Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Watson didn't believe in love at first sight.

Attraction and lust, oh yes, but never actual love and he was absolutely right. However, while he'd never heard of love at first touch, he privately admitted that he was very much its victim. From the moment he'd handed his phone to Sherlock, John had belonged to him, Sherlock's conscience and cheerleading section.

The second he'd touched Sherlock's hand, John had understood that he was at the beginning of a significant relationship. Romantic, no matter how many times he said he wasn't gay, or how he felt and continued to feel about women. Sherlock was all consuming, a colossus that stood astride the world and for some reason had beckoned John to join him. John took trips away from London, time away from Sherlock in case he was forced to deal with what he might really want.

Actually thinking about it made John worry, because Sherlock was not the right sort of man to have those thoughts about. Sherlock was not looking for something more, or to initiate a friend's curiosity into the less straight side of life. They had a clearly defined relationship and John clung to it a little desperately, sometimes to protect himself but possibly to protect Sherlock too. Sex was disposable in the long run, John could find that anywhere, but someone he'd willingly trust was rare. Sherlock, mad as he was, fit the bill and John kept his libido firmly locked away.

Sometimes John was frightened that he wasn't the only one stealing glances and wanting more.

Sometimes lately, he was very much aware that there was something in the way Sherlock looked at him that didn't speak of casual indifference, or being married to his work. John had grown used to Sherlock touching him, the extraordinarily tactile detective had never recognised John's personal space and would often encroach when John wanted to sit down, when he wanted to work on his blog. Sherlock had always been there, close and watching and sometimes touching. John could handle that and live with it easily.

But there were other things John couldn't explain away at all.

Sherlock could never be bothered getting dressed unless he was prepared to go out or thought there might be someone attending who required the assurance of a well dressed detective. John had adapted the view of Sherlock in dressing gown and pajamas during the day into his concept of 'normal for Sherlock'. Sherlock wrapped in a sheet was a little more disturbing, but had happened more frequently over the past couple of months. Sherlock completely naked and reading the paper had only been the previous weekend. John had blinked rapidly, his brain refusing to come up with anything more than that it was cold, and far from not knowing where to look, John tried very hard to focus on Sherlock's ridiculously beautiful face.

Even then John could accept that his flatmate was an exhibitionist. He could accept naked and near naked and concentrate on football scores and treating Sherlock with patience and annoyance in equal measure. But Sherlock had started to sit closer when they actually used the sofa. He'd come into John's bedroom on several occasions, always to talk about one case or other, always semi dressed but sat on the edge of John's bed. He sat there while John was under the covers, sometimes naked, sometimes not, but vulnerable where Sherlock had woken him.

John could cope with trespasses on his personal space, with nudity and a complete lack of privacy. He'd lived with much of it before, though not from a single person. However, in the past six weeks he'd turned to find Sherlock close, his mouth slightly open, eye contact held and lingered over. John had started to suppress a shiver when Sherlock spoke from that distance, as though every last syllable spoke clearly to the base of his spine and his groin. He'd been kissing distance from Sherlock, been that close on three occasions in the last week and John was fighting having to address it.

Or one day, John was uncomfortably certain that he'd wake up and snog the man, strip him bare and work out exactly what sex with a man had going for it.

However, today was safe, the case itself something a bit mad and far from arousing. John couldn't remember all sorts of things from films he'd watched over the years, but he remembered the details of every fairytale he'd ever read, apparently packed into his memory, easily accessible whenever there was but a hint of something that began with 'once upon a time'.

He suspected that most people kept those childhood memories and the man they were searching for certainly did. The young woman in the hospital with pale skin and hair that mimicked Sherlock's own might not have blood red lips, but she had been poisoned. It was even possible that she might recover, but it would take more than a kiss to wake her up.

She wasn't alone, at least three cases had been reported so far, Sherlock pinning them together across the globe. One in Italy appeared to be first on the list, then Germany and now this young woman in London. They hadn't been in contact, hadn't come close to one another and had nothing in common but the circumstances of their hospital stay and certain physical similarities. But at some point they'd encountered the man who called himself Charming and they'd fallen asleep. The police had managed to get that far, but the toys and red apples that showed up within seven days of their arrival hadn't come from any well meaning relative or friends.

Sherlock had pieced that together too and the authorities were on the look out for anyone disguised as an orderly who could sneak in and look for her. According to the police it was now just a waiting game and they were certain they'd find him. However, Sherlock didn't like waiting, so John had spent an enterprising time looking online for a match to the toys that had been found and discovered they were cheap, mass produced and more likely to be found in an arcade or cheap knick knack shop. Sherlock determined that they would have been picked up locally and brought to the hospital the same day.

These are the reasons why John found himself looking for knock off Disney toys in Oxford Street for Sherlock to declare inadequate.

"These don't match."

"They're dwarves," said John and huffed. "I mean one dwarf toy looks the same as another." He held one up and waggled it, displaying the tag. "This one's name is Grouchy."

"It has a name," said Sherlock. "Our man likes names and he doesn't count that one."

"I don't see the difference," said John and dropped it into the bag again. "He's getting most things wrong."

"Indeed. It's the wicked step mother who poisons Snow White."

John raised an eyebrow. "I meant he's attacking young women. The fairytale bit sort of pales into insignificance after that."

"And yet it's what will convict him," said Sherlock and gestured to the arcade behind him. "I think we can discount him buying his little trophies."

"Sounds so sinister when you say it like that."

"He is sinister, as you so rightfully point out," said Sherlock. "We know what he does. And now that they've found an antidote for the poison those women will be waking up. You know what that means."

"Yeah, it'll mean I don't have to dick about buying soft toys," said John and sighed as Sherlock shook his head. "What? They'll catch him when those women give the police a description."

