of his tongue, but then he felt the tip of Sherlock’s tongue and every thought he had ever had rushed from his mind. In his lethargic state he could do nothing but lie there and groan into his pillow as Sherlock explored him in a way they hadn’t done before. Why hadn’t they done this before?
Oh God… good, very good… yeah, there… oh yes.
Then the heat and the dampness and the mouth - god the mouth - were gone but he was as hard as he had ever been and if Sherlock wasn’t going to do something about that soon then he was going to hump the soft, thick towel beneath him until he made a complete and utter mess and….
The mouth returned but this time with fingers and he could feel the build-up in him spreading across every part of his body and then Sherlock was opening him up and sinking into him, thick and hard and hot and oh god there, yes there, again, and it felt so good, so very, very good.
“Come on, John,” he felt breathed by his ear as hands manoeuvred his body for an optimal position and fingers curled around his straining length. “Yes, come on. Give it to me. Let it break over you and make you feel good, so good. Mon Dieu, Jean. J’adore… j’adore….”
He rocked with Sherlock’s thrusts, his body tingling but staying loose. He could feel Sherlock’s breath ghosting across his neck, words of English, words of French, words that weren’t words at all. There was nothing he needed to do. Sherlock was doing it all leaving him free to close his eyes and feel the build-up as he was pushed higher and higher and…
And then he was there, momentarily swept away by the wave that crashed over him, muscles tensing, shaking and then slackening as he sank into an even deeper state of relaxation.
He lay there in a dozing state as Sherlock moved around him, gently cleaning him off and removing the rather soiled towel.
“Is that going to happen every time you give me a massage or was the massage just an excuse for another shag?”
“As if I need an excuse for a shag,” Sherlock said collapsing beside him, naked and long limbed, a nicotine patch slapped onto his inner arm. “But when you have a bum like that, how can you not expect me to want to spoil it a little.”
He closed his eyes again and smiled. “In that case,” he said, “my bum and I thank you for your dedication and worship, but hope that neither of us is expected to move for quite some time.”
“Feel free to crash,” Sherlock said. “We’re not due out for dinner for some hours yet and God knows we’ve both earned some down time.”
That was true and it was nice and warm and…. He felt Sherlock shift against him and then there was no more.
*
He had known there would be more to the Dior box than Sherlock had been telling him. Just some samples from their latest men’s range from Christian Dior indeed.
Leaving the cosy warmth of the bathroom, he walked back out to find the box open and a selection of shirts, tops and trousers neatly ordered on the bed and a certain Frenchman standing looking critically at them.
“Trying to decide what to wear?” he asked amused that Sherlock was having so much trouble over the matter. “Although I don’t think that one on the end,” he pointed to the not quite yellow, not quite orange, not quite gold one, “would suit your colouring.”
“Pardon?” Sherlock said surprisingly heavily accented as if he had been lost in thought in his native language. “Oh… no,” he quickly continued. “These aren’t for me.” There was a quick smile. “They’re for you.”
What? Oh god, not again.
He pressed his lips together and suppressed the urge to fold his arms. “Okay,” he said evenly, “explain.”
Sherlock looked at him fully then, eyebrows pulling together. “You’re angry with me again.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I’m waiting, because at the moment I’m concluding that you don’t like what I wear and you’ve taken it upon yourself to dress me properly.”
Sherlock’s mouth formed an “O” shape before he turned away and motioned to the clothing. “Quite simply, Dior are one of my sponsors and so regularly send me samples of their products to wear, use or promote. For a change I had Lestrade request the latest batch in your size instead of mine.”
“You know my size?”
“Naturally,” Sherlock said with an expression that said ‘duh’ far more clearly than any word he was likely to speak. “Your wardrobe is hardly the most extensive, especially outside of tennis, and in the past you have not had the money to spend on such luxuries. Although you have made some purchases since Wimbledon for your various media appearances, I thought you would not be averse to some free additions, and since we shall be dining in the heart of Hollywood this evening I thought there was no better time for you to try something new.”
Okay, that did make a certain amount of sense, especially for Sherlock and it was certainly a little sweet that Sherlock had thought about it for him, but really. He rubbed his thumb across his forehead.
“Was that what this whole thing has been about?” he asked wearily. “Stay in LA, take John shopping, update his wardrobe and make him presentable?”
It wouldn’t have been the first time. Mary had always wanted him to look nice, dressing him for parties and social events - tennis related or otherwise. Clothes had never particularly interested him, comfortable as he was in his on court ‘uniform’ and his off court jeans and a jumper. Sherlock always looked gorgeous and actually had a good eye for fashion and colour. He was also the master of manipulation when he wanted to be.
“Is that what you think?” Sherlock’s expression had darkened, his voice low, each word precise. “That I would need an ulterior motive?”
“Sherlock, no, I…” and then he stopped because he wasn’t sure what do say, because what do you say? It was only a few hours before that Sherlock had sat beside him on the bed reading while he had dozed following perhaps the best massage of his life. It had been nice, more than nice, and this was the man others accused of being cold and self-interested. Was he really that damaged by previous relationships that he was starting to see hidden motives in everything?
“Alright, fine,” he said, “thank you. Not the orange though,” he said pointing to the original shirt, “and not the pink either, no argument and that’s final. What are you wearing?”
“Thought I’d take my new shirt out for a spin.” Sherlock held up a long sleeved white shirt with pale blue stripes before putting it down again and picking up a green one instead.
“That one,” John said ignoring the green and pointing to the light grey shirt with a white collar, cuffs and trim, and black buttons.
