FIC: Bohemian Like You, BBC's Sherlock, NC-17, Sarah/John/Sherlock.
Happy Christmas. Sorry [if] it's garbage.
Title: Bohemian Like You
Author: saathi1013
Pairing: varying permutations of Sarah/John/Sherlock, Sarah/OFC (kinda sorta)
Spoilers: just watch the series, it's only 3 episodes. Also, I have badly mangled A Scandal In Bohemia for my own amusement.
Rating: NC-17
Contents/Warnings: none that I can think of. Correct me if I'm wrong.
Summary: I repeat, I have badly mangled A Scandal In Bohemia for my own amusement. See, there's a sex tape threatening an upcoming Royal Wedding...
Word Count: ~4000
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: Follows ' Surveilled,' and ' Problems and Solutions, or...' as the third installment in the Lorem Ipsum Series. Beta/Britpicked by the faabulous caoilin_noir , who is patient and kind about my rampant Americanisms.
Also, shh, I'm not crossposting this anywhere but on my personal lj. Is a seekrit. 'Cos of it being garbage. 'Cos I can't decide how I feel about it but it somehow got finsihed and I hate to let anything other than a real WiP languish neglected on my hard drive.
***
John comes into the surgery late one morning, his limp a bit pronounced in the rush. At least he's off the cane again. Sarah smiles, shooing her patient ahead of her with, "I'll be right in." She follows him to the small employee lounge with its set of lockers and coat hooks and steals a kiss.
"Sorry," he says, kissing her back with a quick glance around to be sure they are alone. "Didn't mean to be late, but we had royalty at the flat."
Sarah's eyes go wide. "Not a murder?" she asks.
"No, no, just a bit of blackmail." He shrugs out of his jacket and she takes it from him to hang it up.
"That's dull for Sherlock, isn't it?"
John grins at her, pulling out his white coat. "You'd think. But you know that big wedding coming up?"
"No!" Sarah answers, interest piqued.
"Yep," John replies, "and there's a video."
"Ooh," Sarah says. "His gran will have his hide if that gets out."
"Well," John corrects, "she'd certainly cancel the wedding, as it's his bride-to-be on camera with another woman."
Sarah just stares. He's gone before she can ask any more questions.
***
Sarah can't get it out of her mind all afternoon. She usually doesn't give a toss about royal scandals (Not my business, she usually thinks, and What if I were in their place, poor things?), but apparently she's one of only a handful of people in the whole world who know about this, and that suddenly makes it Important. And absolutely thrilling. The rush of Crown secrets humming under her skin is loads better than the usual 'Oh I'm a hostage again, maybe I can get out of these handcuffs in time to kick someone in the teeth' adrenaline.
Her second-to-last patient of the day clears her throat, jerking Sarah back to awareness. "It's not bad news, is it?" the girl asks with an American accent. She's all of twenty-four and waiting for Sarah to give her her test results.
"Oh," Sarah says, "No, sorry. My mind ran off on me for a moment. It's been a busy day." She smiles apology and the girl relaxes fractionally. "You're fine; clean as a whistle and not pregnant either, congratulations."
The girl breaks into a wide smile and thanks her profusely, ending with, "-and I'm so glad I didn't have to see that last guy again, I felt so embarrassed asking him for this."
"Which one?" Sarah asks absently, filling out a copy of the results for the girl to take along.
"Doctor Watson," the girl says. "It's so mortifying when they're cute, makes me feel like I've got a big sign on my forehead, like, 'I'm a gigantic slut, tell me how'."
Sarah smiles sympathetically. "I know what you mean; I had a wild time at uni myself - I'm assuming you're here to study?" The girl nods confirmation, and Sarah continues, "but really, these kinds of tests are recommended, and we do them all the time. It just means you care about your health as a responsible adult."
The girl chews on the inside of her cheek, glancing at the door. "Is he here today?" she asks thoughtfully.
Sarah wants to laugh at this. "Yes," she says, adding an emphasis to it that makes the girl look back at her. "But it won't get you anywhere." Sarah holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers so the stone in her ring catches the light. "I'm afraid I beat you to him."
The girl visibly deflates, then cants her head to the side. "Not like I'd turn you down, either," she says with a raised eyebrow. "I've been with a couple before."
Sarah finds herself at a loss for words twice in one day. How on earth does one say You're lovely, but our bed's already full? "N-no, I'm flattered but no, thank you." She gives the girl her copy of the paperwork and beats a hasty retreat.
***
John laughs himself silly when she tells him about it later.
Sarah swats him on the arm, forcing back her own giggles. "It's not funny," she says. "The cheek of her, honestly."
"This from the woman who instigated our current arrangement," John says. Sarah feels her cheeks burning.
"Well," she says. "That's different."
John shrugs and returns to his curry, apparently deciding that his hunger is more important than challenging her declaration. Sarah's grateful for it; she couldn't defend it if he had.
***
"We're about to come into a bit of money," Sherlock comments as he enters the flat a week later. He's been running himself ragged over this case, thoroughly enjoying the challenge. Apparently the culprit is cleverer than anyone expected.
"Find the blackmailer?" Sarah asks, glancing over at him from the couch. John's at the other end, laptop open to update his blog, and she has her toes tucked under his thigh for the warmth. She's reading a mystery paperback, almost regretting knowing Sherlock for all the errors she can find in it now.
