Chapter Text
John tugged the collar of his jacket and reached for 221b’s doorknocker. He rapped twice and waited, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps, and tried not to let the skip of his pulse distract him. This was just dinner. Nothing more, nothing less. No need to be nervous, no need for the trickle of sweat that rolled down his nape despite the chill in the air. John shook his head and clasped his hands together behind his back, straightened his spine and shoulders. Christ, he’d been to dinner with loads of people—John had been only half joking when he’d told Sherlock he had a tendency to ‘make friends’. Of course, none of those friends had been an arrogant, irritating, bloody gorgeous wanker that made John simultaneously want to throttle said wanker and kiss him senseless.
Kissing. Oh God.
Kissing Sherlock.
John shut his eyes and let the strange mix of dread and desire wash through him. He imagined kissing Sherlock would be like…like flame-licked heels and scorched lungs.
Kissing Sherlock would be bloody brilliant.
“Dear, are you all right?”
John jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's landlady stood in the doorway, a kindly smile accompanying the open curiosity in her eyes.
“Ah, yes. Sorry. Distracted.” John searched his addled brain for the woman's name. “Mrs. Hudson?”
She clapped her hands together. “You remember. And you're Sherlock's young man—John, isn't it? The fireman.” Mrs. Hudson sounded oddly proud.
“Umm.” John thought about correcting her assumption that he was Sherlock's “young man” but decided it really wasn't worth the explanation. Instead, he held out his hand. “John Watson,” he said.
She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it warmly. “So pleased to finally meet you properly, dear. We haven't had a chance to chat what with the mishaps the last few times.” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Our Sherlock is a gem, but he does have a tendency to kick up a row. Why, I thought for certain last night he might finally manage to burn the whole place to the ground.”
John scratched the back of his neck. “Yes, he does live a rather exciting life. I suppose that can't make your life very easy.”
“No, it doesn't.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “But he's a good boy, our Sherlock. Just a bit...”
“A bit?” John asked.
Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted John's arm. “Temperamental. And too curious for his own good.”
“It is impossible to be too curious, Mrs. Hudson,” said a familiar voice from behind John.
John felt warmth and pressure at the small of his back. He spun away from the front door to find Sherlock standing behind him on the bottom step, his expression amused. John blinked and gave his best effort to ignoring the heat from Sherlock’s gloved hand. “Sherlock.”
“Good evening, John.”
Sherlock's thumb stroked softly along John’s spine, and he felt it even through layers of shirt, jumper, and jacket. He wanted to lean back into that steady press, but he shifted and looked at Mrs. Hudson, who watched them with laughing eyes and a fond smile.
Mrs. Hudson patted John's shoulder. “Very nice meeting you, John.” She gave a jaunty wave and moved to close the door. “Have a lovely evening, boys.”
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock caught the door. “Would you be so kind as to deposit this upstairs for me?” He reached behind him and lifted a small, shockingly pink carry-on onto the step. “Just put it in the sitting room.”
Mrs. Hudson’s expression was curious, but she said only, “All right, dear,” picked up the suitcase, and carted it inside.
When Mrs. Hudson shut the door, John looked at Sherlock questioningly. “Wouldn’t have thought pink was your color.”
“It’s not,” Sherlock answered shortly.
“Not going to explain, then?”
Sherlock cocked his head, considering. “Perhaps later. At present, it’s irrelevant.”
“Right.” John shook his head.
Sherlock gave John a long, searching look. “What are you thinking, John?”
John swallowed. “You mean you can’t tell by way I’ve buttoned my shirt or something? You’re slipping, Sherlock.”
“Hmmm.” Sherlock moved closer, and John backed into the door. “I’d rather you tell me.”
John looked up at Sherlock, let his eyes roam over the chiseled, deceptively angelic face until his gaze came to rest on Sherlock’s ridiculously lush mouth. Really, how could a man have lips like that? “Hungry,” John croaked. He cleared his throat. “I’m starving. Shall we?” He slid past Sherlock and stepped down onto the street.
With a hint of a smile lurking, Sherlock slipped his hands in his pockets and stepped down next to John. “Italian?” he asked as he began walking.
John shoved his own hands in the pockets of his jacket and fell into step with Sherlock. “Italian's good.”
“There's a place called Angelo's about five minutes’ walk from here.”
"All right." John glanced at Sherlock, who stared ahead thoughtfully. John shifted but kept silent.