Sherlock nodded and handed it to him. The material was soft and felt lovely against his skin. Of course it fit perfectly, although perhaps a touch tighter across the upper chest area than he would normally go for, but all in all a good look, finished with smart blue jeans and dress shoes.
Sherlock’s new shirt - Dolce and Gabbana, black with off white plaid - joined a pair of dark grey trousers and a pair of shoes John was sure he hadn’t seen before. He would remember seeing those, being as they were silver and glittery.
“Louis Vuitton,” Sherlock said when he saw where John’s eyes were focused.
“And he didn’t want to keep them?” John quipped. “You surprise me.”
“Could get you a pair if you wanted.”
He recognised that look and that gleam in those pale eyes. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “You look flamboyant enough for both of us. Ready?”
The car was waiting for them, the destination already known so all they needed to do was to get in and then they were off.
Sat on the back seat, John stared out the window at the evening sights, the palm trees and the people. Beside him Sherlock sat busy doing something with his phone although he had no idea what it was. It was funny, he was suddenly reminded of their first almost date, or pasta as he liked to think of it. London and Angelo’s seemed like half a world away, and perhaps, in more than one way, it was. He hadn’t known what to expect back then either. Sherlock had been a stranger, a name he knew of, a player to watch, but as the man he had known very little, and now look at them. Look at him. A Dior Homme shirt and a double date with an actress.
“You’re smiling.”
He looked across but Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to look up from his mobile. “Well noticed,” he said with a teasing tilt to his lips.
A small genuine smile spread across Sherlock’s lower face. “Relax. You’ll be fine.”
He had met actors before, pop stars, celebrities, but somehow this was different. Not only was this Irene Adler, one of the best known actresses in the world, but this was Sherlock’s Irene. He couldn’t help but feel like he was meeting the ex - the lovely, talented, brilliant ex.
“Ah, anything I should know?” he asked mildly, or at least as mildly as he could.
A warm hand stretched over the seat between them to take and grasp his, offering a small squeeze. “You’ll like her,” Sherlock said, although John couldn’t help but think that maybe that was the wrong way round. Liking Irene was not the biggest problem he could think of. “Just remember that half of what you think you know about her is a lie.”
“And the other half?” he asked.
The lips twitched into a half smile. “Has been made up.”
They smiled at each other, but their hands remained clasped for the remainder of the journey and then, finally, they were there.
*
Irene was even more stunning in person. He had known what to expect. He had a computer, he’d done his research. He hadn’t seen A Scandal in Bel Air, the film that had catapulted her to stardom for her portrayal of a dominatrix known only as The Woman, but he had seen the pictures. Hell, he doubted there were many people in the world who had not seen the pictures. So he knew what she looked like, both clothed and mostly nude. He had seen the pictures, the posters, the interviews, but that still wasn’t enough to fully prepare him.
“Hello, Sherlock.”
She walked with purpose and stood with confidence, straight backed, elegant, her hair pulled back and pinned intricately on her head, accentuating her cheeks and jawline while her make-up was somehow both understated and striking. She looked every bit the confident woman in a black silk mid-length dress which probably cost more than his and Sherlock’s clothing put together - excluding Sherlock’s glittery shoes of course, but really, everything should exclude those shoes.
“Irene.” They greeted lips to cheek, twice, the closest John had ever seen Sherlock get to anyone who was not him.
“Hmmm, look at your cheekbones, still as likely to cut me as ever, I see,” she said as they pulled away. “And you must be John.” Her eyes shifted across to him, sharp and all-seeing.
“Yes, hello,” he managed as they shook hands. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“The hands of a tennis player. John Watson, ninth in the world for men’s singles, first Englishman to have won Wimbledon in seventy-four years, handsome in an unassuming way. Yes, for once Sherlock, your taste is impeccable. I can see why you like him.”
Well that was… nice.
“Shall we sit down?”
Their table was secluded but with a beautiful view. Another woman sat there already, older than Irene, possibly older than him even. Her dress was stylish also, but less flashy, and while she was attractive she wasn’t the Hollywood glamour type like Irene.
“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, this is Freya Norton,” Irene introduced motioning them to their seats. “Freya is the woman responsible for keeping me in line.”
There was something in the way she said it that had John taking a second glance while rapidly reassessing everything that Sherlock had ever told him about Irene Adler.
“Pleasure,” Sherlock said taking the spare seat next to Irene leaving the other for him.
It was interesting, he decided as he took his seat, watching the way Sherlock behaved around someone other than the usual crowd. A friend, he reminded himself, Sherlock had referred to Irene as a friend and it was not hard to see why. There was some obvious affection between them, teasing that was sometimes more than just good natured, and there was a pent up glow about Sherlock that he had never seen before. That caused a pang to go through his chest, that Irene obviously had something with Sherlock that he didn’t have - what exactly? - but he pushed it aside as they enjoyed their meal. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to leave him for Irene, that would be, well, absurd. Sherlock was with him now, and Irene’s own taste obviously ran very differently than the press were aware of.
“Tell me, John,” Irene said, her eyes shining as she clasped at her glass of wine during their main course, “is Sherlock as good in bed as he has always boasted?”
He almost choked on his mouthful at her boldness, but chewing he took the opportunity to pause before answering, “In bed, in the shower, on the sofa… I’m never bored.”
“Oooh, lucky boy,” Irene murmured as they laughed.
Sherlock looked smug, although there was a touch more colour to his checks than usual and it wasn’t all due to the wine.