"You really think someone clever enough to have done this three times in three different countries is about to leave that to chance?" Sherlock put his hand on John's back and guided him toward the arcade. "No, he'll change his M.O., he'll start afresh and we'll lose this chance to catch up with him. We need to pick up on him now, before he knows that they've identified the poison and those women wake up."

"And this means we have to go into the arcade?" asked John as his feet covered the pavement. "Look, much as I know you hate to admit it, the police do have most of this in hand."

"But they'll never find out the why, John," said Sherlock. "They don't care about why right now. They care about catching him and stopping him."

"And that isn't a concern for you?"

"I'll beat him," said Sherlock and John figured that was very much that. It answered all questions the way it always did. Sherlock had to win no matter the odds and John was very much there to ensure that he didn't break his neck, (or anyone else's) while he was doing it.

The arcade was dark when they walked inside and John blinked as he readjusted. No clocks on the walls, and since the place was filled with kids of all ages and sizes, he couldn't help but think of it as a mini casino for the under eighteens. One of the kids barged past him and he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm.

"Steady there," Sherlock said and glanced round. "What kind of machine gives you toys?"

"I don't know," said John. "Haven't been in one of these since I was small."

"Smaller," said Sherlock and John rolled his eyes and pulled away. He pointed over to the crane.

"There, that one. Although no-one ever wins a prize."

"No one?"

"I've never won one," said John and huffed as Sherlock smirked. "Oh don't tell me, you cleared one out once."

"Not cleared," said Sherlock as he walked over. "They did ask me to leave."

"How old were you?"

"Should have been in school," said Sherlock and John laughed. "Have you brought change?"

"No," said John. "Didn't realise I'd be picking up penny sweets and paying for you to play."

"It's not playing."

"It bloody is."

"It's going to catch our man," said Sherlock loudly and John glanced round, aware that some of the teenagers close by had started to giggle. He didn't really fancy making a scene here, but there was clearly no getting Sherlock out of this mood until John was laden down with stuffed toys. He wondered if he could explain that there was method in Sherlock's madness, but quickly dismissed the idea. No point clarifying anything with people who didn't care and didn't matter to either of them.

"I thought we were here to catch him picking up toys," said John.

"Yes, and we need a believable reason to be here."

"Believable?"

"You're repeating yourself again," said Sherlock. "Or there's an echo in here."

"It's disbelief," said John. "I mean, think for a second. Why are you in here trying to win..." he paused and looked in the glass box. "A panda. I mean, why are you trying to win a panda? What are you going to do with it, stuff it on the mantelpiece?"

"I wouldn't?"

"No," said John firmly as he fished in his pocket to locate a few coins. "You wouldn't. You stand out like a sore thumb with your...you know, just you."

"Right," said Sherlock and lowered his voice. "So what's a good reason for winning a panda?"

"I don't know," said John. "For a kid or, um, for your girlfriend."

"I don't have either."

"Yeah, and that's why it's weird."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John and leaned in closer, his hand on John's arm. "I do have you."

"If this is another crack at the short thing, I'll knock your block off."

Sherlock slid his hand down over John's coat and caught his hand. John watched, temporary apart from himself as Sherlock lifted John's hand and turned it over. He pressed his lips against John's palm and John instinctively curled his hand against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock smiled, his cheek curving up as John blinked, his body dangerously alive and his brain slowing down to replay a moment that he still appeared to be in.

"John," drawled Sherlock. "May I win you a panda?"

John pulled his hand back slowly and cleared his throat to stop the squeaky note that wanted to come out. "Sounds worryingly wrong."

"You stuttered."

"I really did not," said John and felt his voice returning to something close to normal. He curled his hand in against his palm, felt the kiss that he could swear he'd imagined. Perhaps he did, because really, this was not something a man carrying a bag full of cheaply made toys should have to deal with. John stood at ease and looked back at Sherlock. "It's not going to work here."

Sherlock huffs. "Then what will work? I don't have a girlfriend or a child or you apparently."

"No, you've always got me. I'm just saying that I don't look the sort of bloke who wants a panda."

"It is quite a big panda."

"Sherlock," said John in his calmest voice. His hand tingled, he could swear he knew the shape of Sherlock's lips anywhere, but they are now imprinted on his palm, painted in saliva and warmth from the detective's mouth. "Look at me. Really, look at me. I don't keep stuffed toys. I don't want stuffed toys and I really don't want a bloody panda."

Sherlock glanced back. "Polar bear?"

"No!"

"Well, pick something!"

"Why don't we try something else," said John and folded his arms, the bag at his feet as he glanced round. No one seemed to be paying either of them the slightest attention and yet John felt more exposed than he had before. "There's a slot machine, gives you an ideal view of the desk. If you want to be inconspicuous, you're dressed wrong."

"Our man will be dressed wrong."

"Right now, you look like our man," said John and set his hand on Sherlock's cuff. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" asked Sherlock and John tugged him through into the bathroom and checked the cubicles.

"Get that off."

"My coat?" asked Sherlock. "It's cold outside."

"Not inside, though."

"Yes, but it's my coat," said Sherlock. "John, I didn't come here to be in disguise. If I'd wanted to do that-"

"You would have what?" asked John. "Kissed my hand? Pretended I was your boyfriend?"

"People assume that anyway."

"Yes, but you don't have to feed them things like that."

"Like what?"

John holds his hand up high. "Like this!"

"It's your hand."

"It's my hand with your lips on it."

"Not now."

"Not now, obviously," said John and curled his hand in again. "But it was."

Sherlock stared at him before he stepped back and put his hand on the door. "Acting, John. You said I needed someone to win a toy for."