"I do wonder where your mind was," Sherlock finally said.
"What?"
Sherlock looked at John. "Took Mrs. Hudson three attempts to catch your attention."
John frowned. "How do you know that? Is it--" He gestured aimlessly. "Part of that thing you do? When you work things out about people by putting together all the little details you observe?"
Sherlock stopped suddenly. His gaze was sharp and bright, edged with a strange mixture of intrigued surprise and appreciation. "How did you know that's what I do?"
John shrugged. "When we first met, you said you help the Yard solve crimes by observing. Also, you're clever and quite keen. You're constantly looking, soaking up details. God, I can see it in your eyes even now. What it must be like in that brain of yours." He laughed softly. "Fantastic."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "Yes, well." He turned and resumed walking. "Actually," he said, smiling, "I was watching from across the street."
John pursed his lips to hide a grin. "You're a git."
Sherlock's smile broadened. "So you keep saying."
John leaned into Sherlock to avoid a passerby carrying an overlarge bag, and their arms brushed. "Well," John said, "I'll stop calling you a git when you stop being a git." John nodded, tilting a look a Sherlock. "So, never."
"Now, John," Sherlock said, sliding a gloved hand from his pocket and into the crook of John's arm and steering him forward. "If all goes according to plan this evening, the names you'll be calling me will be of a much more flattering—and intimate—nature."
“Is that supposed to be innuendo?” John asked, amused disbelief coloring his tone.
One imperious eyebrow raised, Sherlock glanced at John. “I thought it was perfectly straightforward.”
“So, what,” John said, “You think you're going to wine and dine me then talk me into bed?”
Sherlock's lips quirked. “Is that all it would take? Talking?” He slowed his pace and pressed against John's side. “Hmmm. I have noticed your...fascination with my voice, and I must say I've constructed quite a few interesting scenarios predicated on the rather intoxicating idea of—”
“Sherlock,” John cut in. He shook his head. The man talked like he swallowed a thesaurus and still sounded bloody sexy. “Shut up.”
Sherlock's expression was half amusement and half indignation. “Why?”
John stopped walking and tugged Sherlock to the side, from the path of pedestrian traffic. “Because if you don't, you're going to make me—”
“Make you what, John?” Sherlock's eyes flickered as he dipped his head toward John.
John snaked his tongue over his lips. “Kiss you in the middle of the street,” he said, voice low and darkly soft.
“You wouldn't.” Sherlock's tone was matter-of-fact, but John heard the questioning thread at its base.
John took his hands from his pockets and fisted the sides of Sherlock's coat. “Is that a challenge?”
Sherlock's eyes brightened, fell to gaze at John's lips. “It's a fact.”
“A fact,” John mused. He rubbed his thumbs along the rough wool beneath his palms. “Do you think so?”
Sherlock raised his gloved hands and grasped John's biceps, long fingers pressing into the muscles. “I know.”
“Well.” John moved forward, tightened his grip on Sherlock's coat, and pulled him down until their lips were barely pressed together. “Just goes to show you don't know everything.”
John shut his eyes and leaned in, felt Sherlock’s hot, shuddering exhale as their lips brushed before a sudden, sharp pain exploded from the back of John’s head. He stumbled and felt the scrape of brick against his scalp, and there was the press of Sherlock’s entire body against his, Sherlock’s breath at his ear murmuring, “Are you all right?” and then nothing but cold air where Sherlock’s warmth had been.
John opened his eyes to find Sherlock stalking up the sidewalk, eyes narrowed and searching. He paused for a moment, his penetrating gaze sweeping the street and the pedestrians, before he returned to John’s side.
“Someone shoved me.” Sherlock sounded both curious and offended. He caught the tip of a gloved finger between his teeth and tugged, removing his hand, then slid his hand into John’s hair to probe gently at John’s head. “You’re going to have quite a knot there, I’m afraid.”
John winced. “Yeah.” He reached up and captured Sherlock’s hand, brought it down and curled their fingers together. He laughed. “You know, I figured the first time I kissed you I’d see stars, but that wasn’t exactly how I imagined it.”
Sherlock’s huff sounded surprised and amused. “Going for the obvious joke, John? That’s beneath you.” He tightened his grip on John’s hand, and the corners of his lips ticked up slightly.