“He does have the most marvellous arse,” Irene added. “That’s one of the first things I noticed about him. Well, other than those cheekbones, and that cupid bow, and those pale, striking eyes. All that training, all that tennis.”
“Well I’m rather fond of it,” John agreed.
“John,” Sherlock said a touch warily.
“But let’s not forget yours either,” Irene continued. “It has its own set of fans I believe. Tumblr was very helpful with providing me with all the images I wanted. And as for that picture you did for, who was it, Cosmopolitan? You’re certainly not lacking under your shirt and jeans. What I would give for a quick nibble.”
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said firmly reaching out a hand under the table to squeeze John’s thigh. “I don’t share.”
“Pity,” Irene said leaning back, “I bet you two make a striking image together.”
“We try,” Sherlock said. “Now,” he cleared his throat, “while my sex life is no doubt fascinating to you, and rightly so, I’d rather talk about you. I hear you’re taking on the Great Dane himself. Fascinating.”
“And he’ll enjoy every moment of it,” Irene said, “and so will the audience. I’ll ensure it.”
“The Great Dane?” John asked wondering what he had missed.
“Hamlet, John,” Sherlock said. “The greatest Dane of them all. Do keep up.”
“You’re going to be in Hamlet?” John said. “Impressive.”
“I’m going to be Hamlet,” Irene corrected.
John blinked. “A female Hamlet? That’ll put a new spin on the part when Hamlet tells Ophelia to go to a nunnery. I take it Ophelia is still going to be a woman.”
“Of course,” Irene said. “And Horatio will still be a man, as will Hamlet.”
“A male Hamlet played by a woman,” Sherlock said a small smile on his lips. “The woman, in fact. Elegant.”
“The theatre thought so. Rehearsals start next week.”
“Broadway?”
“Naturally.”
And the conversation moved on. Irene and Sherlock did most of the talking. John wasn’t sure that Freya said more than five or six sentences over the course of the meal, but it was a revelation watching Sherlock interact socially and he realised that throughout the three hours they spent in the restaurant he heard more about Sherlock’s past than he had in the previous six weeks. It was rather enlightening, even if it did drive home how little he still knew about his partner.
Irene was half way through a story about her and Sherlock after a particular film premier when Sherlock’s phone vibrated. Apologising, he rose to take the call, shortly followed by Freya who excused herself to visit the ladies.
“He is something, isn’t he?”
Looking up, John glanced across to where Irene’s eyes were following Sherlock out.
“Oh. Yes,” he said pressing his lips together. “Yes, you can definitely say that he is.”
He couldn’t honestly say that he particularly liked the way Irene was watching. He wouldn’t call himself a jealous man, but there was something predatory in her gaze, and she interacted with Sherlock on a level he could only ever hope to do. She was a world famous actress after all, he was just, well, a washed up tennis player when it came down to it.
“He looks at you, you know.”
“Hmmm?”
“When he thinks you can’t see him.” Irene was looking at him now, her gaze steady. “He looks at you in a way I have never seen him look at anyone.”
“Oh right. Good. That’s good, isn’t it?” At least he hoped it was a good type of look.
“Only you can determine that, John. Sherlock Holmes is a very complicated man. For all of his intelligence and deductive abilities, he flounders when faced with human emotions.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed, thanks. He, uh, he gets on very well with you.”
Her gaze remained steady.
“He doesn’t have a lot of friends, but he has you,” he continued. “And you’ve been texting him. A lot.”
He had been counting.
“Are you jealous?” she asked her head tilting slightly.
No. Yes.
No.
“I know you weren’t a real couple,” he said.
“No, we weren’t,” she confirmed, “but you are, and neither of you are even technically gay.”
“No. No, I suppose we’re not,” he admitted, “but you are, I see.”
He hadn’t needed Sherlock’s deducing abilities to work that one out. Still, it didn’t help with the slight jealously he didn’t want to feel.
“And look at us both,” she said. “Look at the lives we lead. Was he my beard, or was I his? And what would the press make of it? What of the general public? What of our fans? What would happen if we told the truth?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a small shake of his head. “And I don’t care. Not about me, at least. Not when it comes to him.”
“You care for him,” she said.
“Of course I care for him,” he said rather more harshly than he had intended. “He’s…” the best thing in my life, the only thing that really matters, the person who helps to keep the crippling loneliness at bay. “Look, I don’t know what you think about me, god knows what you’ve read about my failed relationships, but I’m serious about him. I lost him once; I have no plans to let that happen a second time.”
Her lips twitched. “Is that why you let him pick your wardrobe?” she said.
“What?”
“Your shirt,” she said. “Brand new, designer, luxury, far higher quality than your jeans. You’ve been unconsciously fiddling with the cuffs, which suggests you’re not used to such clothing. Sherlock’s eyes keep drifting to your shoulders and upper chest, as if he’s not used to seeing you so attired, and then he gets this expression, mainly pride with a dash of smugness which means he was right about something. The shirt then. He was right about the shirt. Dior Homme, one of his sponsors and this is Hollywood, we’re out to dinner and he wanted to show you off.”
It was uncanny how much she was like Sherlock.
“He’s crazy about you too,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean that he’s always right. Not when it comes to managing a relationship. Don’t hurt him, but don’t let him hurt you either.”
She smiled and for a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but then Sherlock was back, and Freya was back and they were laughing over yet another tale while sipping their coffees.
Afterwards, Sherlock was surprisingly quiet. In the cab going back to the hotel he neither talked nor played with his phone. It surprised John as Sherlock had been animated all evening but now seemed lost in thought. He was getting better at reading Sherlock’s moods now, but that didn’t mean that he recognise all of them.