"Good, he told you," Sherlock says equably, settling into his armchair with a forensic journal. "Yes, very well. I've found the blackmailer's place of residence and will be going there tonight. You don't mind if I borrow John." It's not a question; it never is.
"Let me guess, you're just going to show up at the door and say, 'Surrender all the copies you have of the sex tape with the future princess'." Sarah says.
Sherlock snorts derision. "Of course not. She's throwing a party, and I plan to go in disguise to ferret out the hiding place. Once I know where she keeps it, I can go back to retrieve it."
Sarah always mentally edits out the parts where they break the law. It's just easier that way. "She?" she asks. "The blackmailer is the other girl in the video, then?"
"Yeeess," Sherlock drawls. "An American actress, here to study drama." He carefully folds over a sheaf of pages from the journal and tears them out at the crease. "Goes by the name Irene Adler."
The name rings a bell. Sarah frowns, trying to place it, but gives up. I've probably seen something she's done, she thinks, or an interview with her somewhere.
Sherlock starts shredding the article with vicious precision, littering the floor with scraps.
***
"Stop fidgeting," Sarah scolds, one hand on Sherlock's neck and the other wielding an eyeliner crayon. She's been recruited to help with the aforementioned disguise.
Sherlock scowls at her. "You are stabbing me in the eye," he accuses. "I've done this before, give me-"
"Yes, and I've seen it; you look like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Now hush and hold still."
John's watching from the bathroom door, grinning like a loon. "Is this really necessary?" he asks idly.
"Do I usually seem like an acting agent to you?" Sherlock replies.
"Well, that purple shirt of yours," Sarah comments. Sherlock rolls his eyes at her, and she swats him on the arm. "Don't." She finishes the last of it and surveys him critically, then goes back to the spirit gum, tacking down a corner of his wig. "There. Proper gay professional, you are."
He looks either smashing or ridiculous, actually. Both, since she knows his usual self, buried beneath the make-up and blonde-highlighted wig. He's wearing awful, expensive skinny jeans and a low-cut tee under an artfully rumpled jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There's a scarf around his neck, loosely draped and garishly patterned. It's like he's trying too hard to look ten years younger.
"Perfect," Sherlock declares, examining himself in the mirror and slipping two thin foam pads inside his cheeks to fill out his distinctive bone structure. Sarah grabs his bum, because it's lovely and it's right there and because she can. He glares at her in the mirror and she stares back at him with an innocent expression.
"Don't start," John says, "or we'll have to put all that nonsense back on him. We can take it all off when we get home."
"Sounds like a plan," she says. She kisses them both on the cheek and swats again at Sherlock's rear on the way out. "Have fun lying to criminals," she calls as they leave. "Don't stay out too late."
John's laugh echoes up the stairs.
***
Everything goes according to plan. They don't even have to tell her. She'd know by the way John sweeps her into her arms and snogs her senseless as soon as they get in the door. She grins with them, catching their triumphant glee.
"Oof," she says when John lets her breathe again. She cranes her neck to kiss Sherlock over John's shoulder. "Why do you both smell like smoke?"
"We needed a diversion," John says. "Don't scowl at me, it was just a smoke bomb, no one got hurt. Besides, it was his idea." He tosses his jacket aside and toes out of his shoes.
"Well," Sarah says, tangling her fingers in John's and leading him to Sherlock's bedroom. "Far be it for me to question his methods."
"You've never had any complaints," Sherlock's voice calls from the bathroom as he starts removing his wig.
"Results, no," she replies. "Methods, sometimes yes."
Then John's tumbling her to the bed, and the argument is forgotten in favour of more pleasant pursuits.
***
She gets shooed out of their flat the next morning at an ungodly hour so that Sherlock's client won't get skittish.
Bring home tea, Sherlock texts her just as she's deciding what to do with a whole day off to herself.
'Please,' John says, Sherlock adds a minute later. Sarah switches her mobile to silent and decides that yes, shopping sounds like a fine idea. Just not grocery shopping.
She browses the men's department at M&S, thinking of her upcoming anniversary with John. Does it still count if Sherlock tagged along and we got kidnapped at the end of it? Oh, God, does it count as our anniversary with Sherlock, too? Is our relationship with Sherlock the kind where we even have anniversaries? Or is it just me-and-John that have anniversaries? It's all very confusing.
So she's not actually paying attention when she walks straight into another woman in the aisle.
"Oh, I'm sorry, are you all right?" Sarah babbles, feeling absolutely mortified.
"Fine," the other woman says, taking Sarah's hand to get up. She flips her hair out of her eyes. "Oh, hey Mrs. Dr. Watson. Or should it be Dr. Mrs.?"
Sarah blinks, trying to place her, correcting, "No, neither, we're not married yet, are you sure you're-?" The penny drops. This is the girl from the surgery. Sarah flips through her mental files to remember her name. When it comes up, Sarah actually gasps.
"Ooh, he did tell you about me," Irene replies. "All good things, I hope." She dimples fetchingly.
"You-" Sarah can't even begin to articulate half the things crowding her mind.
"Yup," Irene says. "Don't worry, I'm not here to kidnap you or anything. I just wanted you to give Sherlock something." She gives Sarah an unmarked envelope, bulky at one end and stiff with cardboard. "Well, two things." She glances around and then pulls Sarah in, kissing her as if they aren't in public and Irene is about to do absolutely obscene things to her.