“Yeah, well, I’m an obvious sort of guy.” John laughed again. “And I’m also starving, so let’s get to—Angelo’s, was it?—before I sustain any further injuries.” He began walking, and Sherlock followed, still clasping John’s hand.
After a few minutes, Sherlock tugged John inside a small, quaintly decorated Italian restaurant, where Sherlock greeted the host—whose name was Billy, John noted—as if they were old friends and followed Billy to a table next to the front window. When Billy left, a tall, bearded man, whom Sherlock introduced as Angelo, swept over and slapped his large, meaty hand on Sherlock’s back before handing over menus. Angelo’s gravelly voice was warm and effusive as he explained to John how Sherlock had cleared his name a few years back, though Sherlock interrupted to clarify a few of the details.
“Whatever you want, Sherlock, on the house,” Angelo said, grinning. “For you and your date.” He glanced around. “And I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”
As Angelo ambled away, John shucked his jacked and settled back in the booth, twiddling the menu open without looking at its contents. “So,” he said, keeping his tone light, “bring a lot of dates here, do you?”
After removing his gloves and scarf, Sherlock shrugged his coat from his shoulders and folded it on the seat between them. “Don’t have many dates, actually,” he answered as he picked up his own menu and thumbed through it.
“Really? No boyfriends, then? Or girlfriends?”
Sherlock gave John a scornful look. “Girlfriends, no. Not really my area.”
“Oh, right.” John nodded. “Boyfriends?”
Sherlock raised his menu, seemingly studying it, before he answered, “I consider myself married to my work.”
John leaned forward “So, what’s this, then, hmm?”
“What about you, John?” Sherlock closed the menu and dropped it on the table. “How often do you find yourself on dates with men you've rescued from the jaws of death? Or do you prefer to rescue women?”
John sat back and put his own menu on the table. “I consider myself an equal-opportunity rescuer, Sherlock.”
Just then, Angelo reappeared, brandishing the promised candle. He set it down and grinned. “I’ll send someone over to get your order. Remember, anything you want.”
John stared into the tiny flickering flame as Sherlock waited for Angelo to move out of earshot. When Sherlock cleared his throat, John glanced up to find Sherlock watching him, those cold, calculating eyes measuring and weighing.
“And you get a lot of these opportunities, I imagine? You tend to make friends?” Sherlock asked, tone only slightly mocking.
John straightened the cuffs of his shirt and thought about how to answer the question diplomatically. “Well,” he said, “A fair few. And, yes, I do tend to make friends. I think I mentioned that last night.”
Sherlock nodded. “Indeed.” He tilted his head, considering. “You’re a serial dater, John. At least, you were before you were deployed to Afghanistan but not since you returned.”
“And you know that how?”
Sherlock leaned in and braced his elbows on the table. “You have an easy affability about you—open, friendly—but you’re also calm and steady, trustworthy. Such trustworthiness is useful in your line of work, which, of course, is both dangerous and exciting, something women—and men—would find thrilling and admirable. Not to mention your job indicates you care about people. And…ex-army.” He gestured vaguely and frowned. “So many people love all that Queen-and-country rubbish. Plus, you’re attractive without being intimidatingly so, and you have a natural confidence that’s a result of being comfortable with yourself, with who you are. All extremely desirable traits in a mate, which is why you, as you put it, ‘make friends’ easily. Simple to extrapolate you had no dearth of dates.”
John pursed his lips and drew in a deep breath. “That is…amazing. And, thank you, I think.” He folded his arms on the table. “But how do you know I haven’t dated much since I got back from Afghanistan?”
“You’ve been working overtime whenever you can, taking others’ rotations. I can tell by your eyes—tired, bloodshot from the smoke exposure. You show up to calls when you aren’t on shift. You’re an adrenaline junkie, John, and a workaholic; I told you the second time we met.” Sherlock steepled his hands and watched John for a moment. “Why now, though? Why take advantage of this opportunity?”
John swiped his tongue over his bottom lip. “You mean you don’t know? You can’t deduce it?”
“I want to hear you say it.” Sherlock’s voice was low and laced with challenge.
John stared at Sherlock, into those verdigris eyes that burned and seemed to bore into John’s mind. He opened his mouth to speak once, twice, before he licked his lips again and said, “What about you, Sherlock? If you’re married to your work, what are you doing here?”
“You know what I’m doing here, John.” Sherlock’s gaze slid away to focus on the front window.