“You okay?” he asked reaching over to place a hand on top of the one Sherlock had left between them on the seat. For a moment he thought it would be shaken off, but then Sherlock’s hand turned and their fingers slipped together.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, fine,” Sherlock said. “Long day,” and then he returned to looking out of the window although their hands remained entwined.
Back at the hotel Sherlock remained quiet, standing by the large sweeping windows, staring out at the lights. John left him to it for a while, taking his time as he preparing himself for bed, checking the lead stories of the London papers on his laptop before concluding that Sherlock wasn’t going to join him any time soon.
Padding out into the main room, he stood for a moment, watching both his lover and their reflections. As far as he could tell the evening had been a roaring success, but now he couldn’t be certain that Sherlock had found it the same way. He wanted to ask if there was something wrong, if Sherlock was planning on coming to bed any time soon, but at the same time he didn’t want to interrupt Sherlock’s thinking time. He tended to not appreciate being distracted, particularly if there was something important on his mind.
Sighing, he scrubbed his hand through his hair and then turned to go.
“John.”
He stopped as Sherlock turned to look at him.
“I think you should know that when it comes to Toronto, the doubles is solely your choice, and whatever you decide is fine by me.”
Oh, right, well that wasn’t quite what he had been expecting Sherlock to say right here, right now.
“That’s good to know,” he said before frowning slightly. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”
Sherlock didn’t respond, but his expression couldn’t have been clearer had he shouted the answer.
“You’re an idiot,” he didn’t know where the words came from but they did and Sherlock look as startled by them as he was. “For a man so intelligent, brilliant and downright gifted you are an idiot. Come here.”
He opened his arms and motioned Sherlock to come to him. “No, don’t just stand there, come on.”
Sherlock moved, although somewhat reluctantly until John pulled him closer and wrapped him in his arms.
“Sometimes I wonder what goes through that big brain of yours.”
He smiled as the hands moved to hug him back and pressed a kiss to the curls.
“Come to bed,” he said, “and tell me your side of the story of what happened with Irene after that film premier.”
*
End Part Three
Next week: Toronto
And because I can, here’s some visuals:
John’s Shirt:
Sherlock’s Shirt (as modelled so well by a certain Mr Smith)
And the shoes, because Mr Cumberbatch owns them and flawedamythyst dared me to and I can never resist either an in-joke or a challenge.
Part Four
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5.5K this part. 35k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
Previous: Part One Part Two
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Three
*
The racket felt good in his grip, like it was meant to be there.
Sherlock - or more accurately Lestrade - had gotten them time on a practice court and it felt sublime to swing at the yellow ball and watch it fly back over the net to bounce on the blue court. Grass had always been his preferred surface, the one he had always performed the best on, but he had no real problems with the hard court, other than the increased wear and tear on his knees. It was the quickest game out there, the ball bouncing harder, faster and higher.
He was, however, as he had expected, somewhat out of shape, although not as badly as he had feared. The long five set matches during the second week at Wimbledon had pushed his fitness levels higher than they normal would be and although it had of course dropped again, his newly discovered confidence in the game meant he was able to make shots that he would never have dared to try just a couple of months earlier.
Had it really only been a couple of months? It was hard to believe just how much his life had changed in that time.
He was certainly holding his own in this practice, but he also suspected that Sherlock was going rather easy on him… which was considerate of him, but unless he started to play properly then it was going to be more irritating than considerate very, very soon.
Two hands on his racket, he powered the next ball back with barely controlled strength, revelling in the stretch of his shoulder muscles and the expression of surprised admiration on Sherlock’s face as it whistled past the Frenchman, not giving him enough time to respond.
“Good shot,” Sherlock said straightening up from where he had been positioned for the return.
“Yes, it was,” he said back pulling another ball from his pocket. “Pity then that my opponent doesn’t appear to be up to an equal standard.”
There was a familiar twitch to Sherlock’s lips. “Maybe your opponent doesn’t want you to feel overwhelmed knowing as he does how long it has been since your last practice and mindful of your more mature years.”
He bounced the ball on his racket head. The rackets Wilson had provided were indeed incredibly nice and made to his own specifications and requirements. They had even come with the words - John Watson, Wimbledon Men’s Champion, 2010 - etched onto the frame.
“In that case,” he called back, “my opponent should consider getting his head out of his arse and stop going easy on his elders and betters.”
He served the ball fast and down the line, firing back Sherlock’s forehand return with one of his own as a rally of twelve strokes had Sherlock’s final backhand whistling past him with pin point accuracy.
“Nice,” he said acknowledging the stepping up of Sherlock’s game.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, a satisfied smile creeping across his lower face under the shade of his navy and white prune Lacoste tipped tennis cap. “I rather thought so myself. More, Mr Watson?”
He spun the racket in his hands as he readied himself to receive Sherlock’s serve. “Always,” he promised.
*
“How do you feel?”
Sat on the edge of the bed, he groaned slightly as the question drew his attention back to the persistent ache across most of his body, but especially his thighs and shoulders. He really should have taken it easier at practice, but he had been so caught up in the fun and delight of playing again to care that he might have been overdoing it somewhat. However, you reap what you sow, as they say, and unfortunately for him he wasn’t as young as he used to be.
“Old,” he muttered as Sherlock appeared looking far too refreshed and lively for his liking, and, for that matter, far too young. Twenty-five. Just twenty-five. Middle age for a professional tennis player, young by any other standard, younger looking still at times, like now with his bare feet and his hair in need of a trim, and wearing a faded French Connection t-shirt.