"You-" Sarah tries again. I've just been snogged by a blackmailer. And, oh god, I think I know exactly where that mouth has been. "What are you thinking?"
"Lots of things," Irene replies. "But I've got a plane to catch. So I can't do anything about half of them. Still, this was fun. Send my love to our boys." And she's off striding through the labyrinth of clothes before Sarah can get her wits together to do anything.
Sarah gets her mobile. She's missed ten texts from Sherlock and one from John.
Tea AND biscuits.
Adler missing.
Flat empty.
Video gone.
Are you even PAYING ATTENTION?
STOP IGNORING ME.
TURN YOUR PHONE ON, WOMAN.
You haven't been kidnapped again, have you?
IT'S NOT IRENE IS IT?
Her profile doesn't suggest violent tendencies. You're just ignoring your phone. Don't expect a repeat of last night if you keep this up.
And finally, John's: Don't mind him, he's just been outsmarted and now he's in a state. Come home when you can.
She calls John. "I just ran into Irene Adler at M&S," she says. "I'm fine, she just wants me to pass something - a couple of things - along. I'll be home in a minute."
***
Sherlock's not home when she gets there. She dumps the envelope on the nearest semi-level surface and collapses onto John's lap.
He folds his arms around her and lets her be still and silent for a long minute. "She didn't hurt you, did she," he says finally, just wanting confirmation.
"No," Sarah sighs into his neck. "I just got a reminder that my life is absolutely mad. It's a bit much to process all at once, sometimes."
"I completely sympathise," John replies, and just holds her for a bit.
The door slams open. "WHERE IS SHE," Sherlock demands, expression manic.
"I don't know," Sarah says into John's jumper. "She said she had a plane to catch. She's probably long gone by now."
"Why didn't you-?" Sherlock starts, but Sarah lifts her eyes to meet his gaze, and apparently whatever he sees there stops him short.
"Because that's not my job," Sarah replies, keeping her voice flat and even. "It's yours. I may enable you, and help out a little when I get caught up in it, but I'm not going to hare off after a strange girl in the middle of Marks and tackle her when no one else is around to keep me from being arrested for assault. I patch you idiots up and occasionally make sure you eat, but I don't have any military service or ten nicked badges in my coat and a brother in the government who'll get me out of trouble when I cock up." John's palm is a reassuring warmth on her spine as she rants. She takes a deep breath. "Now. On the pile of books to your left, there's a package from Irene Adler for you, if you care to look at it."
Sherlock snatches it up with casual grace. Sarah could give a toss what he does with it. She drops her head onto John's shoulder again and just breathes him in.
"Oh," she hears Sherlock say. He sounds... amused, maybe, or surprised. Possibly both - anyone with the intellect to surprise him is inevitably amusing.
"What is it?" John asks. There's a rustle of papers being passed over Sarah's head. "...oh."
Sarah glances down, and her eyebrows immediately lift to her hairline. "Good gracious," she says. It's a still from the sex tape, from what she can tell. Irene Adler, sitting up against a headboard in all her glory with a sheet tucked under her arms but her long legs curled bare to one side, pinup-perfect. To Sherlock with love, a scrawl of marker in the corner declares, Irene.
"She's also given me the phone with which she recorded the video," Sherlock says. "She only has one remaining copy, to be released in case anything unfortunate should happen to her. Clever girl."
"Are you going to go after her?" Sarah can't help but ask.
"Why?" Sherlock asks. "She's long gone, as you said, and there's nothing left for me to do. Aside from chase her across several continents, and I loathe air travel. Too much work over a trifling matter like blackmail. Besides, my retainer's not that generous."
He plucks the glossy photograph from John's hand and disappears into his room. A minute later, the violin starts up.
Sarah sighs and stands, giving John a rueful look. "Come on," she says. "Let's go out, catch a film or something. He'll be at it for hours."
***
She takes John to her flat instead of 221b Baker Street, vaguely disgruntled with Sherlock in a way she can't articulate. She pulls John to her bed with impatient, greedy hands and he huffs a laugh against her mouth.
The light through her curtains catches on the modest-but-flawless stone on her ring and she thinks of the photograph, of the kiss Irene had given her, lipstick-slick and shocking. "Jesus," Sarah says aloud, and she's rough with John the way they never are without Sherlock present.
He surges beneath her and catches her face in his palms, gentling her, soothing the raw edges that twist beneath her skin. "What is it?" he asks. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," she admits. "I don't. Just. Please."
"Yeah," he says. "All right, yes." And he twists them both so that he's on top, and does his best to distract her.
***
Sarah's busy at work for the following week, and uses it as an excuse to avoid Sherlock even though she's always found time before. This, unsurprisingly, means that he shows up late on Friday, appearing in her examination room without an appointment. He's a tall column of black against the cream walls and sterile silver hardware.
"She came here," he says without preamble. "I'd like to see her records."
"Who?" Sarah asks, though she has her suspicions.
"The Woman," Sherlock replies irritably, his words oddly emphasised. "Irene Adler."
"Oh. Talk to John. I've got patients waiting." Sarah turns her back and starts restocking the supplies.
Sherlock is quiet behind her. "Sarah..." he says, voice odd and unfamiliar. Without sparing him a glance, Sarah leaves to get her next patient, and brings them back to the spare exam room.
***
She goes shopping again, stubbornly attempting to pick up where she left off looking for something for John. She wanders blindly through the racks and spots a display of cashmere scarves, so like Sherlock's that it freezes her in her tracks.