“But I want to hear you say it,” John shot back.
Sherlock was quiet for so long, John wondered if he would ever get an answer to his last question. When the silence had stretched what must have been a full three minutes, John shifted in his seat. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock let his hands fall to the table, and he quirked an eyebrow. “What? Oh.”
“So,” John said and reclined against the back of the booth. “Where do we go from here?”
Sherlock leaned forward and put his hand on John’s shoulder, nodded at something out the window. “Across the street. Next to the postbox.”
John turned to look but saw only a scrawny man in a ragged hoodie leaning against the opening of a dark, narrow alleyway. When he turned back to Sherlock, he smirked. “That's a bit public, even for me.”
Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “No, the man who shoved me earlier—that’s him. He's still watching us.” He paused, eyes flashing, then he tilted his head and stared at John. “What do you mean even for you?”
John started to twist in his seat but Sherlock stopped him. “What man?” John asked. “‘Still’ watching us?”
Sherlock seized his coat and shoved his arms in the sleeves. “Someone's been tracking my movements for a few days. Quite poorly, too, I might add.” He slipped his scarf round his neck and tied it in a complicated knot. “I thought the firebomb would be the last of it. Get your jacket.”
John huffed. “Does this happen to you often? People following you? Spying on you? Trying to kill you?” He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on as he stood to follow Sherlock.
“Only in a good week. Come on!” Sherlock tugged John’s sleeve, leading him out the door and onto the mostly empty sidewalk.
John waited while Sherlock conducted a quick scan of the opposite street. The man near the postbox was gone, and John saw no trace of him in either direction, but Sherlock must have noticed something because he motioned for John to follow him across the intersection. As Sherlock pushed through the few people strolling along, John apologized in his wake.
“There.” Sherlock pointed ahead just as the man disappeared around the corner. He broke into a run, and John had no choice but trail after him.
It took only moments to catch up enough that they could keep the man in their sights despite the now heavy foot traffic. John ran full pelt after Sherlock as he picked up speed. John saw nothing but Sherlock’s back, coattails billowing dramatically behind him, and flashes of confused or annoyed faces, and the occasional building façade, as they rushed round the corner and down a deserted alley. Though John was unable to catch sight of the man they chased, Sherlock seemed capable of keeping a bead on him, and John followed blindly as Sherlock led him inside a door at the end of the alley and up a circular staircase onto the roof.
“What the hell?” John gasped, “Sherlock!”
“Come on, John, this way!” Sherlock dashed forward, and John watched as he leapt across the five or so feet to the roof of the next building.
John jogged to the roof’s edge and skidded to a halt. The distance between the rooftops wasn’t that far, but the ground was. He shook his head and jumped, landing with a bone-thudding jar, but had no time to collect himself as he saw Sherlock hurrying down the fire escape. John took off after him
John kept his eyes trained on Sherlock as they ran, John’s heavy exhales clouding the air as his breath rushed in and out and his blood thrummed, his pulse a rapid tattoo beating a rhythm he felt in his bones. A wave of euphoria washed through him, and he picked up the pace until he and Sherlock were running side by side.
Sherlock veered to the right into a darker, smaller alley, and John saw the man they were chasing just ahead. He watched as Sherlock reached out one long arm and caught the man’s hood, jerking him backward. Sherlock spun gracefully and slammed the man against the brick building, but John’s forward momentum had him stumbling and crashing into Sherlock, who caught John with one hand while still holding the man captive.
“Sorry, sorry,” John panted. He eased from Sherlock’s grasp and bent double, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
“All right?” Sherlock asked. The bastard was barely winded.
John waved a hand in what he meant to be an ‘I’m fine’ gesture, but he fell back against the opposite building and sucked down as much air as he could. He watched as Sherlock returned his attention to the man he still clasped by the collar.
“Who sent you?” Sherlock clutched the man’s hoodie even tighter, lifting him onto his toes.
“Oi!” the man choked out.
“Sherlock,” John said and pushed away from the building, “Sherlock, he can’t breathe.”
Sherlock loosened his grip. “What do you want from me?”
The man swallowed nervously, and John saw that he was just a kid, probably eighteen or nineteen. “I want in,” he said, voice full of false bravado.
Sherlock looked confused. “In? In where?”
“Wi-with you. Your organization.”
“My organiza—Oh.”
John stepped forward. “What’s he talking about, Sherlock?”