“Well, we certainly can’t have that.” The sharp gaze swept down him, lingering on his arms and then legs before returning to his face. “Shoulder, back, hamstrings,” he said phrased as a statement not a question.
He snorted. “Something like that.” Of course Sherlock would be able to deduce where exactly it hurt.
“Hold on then.”
He stayed where he was until Sherlock reappeared, a large towel slung over his arm and a wash-bag in his hand, although not his everyday wash-bag.
“Here, stick this on the bed and lie down.”
He caught the towel as it was thrown at him and looked at it with some surprise. “Are you offering what I think you’re offering?” he asked wryly.
Sherlock was critically looking between two bottles of something. “I am more than proficient with my hands, as you well know, and unless you want me to call Lestrade in here and have him pin you to the bed in submission, take off your shirt and lie on that towel.
He shook his head slightly but carefully tugged his shirt up over his head and spread the towel across the centre of the bed. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” He lowered himself onto the towel and turned his head so he could continue to watch his lover.
“Of course,” Sherlock said mildly, the chosen bottle now in his hand and an expression of a slightly unhinged scientist eying up a new experiment on his face. “But then I’ll make you feel good.”
He snorted as the bed dipped with Sherlock’s weight. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
He heard the chuckle and then warm hands were rubbing something cold into his shoulders and his body alternated between sensations of pain and pleasure until it all rolled into one and he was sure he could feel his body melting. Sherlock was good, hell, Sherlock was better than good. He seemed to know exactly where to press and by how much and didn’t seem put off by groaning caused by either discomfort or relief. While it wasn’t perhaps as sharp or as brutal as a professional massage, it was Sherlock, who already had an uncanny hands-on knowledge of his body, and there was no embarrassment for either of them as hands strayed to touch more sensitive or more intimate places.
His shoulder and back kneaded into submission, the deft fingers slipped under the waist of his shorts before pulling his hips up in order to tug his remaining clothing down and then off.
“Any excuse,” he mumbled into the pillow as hands stroked across his arse cheeks and down to the tops of his thighs.
“You know I have a healthy appreciation for your bum,” Sherlock said before he felt lips press against the small of his back. “It is quite glorious.”
Glorious or not, Sherlock certainly took his time worshiping the muscles there before moving onto his legs and then back up again.
“John.”
“Hmmm?” He was starting to feel like a puddle; all shiny and damp and shapeless.
“How do you feel?”
“Good.”
He groaned as a slippery finger slid between his arse cheeks and pressed carefully but firmly against what felt like the last tense muscle in his body. The warm stirrings in his stomach area that had been simmering for a while now sparked into something more and he couldn’t help but push back against the pressure.
There was a pause, then a gentle hum, and then the finger was moving, just slightly and slowly, coating the edge of his hole in slippery clear liquid.
“Yes?” he heard Sherlock ask in that deep, rich burr of his and it was all he could not do to push back further and let the finger slide in deep to where it was most needed.
“God, yes,” he said and the pressure increased momentarily before disappearing.
A whole rant about bloody insatiable and evil teasing Frenchmen was on the tip of his tongue, but then he felt the tip of Sherlock’s tongue and every thought he had ever had rushed from his mind. In his lethargic state he could do nothing but lie there and groan into his pillow as Sherlock explored him in a way they hadn’t done before. Why hadn’t they done this before?
Oh God… good, very good… yeah, there… oh yes.
Then the heat and the dampness and the mouth - god the mouth - were gone but he was as hard as he had ever been and if Sherlock wasn’t going to do something about that soon then he was going to hump the soft, thick towel beneath him until he made a complete and utter mess and….
The mouth returned but this time with fingers and he could feel the build-up in him spreading across every part of his body and then Sherlock was opening him up and sinking into him, thick and hard and hot and oh god there, yes there, again, and it felt so good, so very, very good.
“Come on, John,” he felt breathed by his ear as hands manoeuvred his body for an optimal position and fingers curled around his straining length. “Yes, come on. Give it to me. Let it break over you and make you feel good, so good. Mon Dieu, Jean. J’adore… j’adore….”
He rocked with Sherlock’s thrusts, his body tingling but staying loose. He could feel Sherlock’s breath ghosting across his neck, words of English, words of French, words that weren’t words at all. There was nothing he needed to do. Sherlock was doing it all leaving him free to close his eyes and feel the build-up as he was pushed higher and higher and…
And then he was there, momentarily swept away by the wave that crashed over him, muscles tensing, shaking and then slackening as he sank into an even deeper state of relaxation.
He lay there in a dozing state as Sherlock moved around him, gently cleaning him off and removing the rather soiled towel.
“Is that going to happen every time you give me a massage or was the massage just an excuse for another shag?”
“As if I need an excuse for a shag,” Sherlock said collapsing beside him, naked and long limbed, a nicotine patch slapped onto his inner arm. “But when you have a bum like that, how can you not expect me to want to spoil it a little.”
He closed his eyes again and smiled. “In that case,” he said, “my bum and I thank you for your dedication and worship, but hope that neither of us is expected to move for quite some time.”
“Feel free to crash,” Sherlock said. “We’re not due out for dinner for some hours yet and God knows we’ve both earned some down time.”
That was true and it was nice and warm and…. He felt Sherlock shift against him and then there was no more.
*
He had known there would be more to the Dior box than Sherlock had been telling him. Just some samples from their latest men’s range from Christian Dior indeed.