If Sherlock had been here instead, she thinks, what would he have done? The image of Irene kissing him flashes through her mind, the two of them locked in an embrace, other shoppers gaping.
They seem... right together, even if it's just in her mind. Sarah bites her lip so hard that she tastes blood.
***
John mentions bringing her back to 221b one night after dinner, and she agrees only to smooth away the vague curiosity creasing his brow. Sherlock's out, or hiding in his room, so she doesn't have to deal with him immediately. Feeling restless, Sarah puts the kettle on, and when she turns around she spots The Photograph tucked away carefully behind the microscope.
Something twists in her gut, and she looks away. She doesn't know what it is. It's not jealously, exactly, just deep unease that has no name.
Sherlock sweeps in as the kettle boils, and Sarah's hand slips, the metal burning her fingertips.
"Careful," Sherlock says, catching her hands in his and holding them under cold water. His fingers slide across her knuckles, cool and careful. She pulls away, examining the injury in the dim light. No blisters rise, though part of her fingerprints have been ironed smooth. Sherlock hovers close. "I'd be able to tell you apart in an instant now, if you leave behind any prints at a crime scene," he comments.
"Is that all you ever think about?" she snaps half-heartedly.
He gives her a long, slow look, from toes to the top of her head. "No," he replies, low and quiet. "I do try, but I keep getting distracted."
No wonder, with that photo out, she almost responds, but that's too close, too revealing. John returns from the loo, and she steps back from Sherlock and starts hunting for clean mugs.
***
"You're angry with me," Sherlock says the next morning when she comes down from John's room.
Sarah sighs. "I need caffeine for this," she replies. He holds out a cardboard cup, still steaming. She takes it and sips: double espresso with a dash of soy milk, her favourite. He waits, patient as a statue, the flick-flick of his cataloguing gaze the only sign that he's still trying to solve her.
"I'm not angry," she finally says. "I don't know what I am."
"You are angry," he insists. "All the physical signs-"
"Damn the physical signs, I'm not!" Her voice rises, and she stops, taking a deep breath. "I haven't figured it out yet, all right?"
His expression is dubious. "Give me the pieces," he says. "I might be able to put them together."
"I'm not one of your cases, Sherlock." She sinks down into the chair next to his, her knee knocking his leg. She shields her face with one palm. "I don't know what this is to you." There, that's enough said.
"Ah," he says. His hand trails down the exposed side of her cheek, feather-light. "If it's any consolation, I don't know either."
And that is startling enough that she uncovers her face and looks at him, really looks.
"Well," she says. "I guess we'll have to figure it out together."
When John wakes up and comes down, he finds Sarah still seated at the kitchen table, her knee crooked over Sherlock's shoulder as he makes her fall apart. "Good morning," John says, sleepily surprised. "I see you two have decided to make up." He bends to kiss Sarah, tipping her head back and she gasps into his mouth. When she lets him up for air, he murmurs, "Shall I get the condoms?"
"No," she says, not thinking but wanting, desperately. "Just the lube."
Everything gets very quiet; even Sherlock goes suddenly still. He lifts his head, looking over her shoulder at John. "Yes," he says. "Go on, John, we know we're all clean." He shifts his gaze to Sarah's. "And we're none of us going anywhere."
Sarah fights the shudder that crawls down her spine, but Sherlock's fingers are still right there, and he can feel the tremor inside her. He smirks and returns to his task, and John leaves to get lube.
***
They don't do this often. Or at least if they do, Sarah's rarely present to see it. Which would be unfortunate, but then, she's the only one - only one, she repeats to herself with an ache behind her ribs - who gets to see it.
Sherlock's stretched out on the threadbare carpet, pyjama bottoms gone but his shirt is bunched up and his dressing gown is spread out around him in a pool of blue satin. Sarah's holding his wrists down and kissing him sideways while he pants and begs and twists.
John is being very very thorough.
When he finally pushes into Sherlock in one slow lovely glide, the shocked-open look on Sherlock's face is thrilling to see. Sarah watches every thrust play across his expressive features, watches John's frown of concentration as it fractures slowly into heat and feral need.
"Harder," Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth, and Sarah bends down to cover his mouth with her own again. She slides one hand down to his chest just to hear his muffled cry against her lips when she digs her nails into his skin.
***
"Will you tell me about Irene now?" Sherlock says as they're all tangled up on the bed afterwards.
"Irene Adler? What about her?" John asks, shifting a little under Sarah's shoulders. Sarah drags the blanket up to cover her face.
"I don't want to talk about her," she says, knowing it's futile. Sure enough, John pulls the blanket away, concern writ large in his eyes.
"You said she didn't hurt you," he says, his thoughts clearly sliding towards the 'where did I leave my gun or has Sherlock moved it on me again?' end of the spectrum.
"She didn't," Sarah replies finally. "She hit on me at the surgery and then kissed me in the Men's Department of M&S, but that's it."
The two men look at each other, exchanging significant glances.
"Oh don't even," Sarah interrupts before either of them can reply. "It wasn't like that. She wanted to needle Sherlock."
She can't believe that Sherlock manages to keep a straight face as he answers, "Consider me needled." It is somehow less surprising that when she shoves him off the bed, he takes half the covers with him. Both John and she have to gang up on him to get them back.
What ensues is a lengthy and vicious battle that none of them win, precisely. But then again, neither do any of them lose.