"I know," said John and pushed past him back into the arcade. "Just don't do that."

"It's a ruse."

"It's annoying," said John and huffed as he looked round. "Uh, Sherlock?"

"I don't see why it's annoying," said Sherlock. "You knew what I was doing and why. Your attitude now seems an overreaction. And in here. No one you know is here, so you can't be concerned with what people might say. Unless you're worried about what I might say."

John growled. "Sherlock, there's a bloke turning in tickets at the booth," he said quietly.

"What? Where?" asked Sherlock and turned as the man with the stash of tickets glanced over at them. Sherlock grinned and stepped forward as John grabbed his arm. "What are you doing? We've got him."

"We don't know it's him."

"Oh it's him," said Sherlock and didn't lose the grin. "He's been everywhere, looking for something precious to bring his versions of Snow White. Honestly, it must have started as a whim and now it's an obsession, just to prove he's clever."

"Yeah, we know how annoying that can be," said John and licked over his lip as Sherlock moved to pull free again. "He's poisoned people and you just want to walk over there?"

"He'll leave," said Sherlock and looked back at John. "The police won't catch him."

"They're really thorough."

"They'll miss him. He revels in getting past them and if you don't let me go, he'll be lost. He'll go undercover and they won't find him."

"Sherlock," said John. "He's dangerous."

"So are you," said Sherlock and John stared as his friend grinned. "Come on."

John took a quick breath and nodded quickly, his feet already moving toward their man as Sherlock pulled free. The man turned as they closed the gap and moved to run, but Sherlock was deliciously fast when he wanted to be and it really didn't seem to be a case of if, but when he was run down by the pair of them. John certainly relished the opportunity to land a few punches and afterward, as the police turned up and took over, John turned his hand over to check his bloodied knuckles.

Sherlock headed back, his bottom lip split at the edge and a flash of high colour on his cheek. His hands were pushed deep into his pockets as he walked over and sat next to John.

"So, they're taking him in for questioning."

"Guess he won't be dropping off gifts to Snow White," said John and flexed his hand. "Have we got ice at home?"

"Yes, but it's packed round that case of eyeballs I picked up," said Sherlock. "I suppose we could get some more."

"Yeah, I think so," said John and turned to look at Sherlock. "Did a bit of a number on you."

"It's superficial," said Sherlock as John lifted his hand to touch. "Really, you think prodding it will help?"

"Might help me," said John. "So."

"Yes?"

John glanced round and looked back at Sherlock. "I think maybe we need to sort out, you know, what happened before?"

"Well obviously you should have ducked."

"I meant earlier," said John and cleared his throat as Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Or not. You know what, let's just get out of here and go home."

"Fine," said Sherlock and stood up. "Dinner?"

"Sounds like a plan," said John and glanced up as the first rain drops fell. He pulled his collar up and stood next to Sherlock on the curb. "He was pretty easy to find, when you think about it."

"Hmm?"

"That guy," said John. "You'd think someone who'd pulled all this off would be a little harder to bring down. Sore knuckles aside, he went down like a lead weight."

"Yes," murmured Sherlock and opened the taxi door when it pulled up. "He did."

"I mean, it was almost as though he didn't try to hide. You'd think he had practice."

"Yes, you would," said Sherlock and sat down as John climbed in and gave the driver the address of the Chinese restaurant. Sherlock drew his phone out of his pocket and typed out a quick text to Lestrade. "I think you're right."

"Really?" said John. "That'll be a first, then."

"Hardly a first," said Sherlock and looked back at John. "That man we caught poisoned the woman in the hospital."

"Right."

"I don't think he's responsible for the others."

"What?" John shook his head. "He's some kind of copycat?"

"I think he's one of several," said Sherlock and frowned. "And I think we need to catch the first train to Calais."

"You mean you think there's more of them?" asked John. "And why Calais?"

"Because we need to get to Paris," said Sherlock. "There's going to be another one."

"And why Paris?"

"A hunch," said Sherlock and took a slow breath. "I think we're going to take a weekend break."

"Wonderful," said John. "To maybe catch up with someone who might be a part of a group? Sherlock, we got him. It's a good day."

"It's too simple," snapped Sherlock as his phone sounded a text alert.

"I like simple."

Sherlock looked at the message from Lestrade and looked back at John. "And our man hasn't been out of the country in the last three years. Book tickets and a room, John."

"Fine," huffed John and leaned back. "We're still having dinner."

"Anything you like," said Sherlock and grinned broadly. "We'll need to set off tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll fix it." John sighed as he leant against the window. "I was looking forward to a lie in."

"You can sleep on the train."

"You're so generous," said John and winced as he caught his hand on the door. "Bloody thing!"

He shook his hand out and was caught by surprise as Sherlock took hold of it. John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock lifted John's hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of John's knuckles. It wasn't quite a kiss, at least John's brain couldn't quite process it as a kiss, but he could feel the slight suction, the pressure of Sherlock's mouth and the brief but deliberate brush of his tongue. John licked over his bottom lip as Sherlock let go of his hand again and looked back at his friend.

"Sherlock?"

"Tickets," said Sherlock and turned back to his phone, a wry smile etched across his face. "We can sort it out over dinner."

John nodded absently, his hand still wet from Sherlock's touch. He looked at Sherlock, but the man was focussed on his phone, apparently fine switching between making John melt and dealing with the case at hand. So that discussion really wasn't about to happen, even if his dick was making his jeans uncomfortable. Even if John was thinking far too hard about those same lips wrapped round him, about feeling Sherlock's tongue sweep up the underside of John's dick as he sat in the taxi and watched him.

"Problem, John?"