The man licked his lips. “I hear you pay for information.”
Sherlock looked at John. “I have a network, I suppose you could call it. People who gather…data for me. Homeless network.”
“Right.” John nodded slowly. “So, you scratch their backs—”
“And then I disinfect myself.” Sherlock turned back to the man. "I invest. In reliable sources."
“Um, right. I wanna be a source, then.”
Sherlock smirked. “And you think you'd be useful, do you? Knocking people over on the street? Lurking so obviously that they'd call the police within ten minutes?”
“I-I didn't mean to—”
The man tried to wrest himself from Sherlock’s grip, but Sherlock knocked him against the wall. Sherlock’s voice was low and deadly when he said, “My work isn't a child's game! It's dangerous. Do you understand?”
The man’s eyes widened but he straightened his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, I just wanted to make a little extra money, a'right?”
Sherlock finally let go and shoved the man backward. “Oh, for God's sake!”
“Hey! Watch it!” The man jumped and slid sideways when Sherlock lunged for him, but John blocked the man’s path. Recognizing he was trapped, he glanced down and picked at his sleeve. “So, are you gonna cut me in or not?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and swept the man with a critical gaze. “Cut you in? No. You'd be in jail—like your father, I see—within a week. And no use to me at all.”
“Oi, don't be talking shite about me dad!” The man sprang toward Sherlock, but Sherlock caught him by the throat, long, white fingers wrapping and pressing, clearly cutting off the man’s air. He sputtered and grabbed at Sherlock’s hand.
“That’s enough. That’s enough!” John stepped between Sherlock and the man and reached to pry Sherlock’s hand away. “He’s just a stupid kid, Sherlock. Let him go.”
“Hey, what are you lot doin’ down there?” a rough voice called from the mouth of the alley.
John looked over to see two uniformed policemen heading toward them. Sherlock caught John’s eye as he released the man, who faltered as he scurried to get away.
“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked.
John smiled. “Ready when you are.”
Once more, they were off into the night, running full tilt through the narrow passages between buildings. John drank in mouthfuls of air as he followed Sherlock, heart thumping and adrenaline coursing through his veins. They ran for what felt like ages, but John reckoned it was only a mile or so, until they reached the front door of 221 Baker Street.
Sherlock flung the door open, stripped off his coat and scarf, and hung them on the banister at the bottom of the stairs before collapsing against the faded wallpaper, breathing hard.
John leaned against the wall, as well, and said breathlessly, “That was ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”
Sherlock looked at John. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”
John smiled. “That wasn’t just me.” He felt his smile broaden to a grin, and then…then he was giggling.
Sherlock chuckled, and soon, they were both laughing—John bent over with his hands braced on his knees, Sherlock with one pale, delicate-looking hand over his stomach.
Still sniggering, John straightened and glanced at Sherlock, who was watching him with a wide grin. “So, this is what you do, then?”
Sherlock stopped laughing and nodded, quicksilver eyes never leaving John’s.
“Right.” John pushed off the wall and turned to Sherlock, crowding against him, slapping one palm on the wall at Sherlock’s shoulder and sliding the other into Sherlock’s dark curls, pulling him down until their faces were level, their lips only centimeters apart. “Dangerous,” John whispered and then captured Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock groaned and slipped his arms around John, caught John’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged until John opened his mouth for Sherlock’s questing tongue. John licked into Sherlock’s mouth, taking control of the kiss, pressing himself more firmly against Sherlock. John moved his hand from the wall to Sherlock’s hip and squeezed, maneuvered a leg between Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock surged against him.
Sherlock broke the kiss. “Fuck. John,” he bit out before seizing John’s lips again.
“Yes, God, yes,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s mouth. John felt desperate and dizzy and fucking wonderful, and he wanted nothing more than to devour this maddening man who looked like an angel and kissed like sin.
A shocked gasp from behind them was followed by a tearful, “Sherlock!”
Both John and Sherlock looked up, and John stepped back, but Sherlock kept hold of him. Mrs. Hudson stood in the foyer, a trembling hand over her mouth.
“Sherlock,” she said again. “What have you done?”
“Mrs. Hudson?” John could hear the concern in Sherlock’s tone.
Mrs. Hudson pointed to the second floor. “Upstairs.”
Sherlock looked at John, finally let him go, then turned to thunder upstairs. John followed silently, wondering just what the hell Sherlock had done now.