- END -
( Number four in the series: City Sirens, Violins )
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Title: Bohemian Like You
Author: saathi1013
Pairing: varying permutations of Sarah/John/Sherlock, Sarah/OFC (kinda sorta)
Spoilers: just watch the series, it's only 3 episodes. Also, I have badly mangled A Scandal In Bohemia for my own amusement.
Rating: NC-17
Contents/Warnings: none that I can think of. Correct me if I'm wrong.
Summary: I repeat, I have badly mangled A Scandal In Bohemia for my own amusement. See, there's a sex tape threatening an upcoming Royal Wedding...
Word Count: ~4000
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: Follows ' Surveilled,' and ' Problems and Solutions, or...' as the third installment in the Lorem Ipsum Series. Beta/Britpicked by the faabulous caoilin_noir , who is patient and kind about my rampant Americanisms.
Also, shh, I'm not crossposting this anywhere but on my personal lj. Is a seekrit. 'Cos of it being garbage. 'Cos I can't decide how I feel about it but it somehow got finsihed and I hate to let anything other than a real WiP languish neglected on my hard drive.
***
John comes into the surgery late one morning, his limp a bit pronounced in the rush. At least he's off the cane again. Sarah smiles, shooing her patient ahead of her with, "I'll be right in." She follows him to the small employee lounge with its set of lockers and coat hooks and steals a kiss.
"Sorry," he says, kissing her back with a quick glance around to be sure they are alone. "Didn't mean to be late, but we had royalty at the flat."
Sarah's eyes go wide. "Not a murder?" she asks.
"No, no, just a bit of blackmail." He shrugs out of his jacket and she takes it from him to hang it up.
"That's dull for Sherlock, isn't it?"
John grins at her, pulling out his white coat. "You'd think. But you know that big wedding coming up?"
"No!" Sarah answers, interest piqued.
"Yep," John replies, "and there's a video."
"Ooh," Sarah says. "His gran will have his hide if that gets out."
"Well," John corrects, "she'd certainly cancel the wedding, as it's his bride-to-be on camera with another woman."
Sarah just stares. He's gone before she can ask any more questions.
***
Sarah can't get it out of her mind all afternoon. She usually doesn't give a toss about royal scandals (Not my business, she usually thinks, and What if I were in their place, poor things?), but apparently she's one of only a handful of people in the whole world who know about this, and that suddenly makes it Important. And absolutely thrilling. The rush of Crown secrets humming under her skin is loads better than the usual 'Oh I'm a hostage again, maybe I can get out of these handcuffs in time to kick someone in the teeth' adrenaline.
Her second-to-last patient of the day clears her throat, jerking Sarah back to awareness. "It's not bad news, is it?" the girl asks with an American accent. She's all of twenty-four and waiting for Sarah to give her her test results.
"Oh," Sarah says, "No, sorry. My mind ran off on me for a moment. It's been a busy day." She smiles apology and the girl relaxes fractionally. "You're fine; clean as a whistle and not pregnant either, congratulations."
The girl breaks into a wide smile and thanks her profusely, ending with, "-and I'm so glad I didn't have to see that last guy again, I felt so embarrassed asking him for this."
"Which one?" Sarah asks absently, filling out a copy of the results for the girl to take along.
"Doctor Watson," the girl says. "It's so mortifying when they're cute, makes me feel like I've got a big sign on my forehead, like, 'I'm a gigantic slut, tell me how'."
Sarah smiles sympathetically. "I know what you mean; I had a wild time at uni myself - I'm assuming you're here to study?" The girl nods confirmation, and Sarah continues, "but really, these kinds of tests are recommended, and we do them all the time. It just means you care about your health as a responsible adult."
The girl chews on the inside of her cheek, glancing at the door. "Is he here today?" she asks thoughtfully.
Sarah wants to laugh at this. "Yes," she says, adding an emphasis to it that makes the girl look back at her. "But it won't get you anywhere." Sarah holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers so the stone in her ring catches the light. "I'm afraid I beat you to him."
The girl visibly deflates, then cants her head to the side. "Not like I'd turn you down, either," she says with a raised eyebrow. "I've been with a couple before."
Sarah finds herself at a loss for words twice in one day. How on earth does one say You're lovely, but our bed's already full? "N-no, I'm flattered but no, thank you." She gives the girl her copy of the paperwork and beats a hasty retreat.
***
John laughs himself silly when she tells him about it later.
Sarah swats him on the arm, forcing back her own giggles. "It's not funny," she says. "The cheek of her, honestly."
"This from the woman who instigated our current arrangement," John says. Sarah feels her cheeks burning.
"Well," she says. "That's different."
John shrugs and returns to his curry, apparently deciding that his hunger is more important than challenging her declaration. Sarah's grateful for it; she couldn't defend it if he had.
***
"We're about to come into a bit of money," Sherlock comments as he enters the flat a week later. He's been running himself ragged over this case, thoroughly enjoying the challenge. Apparently the culprit is cleverer than anyone expected.
"Find the blackmailer?" Sarah asks, glancing over at him from the couch. John's at the other end, laptop open to update his blog, and she has her toes tucked under his thigh for the warmth. She's reading a mystery paperback, almost regretting knowing Sherlock for all the errors she can find in it now.
"Good, he told you," Sherlock says equably, settling into his armchair with a forensic journal. "Yes, very well. I've found the blackmailer's place of residence and will be going there tonight. You don't mind if I borrow John." It's not a question; it never is.