John swallowed hard and sat up straight in the taxi. "Just thinking about dinner," he said. "I want more than half the prawn crackers this time."

Sherlock smirked and John tried to breathe out. One more day without having that conversation.

He could handle this. He'd been in a war. He could certainly handle having a tiny, little crush on Sherlock Holmes.

John just worried it was mutual.

Chapter Text

John felt like a tourist holding a map of Paris, even though he was entirely aware he would be lost without it.

He flicked through the pages until he found where they were, identifying the hotel and the road as people milled around him, talking loudly and in various languages. Some he recognise, some he didn't and with the exception of some of the architecture, he felt more at home than he expected. Alone, slightly abandoned and sure that there was some madman on the loose, but in relatively familiar surroundings.

He'd only ever passed through Paris before, just brief glimpses in the middle of the night when he was on the way to somewhere else. He'd made a mental note to see it, but had never got round to doing so. Romantic weekends with the women he knew tended to be closer to home, given his limited budget. Travelling with Sherlock opened more doors than he really knew about. Sherlock had actually organised himself, booking travel and accommodation on his phone before John could do anything about it. It felt a bit odd, although as soon as they'd reached the hotel, Sherlock had left immediately, one hand gripping John's shoulder briefly before he headed out into the city.

John had smiled at the receptionist and lugged the bags up the stairs. The hotel seemed reasonable, though out of the budget that John would have considered. He suspected Sherlock had picked it based on location, as he could see the edge of the Louvre from his bedroom window. Just one line of wall, but he was assured it was the Louvre by the staff who set fresh towels on the beds and smiled at him charmingly as she left. In Sherlock's absence he claimed the bed nearest the window, packed away his few clothes and set out to find somewhere to get a drink and a quick flick through the map to get his bearings.

Half his overpriced coffee was gone by the time Sherlock finally sat down opposite him at the table. John licked over his bottom lip and gestured to the cup.

"If you want one, you'll have to sell an organ."

"Bit pricey?"

"Well, you haven't solved anyone's problem here," said John and took a quick sip. He grinned at Sherlock over the top of his cup. "Yet."

"It's still early," asked Sherlock. "Have you been here all this time?"

"No, I was back in the bedroom and I've bagsied the window bed, by the way. And then I came down here to work out where the hell everything is. I suppose you've worked out where he is already?"

"Not yet," said Sherlock. "You were supposed to be ingratiating yourself with some of the young ladies who work in the café in the centre of the Louvre."

"And you told me that when?"

"Earlier."

"When, earlier?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked back at John. It may have been his imagination, but John thought Sherlock looked ever so slightly contrite. "When I got on the Metro," he said and frowned. "You weren't there."

"No," said John. "I was carrying your bags up to the room. We're on the third floor. Nice place but they're keen for us to eat in their restaurant and keep pushing for us to buy tickets. My 'je ne comprends pas' keeps coming in handy."

Sherlock curled his fingers briefly and gestured toward the Louvre. "Well, I need you to take photos of those women for me."

"What? Why?"

"Because I need to see if they're suitable."

"For what?"

"For him," said Sherlock. "Each woman has been picked up from a museum or a gallery and frankly if I were about to abduct a young woman, this would be my preference."

John stared at him over the coffee and shook his head. "Nothing about that sentence is okay, you know that?"

"What? I was just saying…"

"Yes, I know what you were saying. What I'm saying is that it's disturbing, and still doesn't mean I'm going to take pictures of young women just in case they happen to have dark hair and pale skin. I'm not planning on getting arrested for being a pervert."

"You might not be."

"I'd feel like a pervert," said John and finished his coffee. "And why the café? It could be a tourist he's looking for."

Sherlock shook his head. "I explained on the train earlier. This isn't a random abduction. He's planned this. He's gone over his plan, day in, day out, working out the kinks and flaws and he will be aware that his companion in London has been apprehended. He won't make the same mistake as our London friend."

John frowned. "Is that why you left the scene as soon as you could? So he wouldn't be looking out for us?"

"No. Why? Do you think I should?" asked Sherlock and nodded slowly. "Idiot. Okay, so do you think anyone paid attention to what happened?"

"A few teenagers," said John. "I think you're safe. They don't tend to recognise you without the hat."

"I'm not wearing the hat."

"Then you're fine," said John. "And I was asleep on the train, like you told me too. I don't listen in my sleep. You want me to pay attention, tell me when I'm awake. And looking at you and listening."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned forward at the table, his gloved hand brushing John's own. "John, those girls are working there now and some time today or tomorrow our man will walk in there, charm them and whip them away from everything they know. He'll poison them, more than likely with something new and she won't be a girl who works in a café, she'll be the French version of Snow White."

"That's not going to happen."

"No," said Sherlock. "Because you're going to find out which of them fits the profile."

John sighed heavily. "You know, we could just go to the police."

"Even if they did believe us, which is doubtful, London has already caught their man. No, they won't believe he's here until he takes her."

John nodded. "Okay, so we find her and what? Warn her?"

"And how would we catch him then?"

John stared. "Bait? You're going to use her as bait?"

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and tapped his phone against the table. "It's not bait."

"It's bait," said John. "You're not going to tell them and if you're not as good as you think you are."

"I am."

"If you're not," said John. "One of those girls is going to be caught and taken-"

"John, it's not going to happen," said Sherlock and stood up. "Because we're going to go over there."

"Fine."

John left a few Euros at the table before he followed Sherlock to the building in question. He nudged him as they approached the entrance. "So how come the one in the centre?"

"Because it's the most public," said Sherlock as he walked inside. "He's a show off."