Leaving the cosy warmth of the bathroom, he walked back out to find the box open and a selection of shirts, tops and trousers neatly ordered on the bed and a certain Frenchman standing looking critically at them.
“Trying to decide what to wear?” he asked amused that Sherlock was having so much trouble over the matter. “Although I don’t think that one on the end,” he pointed to the not quite yellow, not quite orange, not quite gold one, “would suit your colouring.”
“Pardon?” Sherlock said surprisingly heavily accented as if he had been lost in thought in his native language. “Oh… no,” he quickly continued. “These aren’t for me.” There was a quick smile. “They’re for you.”
What? Oh god, not again.
He pressed his lips together and suppressed the urge to fold his arms. “Okay,” he said evenly, “explain.”
Sherlock looked at him fully then, eyebrows pulling together. “You’re angry with me again.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I’m waiting, because at the moment I’m concluding that you don’t like what I wear and you’ve taken it upon yourself to dress me properly.”
Sherlock’s mouth formed an “O” shape before he turned away and motioned to the clothing. “Quite simply, Dior are one of my sponsors and so regularly send me samples of their products to wear, use or promote. For a change I had Lestrade request the latest batch in your size instead of mine.”
“You know my size?”
“Naturally,” Sherlock said with an expression that said ‘duh’ far more clearly than any word he was likely to speak. “Your wardrobe is hardly the most extensive, especially outside of tennis, and in the past you have not had the money to spend on such luxuries. Although you have made some purchases since Wimbledon for your various media appearances, I thought you would not be averse to some free additions, and since we shall be dining in the heart of Hollywood this evening I thought there was no better time for you to try something new.”
Okay, that did make a certain amount of sense, especially for Sherlock and it was certainly a little sweet that Sherlock had thought about it for him, but really. He rubbed his thumb across his forehead.
“Was that what this whole thing has been about?” he asked wearily. “Stay in LA, take John shopping, update his wardrobe and make him presentable?”
It wouldn’t have been the first time. Mary had always wanted him to look nice, dressing him for parties and social events - tennis related or otherwise. Clothes had never particularly interested him, comfortable as he was in his on court ‘uniform’ and his off court jeans and a jumper. Sherlock always looked gorgeous and actually had a good eye for fashion and colour. He was also the master of manipulation when he wanted to be.
“Is that what you think?” Sherlock’s expression had darkened, his voice low, each word precise. “That I would need an ulterior motive?”
“Sherlock, no, I…” and then he stopped because he wasn’t sure what do say, because what do you say? It was only a few hours before that Sherlock had sat beside him on the bed reading while he had dozed following perhaps the best massage of his life. It had been nice, more than nice, and this was the man others accused of being cold and self-interested. Was he really that damaged by previous relationships that he was starting to see hidden motives in everything?
“Alright, fine,” he said, “thank you. Not the orange though,” he said pointing to the original shirt, “and not the pink either, no argument and that’s final. What are you wearing?”
“Thought I’d take my new shirt out for a spin.” Sherlock held up a long sleeved white shirt with pale blue stripes before putting it down again and picking up a green one instead.
“That one,” John said ignoring the green and pointing to the light grey shirt with a white collar, cuffs and trim, and black buttons.
Sherlock nodded and handed it to him. The material was soft and felt lovely against his skin. Of course it fit perfectly, although perhaps a touch tighter across the upper chest area than he would normally go for, but all in all a good look, finished with smart blue jeans and dress shoes.
Sherlock’s new shirt - Dolce and Gabbana, black with off white plaid - joined a pair of dark grey trousers and a pair of shoes John was sure he hadn’t seen before. He would remember seeing those, being as they were silver and glittery.
“Louis Vuitton,” Sherlock said when he saw where John’s eyes were focused.
“And he didn’t want to keep them?” John quipped. “You surprise me.”
“Could get you a pair if you wanted.”
He recognised that look and that gleam in those pale eyes. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “You look flamboyant enough for both of us. Ready?”
The car was waiting for them, the destination already known so all they needed to do was to get in and then they were off.
Sat on the back seat, John stared out the window at the evening sights, the palm trees and the people. Beside him Sherlock sat busy doing something with his phone although he had no idea what it was. It was funny, he was suddenly reminded of their first almost date, or pasta as he liked to think of it. London and Angelo’s seemed like half a world away, and perhaps, in more than one way, it was. He hadn’t known what to expect back then either. Sherlock had been a stranger, a name he knew of, a player to watch, but as the man he had known very little, and now look at them. Look at him. A Dior Homme shirt and a double date with an actress.
“You’re smiling.”
He looked across but Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to look up from his mobile. “Well noticed,” he said with a teasing tilt to his lips.
A small genuine smile spread across Sherlock’s lower face. “Relax. You’ll be fine.”
He had met actors before, pop stars, celebrities, but somehow this was different. Not only was this Irene Adler, one of the best known actresses in the world, but this was Sherlock’s Irene. He couldn’t help but feel like he was meeting the ex - the lovely, talented, brilliant ex.
“Ah, anything I should know?” he asked mildly, or at least as mildly as he could.
A warm hand stretched over the seat between them to take and grasp his, offering a small squeeze. “You’ll like her,” Sherlock said, although John couldn’t help but think that maybe that was the wrong way round. Liking Irene was not the biggest problem he could think of. “Just remember that half of what you think you know about her is a lie.”
“And the other half?” he asked.
The lips twitched into a half smile. “Has been made up.”
They smiled at each other, but their hands remained clasped for the remainder of the journey and then, finally, they were there.