"Let me guess, you're just going to show up at the door and say, 'Surrender all the copies you have of the sex tape with the future princess'." Sarah says.
Sherlock snorts derision. "Of course not. She's throwing a party, and I plan to go in disguise to ferret out the hiding place. Once I know where she keeps it, I can go back to retrieve it."
Sarah always mentally edits out the parts where they break the law. It's just easier that way. "She?" she asks. "The blackmailer is the other girl in the video, then?"
"Yeeess," Sherlock drawls. "An American actress, here to study drama." He carefully folds over a sheaf of pages from the journal and tears them out at the crease. "Goes by the name Irene Adler."
The name rings a bell. Sarah frowns, trying to place it, but gives up. I've probably seen something she's done, she thinks, or an interview with her somewhere.
Sherlock starts shredding the article with vicious precision, littering the floor with scraps.
***
"Stop fidgeting," Sarah scolds, one hand on Sherlock's neck and the other wielding an eyeliner crayon. She's been recruited to help with the aforementioned disguise.
Sherlock scowls at her. "You are stabbing me in the eye," he accuses. "I've done this before, give me-"
"Yes, and I've seen it; you look like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Now hush and hold still."
John's watching from the bathroom door, grinning like a loon. "Is this really necessary?" he asks idly.
"Do I usually seem like an acting agent to you?" Sherlock replies.
"Well, that purple shirt of yours," Sarah comments. Sherlock rolls his eyes at her, and she swats him on the arm. "Don't." She finishes the last of it and surveys him critically, then goes back to the spirit gum, tacking down a corner of his wig. "There. Proper gay professional, you are."
He looks either smashing or ridiculous, actually. Both, since she knows his usual self, buried beneath the make-up and blonde-highlighted wig. He's wearing awful, expensive skinny jeans and a low-cut tee under an artfully rumpled jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There's a scarf around his neck, loosely draped and garishly patterned. It's like he's trying too hard to look ten years younger.
"Perfect," Sherlock declares, examining himself in the mirror and slipping two thin foam pads inside his cheeks to fill out his distinctive bone structure. Sarah grabs his bum, because it's lovely and it's right there and because she can. He glares at her in the mirror and she stares back at him with an innocent expression.
"Don't start," John says, "or we'll have to put all that nonsense back on him. We can take it all off when we get home."
"Sounds like a plan," she says. She kisses them both on the cheek and swats again at Sherlock's rear on the way out. "Have fun lying to criminals," she calls as they leave. "Don't stay out too late."
John's laugh echoes up the stairs.
***
Everything goes according to plan. They don't even have to tell her. She'd know by the way John sweeps her into her arms and snogs her senseless as soon as they get in the door. She grins with them, catching their triumphant glee.
"Oof," she says when John lets her breathe again. She cranes her neck to kiss Sherlock over John's shoulder. "Why do you both smell like smoke?"
"We needed a diversion," John says. "Don't scowl at me, it was just a smoke bomb, no one got hurt. Besides, it was his idea." He tosses his jacket aside and toes out of his shoes.
"Well," Sarah says, tangling her fingers in John's and leading him to Sherlock's bedroom. "Far be it for me to question his methods."
"You've never had any complaints," Sherlock's voice calls from the bathroom as he starts removing his wig.
"Results, no," she replies. "Methods, sometimes yes."
Then John's tumbling her to the bed, and the argument is forgotten in favour of more pleasant pursuits.
***
She gets shooed out of their flat the next morning at an ungodly hour so that Sherlock's client won't get skittish.
Bring home tea, Sherlock texts her just as she's deciding what to do with a whole day off to herself.
'Please,' John says, Sherlock adds a minute later. Sarah switches her mobile to silent and decides that yes, shopping sounds like a fine idea. Just not grocery shopping.
She browses the men's department at M&S, thinking of her upcoming anniversary with John. Does it still count if Sherlock tagged along and we got kidnapped at the end of it? Oh, God, does it count as our anniversary with Sherlock, too? Is our relationship with Sherlock the kind where we even have anniversaries? Or is it just me-and-John that have anniversaries? It's all very confusing.
So she's not actually paying attention when she walks straight into another woman in the aisle.
"Oh, I'm sorry, are you all right?" Sarah babbles, feeling absolutely mortified.
"Fine," the other woman says, taking Sarah's hand to get up. She flips her hair out of her eyes. "Oh, hey Mrs. Dr. Watson. Or should it be Dr. Mrs.?"
Sarah blinks, trying to place her, correcting, "No, neither, we're not married yet, are you sure you're-?" The penny drops. This is the girl from the surgery. Sarah flips through her mental files to remember her name. When it comes up, Sarah actually gasps.
"Ooh, he did tell you about me," Irene replies. "All good things, I hope." She dimples fetchingly.
"You-" Sarah can't even begin to articulate half the things crowding her mind.
"Yup," Irene says. "Don't worry, I'm not here to kidnap you or anything. I just wanted you to give Sherlock something." She gives Sarah an unmarked envelope, bulky at one end and stiff with cardboard. "Well, two things." She glances around and then pulls Sarah in, kissing her as if they aren't in public and Irene is about to do absolutely obscene things to her.
"You-" Sarah tries again. I've just been snogged by a blackmailer. And, oh god, I think I know exactly where that mouth has been. "What are you thinking?"