"Ah, public then," said John and nodded to the elegant brunette who tossed a look in his direction. She offered a very brief smile before it dropped away abruptly and John turned to look at Sherlock. No man really needed to walk that close, but Sherlock's arm brushed against John's and as they turned, John felt his hip brush against Sherlock's own. The man appeared to have little concept of personal space, especially where John was concerned. Technically it was just fabric rubbing against fabric, but John could remember clearly how it felt to have your knuckles kissed by Sherlock.

His dick appeared to have a very fond memory of it.

However, though John could remember it he didn't think he was about to address that at all. It's not like he could pause Sherlock's investigation and ask him if he meant anything by pressing his mouth against John's hand. It's not as though John expected Sherlock to look at him as anything other than his flatmate. Sherlock would claim he'd taken the obvious path and John would have to deal with it. Sherlock seemed to do anything he deemed essential and in some of John's wilder dreams, he'd been taken roughly up against their kitchen table with the claim that it was vital for their investigation.

"Are you all right?" asked Sherlock as John huffed.

"Fine."

"She wasn't interested in dinner," said Sherlock.

"Hmm? Who?"

"She's a prostitute."

"In the Louvre?"

"Yes, it's not unheard of," said Sherlock. "Your shoes made her walk away."

"She was not a prostitute," said John. "And it wasn't my shoes."

"No, it was because you were walking a little too close to your colleague," said Sherlock and rolled his eyes. "Obviously it was your latent homosexuality that disturbed a woman clearly only interested in your value as a client and not the fact that your shoes, though meticulously polished, need replacing despite being resoled twice."

John glanced down at his feet and pressed forward. "You really are a tit sometimes."

"Why? Because I told you the truth?"

"It's still guesswork."

Sherlock shook his head. "After all this time, you still doubt me. It's always deduction."

"It bloody isn't," said John. "You guess. You take shots in the dark and the rest of the time it's deduction. And just occasionally you fuck up."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do," said John with a smile.

"Not about her," said Sherlock.

John sighed. "No, I suppose not."

"Because she really was out of your league, John."

"Yeah, all right, you can shut up any time now."

Sherlock nudged him as they headed toward the café. "I mean, if it's a case of money…"

"I can get my own dates, thanks," said John and sighed. "Of course, they always have to contend with you. You're like having a dog round all the time."

"I'm like a what?"

"A big dog," said John. "Malamute or something. Very clever, demanding and gets between you and having sex."

He shook his head as he walked forward. He'd managed ten steps before he realised that Sherlock wasn't next to him and John turned to look round, sure that the man would have headed off to find something terrible and no doubt essential to the investigation. John raised his eyebrows when he saw that Sherlock had not moved, that he was exactly where he was one declaration of dog-hood ago. He seemed to remain entirely still, a statue fitting for this place, carved out of marble and imagination. He could have been any age and of any age.

John thought he was magnificent and kept his mouth closed.

He retrod his steps back to Sherlock. "I didn't mean a literal dog."

"Yes," said Sherlock and shook his head. "I know that."

"It's just…you know, attractive woman and all. Couldn't just have fancied me a bit. Had to be something else."

"People do find you attractive," said Sherlock. "Even you must know that."

"I've been around a bit," said John. "Quite a bit, actually. Never had a you getting in the way before."

"You think I'm in the way."

"Sometimes literally," said John. "You remember Catherine?"

"Catherine?"

John chuckled. "All those bloody tobacco types and you can't remember any of my girlfriends. The one with the nose?"

"Oh," said Sherlock. "That one. So?"

"So, I was very quietly trying to get my leg over and you were out. Or I thought you were out and suddenly you're outside my door, talking about how you could tell the victim had been tortured given the decomposition of his oesophagus."

Sherlock frowned. "That was months ago."

"Yeah and I didn't get laid," said John. "Funny how rotting kills the mood."

"Extremely," said Sherlock. "Is that the only occasion?"

"Look, it's fine," said John. "It's just sometimes I remember I used to be a sex god and I miss it."

"A sex god?"

John grinned and pushed his hands into his pockets. "A bit, yeah."

"I see," said Sherlock and nodded slowly. "In that case, would you like me to leave you alone with the café? You can work your magic."

John shook his head. "Not one of them over twenty five," he said. "I prefer going out with someone who remembers the Wombles."

"Now there's a breed who observed closely," said Sherlock and John grinned. "What?"

"Did you base your personality on Wellington?" he asked. "Because it would explain a lot."

"I preferred Tobermory," said Sherlock and the edge of his mouth curved slightly. "I'm sorry about your sex life."

"It's fine," said John. "Seriously, I've learned to live with it."

"I could go and find that woman for you."

"No, that'd just be a bit too weird," said John and flexed his hand in his pocket. "Besides, she's not my type."

"I would have thought she was exactly your type."

"I date all kinds of women."

"All of them strong, determined and moderately intelligent," said Sherlock. "You admire strength."

"Maybe," said John. "You profiling me?"

"Oh please," said Sherlock and glanced round briefly before he stood closer to John. "You haven't been seeing anyone recently."

"No, it's all gone a bit dry," said John and tilted his head up. "It'll pick up."

"Maybe you should look elsewhere," said Sherlock and John smiled. "You could define what you're looking for."

"What, like a lonely hearts?"

"You could make a plan," said Sherlock and John patted his shoulder lightly and turned toward the café. "I thought you liked plans."

"I'm happier thinking on my feet," said John. "Besides, I like what we do."

"Really?"

John paused and looked back at Sherlock. "Of course," he said. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

John had long surmised that Sherlock's face was a work of art. He didn't always like it and often thought it was something of a Pollock, but sometimes, when he smiled, John thought Sherlock was actually beautiful. It wasn't a thought he'd had about anyone else, the women in his life had been very pretty but never quite tipped over into beautiful. He'd read once that suffering left its mark, that you could never be truly beautiful until you'd suffered and wondered what had happened in Sherlock's life if that was true.