*
Irene was even more stunning in person. He had known what to expect. He had a computer, he’d done his research. He hadn’t seen A Scandal in Bel Air, the film that had catapulted her to stardom for her portrayal of a dominatrix known only as The Woman, but he had seen the pictures. Hell, he doubted there were many people in the world who had not seen the pictures. So he knew what she looked like, both clothed and mostly nude. He had seen the pictures, the posters, the interviews, but that still wasn’t enough to fully prepare him.
“Hello, Sherlock.”
She walked with purpose and stood with confidence, straight backed, elegant, her hair pulled back and pinned intricately on her head, accentuating her cheeks and jawline while her make-up was somehow both understated and striking. She looked every bit the confident woman in a black silk mid-length dress which probably cost more than his and Sherlock’s clothing put together - excluding Sherlock’s glittery shoes of course, but really, everything should exclude those shoes.
“Irene.” They greeted lips to cheek, twice, the closest John had ever seen Sherlock get to anyone who was not him.
“Hmmm, look at your cheekbones, still as likely to cut me as ever, I see,” she said as they pulled away. “And you must be John.” Her eyes shifted across to him, sharp and all-seeing.
“Yes, hello,” he managed as they shook hands. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“The hands of a tennis player. John Watson, ninth in the world for men’s singles, first Englishman to have won Wimbledon in seventy-four years, handsome in an unassuming way. Yes, for once Sherlock, your taste is impeccable. I can see why you like him.”
Well that was… nice.
“Shall we sit down?”
Their table was secluded but with a beautiful view. Another woman sat there already, older than Irene, possibly older than him even. Her dress was stylish also, but less flashy, and while she was attractive she wasn’t the Hollywood glamour type like Irene.
“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, this is Freya Norton,” Irene introduced motioning them to their seats. “Freya is the woman responsible for keeping me in line.”
There was something in the way she said it that had John taking a second glance while rapidly reassessing everything that Sherlock had ever told him about Irene Adler.
“Pleasure,” Sherlock said taking the spare seat next to Irene leaving the other for him.
It was interesting, he decided as he took his seat, watching the way Sherlock behaved around someone other than the usual crowd. A friend, he reminded himself, Sherlock had referred to Irene as a friend and it was not hard to see why. There was some obvious affection between them, teasing that was sometimes more than just good natured, and there was a pent up glow about Sherlock that he had never seen before. That caused a pang to go through his chest, that Irene obviously had something with Sherlock that he didn’t have - what exactly? - but he pushed it aside as they enjoyed their meal. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to leave him for Irene, that would be, well, absurd. Sherlock was with him now, and Irene’s own taste obviously ran very differently than the press were aware of.
“Tell me, John,” Irene said, her eyes shining as she clasped at her glass of wine during their main course, “is Sherlock as good in bed as he has always boasted?”
He almost choked on his mouthful at her boldness, but chewing he took the opportunity to pause before answering, “In bed, in the shower, on the sofa… I’m never bored.”
“Oooh, lucky boy,” Irene murmured as they laughed.
Sherlock looked smug, although there was a touch more colour to his checks than usual and it wasn’t all due to the wine.
“He does have the most marvellous arse,” Irene added. “That’s one of the first things I noticed about him. Well, other than those cheekbones, and that cupid bow, and those pale, striking eyes. All that training, all that tennis.”
“Well I’m rather fond of it,” John agreed.
“John,” Sherlock said a touch warily.
“But let’s not forget yours either,” Irene continued. “It has its own set of fans I believe. Tumblr was very helpful with providing me with all the images I wanted. And as for that picture you did for, who was it, Cosmopolitan? You’re certainly not lacking under your shirt and jeans. What I would give for a quick nibble.”
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said firmly reaching out a hand under the table to squeeze John’s thigh. “I don’t share.”
“Pity,” Irene said leaning back, “I bet you two make a striking image together.”
“We try,” Sherlock said. “Now,” he cleared his throat, “while my sex life is no doubt fascinating to you, and rightly so, I’d rather talk about you. I hear you’re taking on the Great Dane himself. Fascinating.”
“And he’ll enjoy every moment of it,” Irene said, “and so will the audience. I’ll ensure it.”
“The Great Dane?” John asked wondering what he had missed.
“Hamlet, John,” Sherlock said. “The greatest Dane of them all. Do keep up.”
“You’re going to be in Hamlet?” John said. “Impressive.”
“I’m going to be Hamlet,” Irene corrected.
John blinked. “A female Hamlet? That’ll put a new spin on the part when Hamlet tells Ophelia to go to a nunnery. I take it Ophelia is still going to be a woman.”
“Of course,” Irene said. “And Horatio will still be a man, as will Hamlet.”
“A male Hamlet played by a woman,” Sherlock said a small smile on his lips. “The woman, in fact. Elegant.”
“The theatre thought so. Rehearsals start next week.”
“Broadway?”
“Naturally.”
And the conversation moved on. Irene and Sherlock did most of the talking. John wasn’t sure that Freya said more than five or six sentences over the course of the meal, but it was a revelation watching Sherlock interact socially and he realised that throughout the three hours they spent in the restaurant he heard more about Sherlock’s past than he had in the previous six weeks. It was rather enlightening, even if it did drive home how little he still knew about his partner.
Irene was half way through a story about her and Sherlock after a particular film premier when Sherlock’s phone vibrated. Apologising, he rose to take the call, shortly followed by Freya who excused herself to visit the ladies.
“He is something, isn’t he?”
Looking up, John glanced across to where Irene’s eyes were following Sherlock out.