"Lots of things," Irene replies. "But I've got a plane to catch. So I can't do anything about half of them. Still, this was fun. Send my love to our boys." And she's off striding through the labyrinth of clothes before Sarah can get her wits together to do anything.
Sarah gets her mobile. She's missed ten texts from Sherlock and one from John.
Tea AND biscuits.
Adler missing.
Flat empty.
Video gone.
Are you even PAYING ATTENTION?
STOP IGNORING ME.
TURN YOUR PHONE ON, WOMAN.
You haven't been kidnapped again, have you?
IT'S NOT IRENE IS IT?
Her profile doesn't suggest violent tendencies. You're just ignoring your phone. Don't expect a repeat of last night if you keep this up.
And finally, John's: Don't mind him, he's just been outsmarted and now he's in a state. Come home when you can.
She calls John. "I just ran into Irene Adler at M&S," she says. "I'm fine, she just wants me to pass something - a couple of things - along. I'll be home in a minute."
***
Sherlock's not home when she gets there. She dumps the envelope on the nearest semi-level surface and collapses onto John's lap.
He folds his arms around her and lets her be still and silent for a long minute. "She didn't hurt you, did she," he says finally, just wanting confirmation.
"No," Sarah sighs into his neck. "I just got a reminder that my life is absolutely mad. It's a bit much to process all at once, sometimes."
"I completely sympathise," John replies, and just holds her for a bit.
The door slams open. "WHERE IS SHE," Sherlock demands, expression manic.
"I don't know," Sarah says into John's jumper. "She said she had a plane to catch. She's probably long gone by now."
"Why didn't you-?" Sherlock starts, but Sarah lifts her eyes to meet his gaze, and apparently whatever he sees there stops him short.
"Because that's not my job," Sarah replies, keeping her voice flat and even. "It's yours. I may enable you, and help out a little when I get caught up in it, but I'm not going to hare off after a strange girl in the middle of Marks and tackle her when no one else is around to keep me from being arrested for assault. I patch you idiots up and occasionally make sure you eat, but I don't have any military service or ten nicked badges in my coat and a brother in the government who'll get me out of trouble when I cock up." John's palm is a reassuring warmth on her spine as she rants. She takes a deep breath. "Now. On the pile of books to your left, there's a package from Irene Adler for you, if you care to look at it."
Sherlock snatches it up with casual grace. Sarah could give a toss what he does with it. She drops her head onto John's shoulder again and just breathes him in.
"Oh," she hears Sherlock say. He sounds... amused, maybe, or surprised. Possibly both - anyone with the intellect to surprise him is inevitably amusing.
"What is it?" John asks. There's a rustle of papers being passed over Sarah's head. "...oh."
Sarah glances down, and her eyebrows immediately lift to her hairline. "Good gracious," she says. It's a still from the sex tape, from what she can tell. Irene Adler, sitting up against a headboard in all her glory with a sheet tucked under her arms but her long legs curled bare to one side, pinup-perfect. To Sherlock with love, a scrawl of marker in the corner declares, Irene.
"She's also given me the phone with which she recorded the video," Sherlock says. "She only has one remaining copy, to be released in case anything unfortunate should happen to her. Clever girl."
"Are you going to go after her?" Sarah can't help but ask.
"Why?" Sherlock asks. "She's long gone, as you said, and there's nothing left for me to do. Aside from chase her across several continents, and I loathe air travel. Too much work over a trifling matter like blackmail. Besides, my retainer's not that generous."
He plucks the glossy photograph from John's hand and disappears into his room. A minute later, the violin starts up.
Sarah sighs and stands, giving John a rueful look. "Come on," she says. "Let's go out, catch a film or something. He'll be at it for hours."
***
She takes John to her flat instead of 221b Baker Street, vaguely disgruntled with Sherlock in a way she can't articulate. She pulls John to her bed with impatient, greedy hands and he huffs a laugh against her mouth.
The light through her curtains catches on the modest-but-flawless stone on her ring and she thinks of the photograph, of the kiss Irene had given her, lipstick-slick and shocking. "Jesus," Sarah says aloud, and she's rough with John the way they never are without Sherlock present.
He surges beneath her and catches her face in his palms, gentling her, soothing the raw edges that twist beneath her skin. "What is it?" he asks. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," she admits. "I don't. Just. Please."
"Yeah," he says. "All right, yes." And he twists them both so that he's on top, and does his best to distract her.
***
Sarah's busy at work for the following week, and uses it as an excuse to avoid Sherlock even though she's always found time before. This, unsurprisingly, means that he shows up late on Friday, appearing in her examination room without an appointment. He's a tall column of black against the cream walls and sterile silver hardware.
"She came here," he says without preamble. "I'd like to see her records."
"Who?" Sarah asks, though she has her suspicions.
"The Woman," Sherlock replies irritably, his words oddly emphasised. "Irene Adler."
"Oh. Talk to John. I've got patients waiting." Sarah turns her back and starts restocking the supplies.
Sherlock is quiet behind her. "Sarah..." he says, voice odd and unfamiliar. Without sparing him a glance, Sarah leaves to get her next patient, and brings them back to the spare exam room.
***
She goes shopping again, stubbornly attempting to pick up where she left off looking for something for John. She wanders blindly through the racks and spots a display of cashmere scarves, so like Sherlock's that it freezes her in her tracks.