Standing in the courtyard, Sherlock practically glowed and John suspected that there were several people watching, unable to help themselves. Sherlock might very well hide himself away when it pleased him to turn chameleon, but when he was concentrating on something else, he was very much on show. Almost vulnerable.

"Anyway," said John. "We solve the case, take a day or so to enjoy the city and go home."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "We could certainly do that."

"Nice little break," said John and turned his collar up against the cold. "Just the two of us."

Sherlock nodded and reached out as John moved to walk away. John turned again, his expression easy, the contact familiar. He looked up at Sherlock and couldn't quite place the look in the detective's eyes. It was focused, determined, clearly something Sherlock's switch was clicked to 'on'. All John in that moment and John grinned wide before he reached up, hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, to deliver a kiss he had no intention of giving at all.

It was a touch clumsy, for all it felt meant to be. John was a little dizzy from actually doing something about what he wanted and couldn't quite stop the smile. He felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder and didn't move easily, one hand still shoved deeply into his pocket as his mouth moved firmly against Sherlock's own. In all his imaginings, he'd pictured Sherlock with a hidden, erotic and multilayered past. John hadn't considered what was now glaringly obvious, that Sherlock's experience of kissing was minimal at best, that perhaps his experience of contact, of anything like this was remote and far from anything John could picture.

Yet still it felt oddly sweet and hot. John closed his eyes, ignoring everything around him as he felt Sherlock's lips against his own. John offered up his tongue, stroked his hand over Sherlock's cheek to slow and steady him. He touched the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's lip and slid it inside as Sherlock opened his mouth a little wider. Sherlock tasted of nothing other than the vague mint of his toothpaste, used hours before, but he sucked slowly on John's tongue, an experiment in itself that John recognised. John sighed, deepened the kiss and freed his hand from his pocket and gripped Sherlock's upper arm.

He hadn't planned to kiss Sherlock ever, and yet he intended to do it properly. He squeezed Sherlock's arm before he drew back, teasing butterfly kisses as he pulled away and opened his eyes. Sherlock had clearly never closed his own and looked a touch puzzled, still very much focused on John as he stood still. John stroked Sherlock's cheek with his thumb and absently patted the line of his jaw.

"So we best get to that café," said John and stepped back. "Before one of them gets nabbed."

"Yes," said Sherlock and huffed out a breath that misted briefly in the Autumn air. He kept pace with John as he walked and bent down a little closer. "John."

"So she'll be pale?"

"And dark haired," said Sherlock. "John."

"And have red lips."

"Well, it'll be lipstick, yes," said Sherlock. "John."

"Be a regular Snow White," said John and glanced up. "Sherlock, yes, I kissed you back there."

"I'm aware of that," said Sherlock. "Why?"

"Felt like it," said John and felt the colour burn briefly in his cheeks. "Can we talk about this after we save the girl?"

"If you want to," said Sherlock and pushed his hands into his pockets. "I just want to know why."

"Why then, why you, or why kissing instead of the usual punch your face seems to beg?"

"All of those," said Sherlock and shrugged. "Although I assume that somewhere in there is a layer of mutual attraction that you were acting on."

John smirked as he pushed open the door to the cafe. "Mutual?"

"You were kissed back."

"So I was," said John and stood back to let Sherlock inside. "Mutual it is, then."

"Fine," said Sherlock. "Tonight over dinner. You'll explain."

"Fine," said John and gestured to the young woman who quite obviously met all criteria. "If we catch this guy, you owe me a beer."

He headed inside, certain that the day would be saved, that the predator would be caught or at least dissuaded and that Sherlock would have at least five theories on why John had kissed him. While he hadn't intended to at all, John didn't regret a damn thing. Kissing Sherlock was the smartest thing he could have done and John, smart ass that he was, had done it properly. So he'd talk about it later if he had to. He'd address that much.

And at some point John would have to address whether he was the only one who wanted to do it again.

Chapter Text

The noise from the street was enough to wake the dead.

John's bed was under the window, a prime spot for a view and a poor spot to attempt peaceful sleep. His limbs ached from running all afternoon and he knew he had a blister formed under the ball of his left foot. However, a man with a taste of brunettes with alabaster skin and a propensity for red lipstick slept in the cells and John felt it was a fair trade. His back ached at the base of his spine where he'd leaped and pinned the man down, elbow pressed against the back of the villain's neck as the authorities closed in. John had glanced up and enjoyed the satisfied expression on Sherlock's face as he whisked out his phone and made the call. They grinned at one another, shared the moment and John felt relieved when he could hand over their man to the police.

The girl was a definite issue though, pretty and young and carefully made up. She'd kissed them both when she realised what had happened. Sherlock's cheek bore the red imprint of her kiss and John's fist curled tight even though he knew he bore a similar mark on his own. He flexed his fingers several times as they entered the restaurant when he caught sight of their reflections and decided he needed to act on it. John whisked Sherlock into the bathroom and wet his handkerchief to wipe Sherlock's cheek clean. Sherlock had tolerated it well, frown evident as he watched John and only casually inquired if John disliked imperfections.

"I'm fine with broken things," said John and cleaned the lipstick from his own cheek. "You just don't need this."

Sherlock had smiled, pressed his thumb to the absent kiss on John's cheek before he swept back into the restaurant. They'd eaten well, Sherlock's appetite restored, if only because France had provided him the opportunity to prove a point and show off. The food was good, the company easy and pleasant and neither had mentioned the kiss they'd shared in the Louvre. It lingered, evident beneath every taste of succulent sauce and indulgent dessert. John was certain they weren't ignoring it, but he couldn't think of a way to start, to explain what it was he wanted, not when they were celebrating a victory that was just one part of a far bigger operation.