“Oh. Yes,” he said pressing his lips together. “Yes, you can definitely say that he is.”
He couldn’t honestly say that he particularly liked the way Irene was watching. He wouldn’t call himself a jealous man, but there was something predatory in her gaze, and she interacted with Sherlock on a level he could only ever hope to do. She was a world famous actress after all, he was just, well, a washed up tennis player when it came down to it.
“He looks at you, you know.”
“Hmmm?”
“When he thinks you can’t see him.” Irene was looking at him now, her gaze steady. “He looks at you in a way I have never seen him look at anyone.”
“Oh right. Good. That’s good, isn’t it?” At least he hoped it was a good type of look.
“Only you can determine that, John. Sherlock Holmes is a very complicated man. For all of his intelligence and deductive abilities, he flounders when faced with human emotions.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed, thanks. He, uh, he gets on very well with you.”
Her gaze remained steady.
“He doesn’t have a lot of friends, but he has you,” he continued. “And you’ve been texting him. A lot.”
He had been counting.
“Are you jealous?” she asked her head tilting slightly.
No. Yes.
No.
“I know you weren’t a real couple,” he said.
“No, we weren’t,” she confirmed, “but you are, and neither of you are even technically gay.”
“No. No, I suppose we’re not,” he admitted, “but you are, I see.”
He hadn’t needed Sherlock’s deducing abilities to work that one out. Still, it didn’t help with the slight jealously he didn’t want to feel.
“And look at us both,” she said. “Look at the lives we lead. Was he my beard, or was I his? And what would the press make of it? What of the general public? What of our fans? What would happen if we told the truth?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a small shake of his head. “And I don’t care. Not about me, at least. Not when it comes to him.”
“You care for him,” she said.
“Of course I care for him,” he said rather more harshly than he had intended. “He’s…” the best thing in my life, the only thing that really matters, the person who helps to keep the crippling loneliness at bay. “Look, I don’t know what you think about me, god knows what you’ve read about my failed relationships, but I’m serious about him. I lost him once; I have no plans to let that happen a second time.”
Her lips twitched. “Is that why you let him pick your wardrobe?” she said.
“What?”
“Your shirt,” she said. “Brand new, designer, luxury, far higher quality than your jeans. You’ve been unconsciously fiddling with the cuffs, which suggests you’re not used to such clothing. Sherlock’s eyes keep drifting to your shoulders and upper chest, as if he’s not used to seeing you so attired, and then he gets this expression, mainly pride with a dash of smugness which means he was right about something. The shirt then. He was right about the shirt. Dior Homme, one of his sponsors and this is Hollywood, we’re out to dinner and he wanted to show you off.”
It was uncanny how much she was like Sherlock.
“He’s crazy about you too,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean that he’s always right. Not when it comes to managing a relationship. Don’t hurt him, but don’t let him hurt you either.”
She smiled and for a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but then Sherlock was back, and Freya was back and they were laughing over yet another tale while sipping their coffees.
Afterwards, Sherlock was surprisingly quiet. In the cab going back to the hotel he neither talked nor played with his phone. It surprised John as Sherlock had been animated all evening but now seemed lost in thought. He was getting better at reading Sherlock’s moods now, but that didn’t mean that he recognise all of them.
“You okay?” he asked reaching over to place a hand on top of the one Sherlock had left between them on the seat. For a moment he thought it would be shaken off, but then Sherlock’s hand turned and their fingers slipped together.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, fine,” Sherlock said. “Long day,” and then he returned to looking out of the window although their hands remained entwined.
Back at the hotel Sherlock remained quiet, standing by the large sweeping windows, staring out at the lights. John left him to it for a while, taking his time as he preparing himself for bed, checking the lead stories of the London papers on his laptop before concluding that Sherlock wasn’t going to join him any time soon.
Padding out into the main room, he stood for a moment, watching both his lover and their reflections. As far as he could tell the evening had been a roaring success, but now he couldn’t be certain that Sherlock had found it the same way. He wanted to ask if there was something wrong, if Sherlock was planning on coming to bed any time soon, but at the same time he didn’t want to interrupt Sherlock’s thinking time. He tended to not appreciate being distracted, particularly if there was something important on his mind.
Sighing, he scrubbed his hand through his hair and then turned to go.
“John.”
He stopped as Sherlock turned to look at him.
“I think you should know that when it comes to Toronto, the doubles is solely your choice, and whatever you decide is fine by me.”
Oh, right, well that wasn’t quite what he had been expecting Sherlock to say right here, right now.
“That’s good to know,” he said before frowning slightly. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”
Sherlock didn’t respond, but his expression couldn’t have been clearer had he shouted the answer.
“You’re an idiot,” he didn’t know where the words came from but they did and Sherlock look as startled by them as he was. “For a man so intelligent, brilliant and downright gifted you are an idiot. Come here.”
He opened his arms and motioned Sherlock to come to him. “No, don’t just stand there, come on.”
Sherlock moved, although somewhat reluctantly until John pulled him closer and wrapped him in his arms.
“Sometimes I wonder what goes through that big brain of yours.”
He smiled as the hands moved to hug him back and pressed a kiss to the curls.
“Come to bed,” he said, “and tell me your side of the story of what happened with Irene after that film premier.”
*
End Part Three
Next week: Toronto
And because I can, here’s some visuals:
John’s Shirt:
Sherlock’s Shirt (as modelled so well by a certain Mr Smith)
And the shoes, because Mr Cumberbatch owns them and flawedamythyst dared me to and I can never resist either an in-joke or a challenge.
Part Four