If Sherlock had been here instead, she thinks, what would he have done? The image of Irene kissing him flashes through her mind, the two of them locked in an embrace, other shoppers gaping.
They seem... right together, even if it's just in her mind. Sarah bites her lip so hard that she tastes blood.
***
John mentions bringing her back to 221b one night after dinner, and she agrees only to smooth away the vague curiosity creasing his brow. Sherlock's out, or hiding in his room, so she doesn't have to deal with him immediately. Feeling restless, Sarah puts the kettle on, and when she turns around she spots The Photograph tucked away carefully behind the microscope.
Something twists in her gut, and she looks away. She doesn't know what it is. It's not jealously, exactly, just deep unease that has no name.
Sherlock sweeps in as the kettle boils, and Sarah's hand slips, the metal burning her fingertips.
"Careful," Sherlock says, catching her hands in his and holding them under cold water. His fingers slide across her knuckles, cool and careful. She pulls away, examining the injury in the dim light. No blisters rise, though part of her fingerprints have been ironed smooth. Sherlock hovers close. "I'd be able to tell you apart in an instant now, if you leave behind any prints at a crime scene," he comments.
"Is that all you ever think about?" she snaps half-heartedly.
He gives her a long, slow look, from toes to the top of her head. "No," he replies, low and quiet. "I do try, but I keep getting distracted."
No wonder, with that photo out, she almost responds, but that's too close, too revealing. John returns from the loo, and she steps back from Sherlock and starts hunting for clean mugs.
***
"You're angry with me," Sherlock says the next morning when she comes down from John's room.
Sarah sighs. "I need caffeine for this," she replies. He holds out a cardboard cup, still steaming. She takes it and sips: double espresso with a dash of soy milk, her favourite. He waits, patient as a statue, the flick-flick of his cataloguing gaze the only sign that he's still trying to solve her.
"I'm not angry," she finally says. "I don't know what I am."
"You are angry," he insists. "All the physical signs-"
"Damn the physical signs, I'm not!" Her voice rises, and she stops, taking a deep breath. "I haven't figured it out yet, all right?"
His expression is dubious. "Give me the pieces," he says. "I might be able to put them together."
"I'm not one of your cases, Sherlock." She sinks down into the chair next to his, her knee knocking his leg. She shields her face with one palm. "I don't know what this is to you." There, that's enough said.
"Ah," he says. His hand trails down the exposed side of her cheek, feather-light. "If it's any consolation, I don't know either."
And that is startling enough that she uncovers her face and looks at him, really looks.
"Well," she says. "I guess we'll have to figure it out together."
When John wakes up and comes down, he finds Sarah still seated at the kitchen table, her knee crooked over Sherlock's shoulder as he makes her fall apart. "Good morning," John says, sleepily surprised. "I see you two have decided to make up." He bends to kiss Sarah, tipping her head back and she gasps into his mouth. When she lets him up for air, he murmurs, "Shall I get the condoms?"
"No," she says, not thinking but wanting, desperately. "Just the lube."
Everything gets very quiet; even Sherlock goes suddenly still. He lifts his head, looking over her shoulder at John. "Yes," he says. "Go on, John, we know we're all clean." He shifts his gaze to Sarah's. "And we're none of us going anywhere."
Sarah fights the shudder that crawls down her spine, but Sherlock's fingers are still right there, and he can feel the tremor inside her. He smirks and returns to his task, and John leaves to get lube.
***
They don't do this often. Or at least if they do, Sarah's rarely present to see it. Which would be unfortunate, but then, she's the only one - only one, she repeats to herself with an ache behind her ribs - who gets to see it.
Sherlock's stretched out on the threadbare carpet, pyjama bottoms gone but his shirt is bunched up and his dressing gown is spread out around him in a pool of blue satin. Sarah's holding his wrists down and kissing him sideways while he pants and begs and twists.
John is being very very thorough.
When he finally pushes into Sherlock in one slow lovely glide, the shocked-open look on Sherlock's face is thrilling to see. Sarah watches every thrust play across his expressive features, watches John's frown of concentration as it fractures slowly into heat and feral need.
"Harder," Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth, and Sarah bends down to cover his mouth with her own again. She slides one hand down to his chest just to hear his muffled cry against her lips when she digs her nails into his skin.
***
"Will you tell me about Irene now?" Sherlock says as they're all tangled up on the bed afterwards.
"Irene Adler? What about her?" John asks, shifting a little under Sarah's shoulders. Sarah drags the blanket up to cover her face.
"I don't want to talk about her," she says, knowing it's futile. Sure enough, John pulls the blanket away, concern writ large in his eyes.
"You said she didn't hurt you," he says, his thoughts clearly sliding towards the 'where did I leave my gun or has Sherlock moved it on me again?' end of the spectrum.
"She didn't," Sarah replies finally. "She hit on me at the surgery and then kissed me in the Men's Department of M&S, but that's it."
The two men look at each other, exchanging significant glances.
"Oh don't even," Sarah interrupts before either of them can reply. "It wasn't like that. She wanted to needle Sherlock."
She can't believe that Sherlock manages to keep a straight face as he answers, "Consider me needled." It is somehow less surprising that when she shoves him off the bed, he takes half the covers with him. Both John and she have to gang up on him to get them back.
What ensues is a lengthy and vicious battle that none of them win, precisely. But then again, neither do any of them lose.
- END -
( Number four in the series: City Sirens, Violins )
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.