So they'd said nothing about it, Sherlock had smoked briefly on the balcony and they headed to bed, plans already made to leave in the morning for Barcelona in pursuit of the next man on the list. He needed a good night's sleep, but it didn't seem to be happening and John lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling, the crack between the curtains painting lines of blue on the white plaster. They'd saved a woman today, had removed one more villain from his passion and succeeded. No matter how he looked at it, it was a win for them both.

He'd be happy with just that, if hadn't indulged in Sherlock, admitted to his want and kissed the man without regret. John three-fucking-continents Watson had kissed Sherlock Holmes, acknowledged the man's desire and said nothing about it when he had the opportunity. Sleep was not happening and John licked over his lip as he rested his hands above the bedsheets and tried to work out if he'd failed. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, his tongued touched to his lip as he remembered being kissed back, each clumsy gesture welcome and a revelation in itself. He clearly didn't know everything about Sherlock Holmes and John wondered what else he'd got wrong.

"Am I keeping you awake?"

John turned his head. Sherlock lay on his side in the opposite bed, head pillowed on his hand and his gaze firmly fixed on John. The light from the window painted his features blue, leaving his eyes in shadow and his mouth in sharp focus. John smiled at him and shook his head.

"Well, it's not your snoring."

"I'm not asleep."

"Doesn't always stop you snoring."

Sherlock smiled and John was very much aware that he wanted another kiss. He'd belonged to Sherlock for months, had been his friend and companion and caretaker. Had loved him since the start.

When John had loved before, he'd imagined it was equitable, though the reality had always been that John had loved less, had felt security in loving less than the girlfriend of the moment. He'd loved just enough to make them love him back, to forgive him for not quite being everything he should have been. He was kind, generous and often forgetful, birthdays and anniversaries lost until eventually flowers weren't enough and John regained his bachelor status.

Here he knew he was cared about, though he doubted Sherlock would deem it anything more than sentiment and convenience. Sherlock liked him, talked to him and wanted him around. John had become a constant, something and someone Sherlock relied on and for the first time in his adult life John was aware he cared more than the object of his affection. It sat awkwardly with him and he wanted to sulk about it. John considered himself an excellent boyfriend and a good friend and no matter how far from usual Sherlock was, John wanted to be wanted, it was as simple as that. Their attraction might be mutual, but John thought Sherlock might not care if it happened again and John didn't like that at all.

He cleared his throat. "So much for a short break."

"We're closing in on them," said Sherlock and John rolled his eyes. "What would you do with time off? I doubt you'll enjoy local television."

"We could look round," said John. "Take in the sights."

"Is that what you want to do?"

John huffed and sat up in bed, one hand out to push the curtains back. Moonlight streamed in and he scrubbed a hand back through his hair and swung his legs round to the side of the bed.

"I kissed you today."

"Yes."

"And you kissed me back."

"Yes."

"And I said we'd talk about it."

"Yes."

"But we didn't."

"Yes, John, would you like to do so now?"

John half smiled and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he looked at Sherlock lying in bed. He looked ridiculously tempting, flushed, rumpled and ever so slightly vulnerable. John, who had never kissed a man before today, wanted to touch a man who didn't appear to have kissed anyone before and he wasn't sure if there was any safe way to handle this.

"Sherlock," he began and stopped abruptly, sure that anything he said would come out in a girlish whine. He walked over to Sherlock's bed and dropped to his knees, one hand out to stroke his hand over Sherlock's cheek as John leaned in to kiss him. There was a hint of stubble in his kiss and John closed his eyes, indulged himself and tasted Sherlock's mouth in the moonlight and almost groaned when he was kissed back. Sherlock flicked his tongue against John's own, touching and stroking as he sucked lightly at John's mouth, every technique a reflection of the kiss they'd shared hours before.

John tilted his head as Sherlock stroked his hair, long fingers pushing back the rough short strands that felt extraordinarily sensitive and tingled beneath Sherlock's touch. John growled, his dick feeling like liquid lead as he moved forward and licked at Sherlock's mouth. He slid his hand from Sherlock's neck to his bare shoulder, the bone rubbed beneath John's thumb as he held tight and kissed his explanation away and as he drew back, John wanted this to be the start of something, not the end of a friendship.

"I kissed you because I needed to," he said and Sherlock nodded and sat up, his bare feet exposed beneath the sheet that fell over the edge of the bed. He inclined his head toward the space next to him and John sat close, his hand gripped the mattress space between them. John rested his free arm across his lap, obscuring the rise of his shorts where his dick remained eager and interested. "Are you okay with that?"

"Of course," said Sherlock. "I did kiss you back."

"Yeah, I spotted that."

"Then your question's redundant," said Sherlock. He set his hand on the edge of the mattress next to John and stared at the city beyond the window. "John, have you ever known me to do something I didn't want to."

"I saw you be nice to Anderson."

"Not nice."

"Polite."

"Grudgingly," said Sherlock. "Once. And for a favour. A very big favour."

"This isn't a favour," said John. "God knows what this is, but it's not bribery." He paused and turned to look at Sherlock. "It's not, is it? I mean, I'd be with you anyway. Sex isn't mandatory."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that," said Sherlock. "I'm far from helpless."

"I just don't want you to feel obliged."

"Believe it or not, I am aware you can take care of your sexual urges without ravishing me." Sherlock huffed. "I know I don't have to shag you just to keep you as a flatmate."

"Oh," said John. "Good."

"Yes, exactly," said Sherlock. "Obliged! Honestly, John."

John grinned. "I just…you know, we're mates. We've always been mates."

"I don't have mates."

"Yeah, you do," said John and blinked as he felt Sherlock's little finger brush against his own. "And it's not just me. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. Even Molly."

"They're people I know."

"You care about them," said John quietly. "You have friends."

"Oh do shut up," said Sherlock and John grinned.

"You're going to have to deal with it."

"I don't have to do anything," said Sherlock and sighed. "Before you came, it was simpler."

"Better?"

Sherlock paused and turned to look at John. "Simpler," he said. "Without this fluffy silliness."

John considered and leaned in to press his lips to Sherlock's own. "Fluffy or silly?"

"Interesting." said Sherlock and licked his bottom lip. "Distracting."

"Ah, I'm that am I?" John smiled as he leaned back. "Sherlock, I can deal with you not wanting to do any of this."

"Can you?"

"Haven't tried yet, but I've been turned down before, I can learn to live with it."

"How gallant of you," said Sherlock. "I don't want you to deal with it."

"Being turned down?"

"John," said Sherlock and ran the tip of his little finger over the back of John's knuckles. "I haven't done this."

"Ah," said John. "Kissing."

"Another person," said Sherlock. "I haven't done this."

John nodded and looked back at the window. "None of it? Not…never touched anyone?"

Sherlock straightened his back but John turned his hand over and settled Sherlock's palm against his own. "It wasn't necessary."

"Necessity isn't usually the reason."

"It's a distraction, John. People lose their minds over the needs of the body."

"Sometimes," said John. "Nothing wrong with that."

"There's everything wrong with that," said Sherlock. "People get distracted from real things, John. They don't see what matters."

"People matter," said John. "You matter."

"Of course I do, I'm brilliant," said Sherlock and John lifted Sherlock's hand and kissed the back of it.

"I mean you matter to me, you nutter," said John and Sherlock turned to look at him. "And if this isn't what you want then we should stop it now and I will find a way to deal with it."

Sherlock nodded and lowered his voice and repeated himself. "I don't want you to deal with it."

"Right," said John. "Good."

"It is distracting, though," said Sherlock. "Today, when you tackled Sauvage, he was armed and you knew that."

"He didn't get to use it," said John. "We deal with armed bastards every day."

"Every day before this one you hadn't kissed me."

"Oh," said John. "So it's a romantic attraction that's the issue?"

"Is that what you're calling this?" asked Sherlock. "Romance?""It's Paris. We have moonlight and we're in bed together."

"Sitting on the edge of the bed together."

"Holding hands and we've snogged. Twice. It's pretty romantic."

"Spare me," said Sherlock and swallowed hard. "John, I don't do romance."

"So it's just a good shag you're looking for," said John. "Well, I do do romance. And I've blown it pretty much every time before now. I've slept with more women than I should have done. I've kissed more than that."

"Is this your resumé?"

"It's what I've done," said John. "I've never fancied a bloke before. Never kissed one. Never been to bed with one. So I suppose on that score we're the same."

"We're really not the same."

"Just meant experience-wise," said John. "You've never slept with a man and neither have I. If it makes you feel any better."

"I don't know how inexperience is supposed to make me feel better," said Sherlock. "I know the dynamics. I know academically how it works. Experience would be more helpful."

"Well, I'm not going out to shag some other bloke just so you can have a heads up," said John. "I don't fancy men in general. Never have. It's always been girls."

Sherlock turned to look at John. "Are you implying I have a feminine quality?"

"God no," grinned John. 'No, you're nothing like anyone else I've ever met."

Sherlock frowned. "I assure you, John. My mind may be unique but physically-"

"Physically you're bloody hot," said John. "I didn't see it, not immediately. I mean you were so busy being brilliant at me that I couldn't quite work out why I was distracted. I thought it was because your brain was so fascinating. And you were - are - an arse. But I look at you and I'm," he shrugged. "I fancy you and you're beautiful to me. And that's kind of it."

"Oh," said Sherlock and cleared his throat. "Physically attracted?"

"Sherlock, I'm sitting here hard," said John and moved his arm briefly, revealing the pull against his pants. "We're just sitting here talking about whether I want you or not and my dick's refusing to give me any bloody dignity."

Sherlock glanced down and smirked as he looked back at John's face. "It's not the first time."

"Thanks."

"Does it help if I say I'm flattered?"

"Oh God," groaned John and let go of Sherlock's hand. "I can't be friend-zoned by you of all people."

Sherlock turned and pressed John back against the bed. His hands gripped John's shoulders, rumpling his tshirt as he leaned over him, his hip pressed to John's own as he bent down and kissed him. John kept his eyes open as Sherlock's tongue brushed over his lip, pressed into his mouth and tasted him. He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, as he turned his head, fitting his lips to John's as he took his time. John lifted his hands and settled them against Sherlock's back, his skin bare above the pyjamas he was wearing. His skin was smooth, unmarked and John ran his fingertips up and over Sherlock's spine until the man leaned down and closed the gap between them. John groaned at the answering weight of Sherlock's erection as it pressed to his belly and the knowledge that he wasn't alone.

He hadn't been alone since that first touch.

Sherlock lifted his head, his mouth still wet from his kiss. "Clearer now?"

"A bit," said John. "You've been keeping that quiet."

"I have needs."

"Yes, but they're usually to do with keeping unmentionable things in the fridge."

"Physical needs," said Sherlock. "I'm not inhuman, even if sometimes-"

"-you pretend to be," said John and licked his lip. "Ever chatted anyone up?"

"Yes, lots of times."

"As you," said John. "Not just to get something from someone."

"Isn't this just to get something?"

"I really never pictured you having your wicked way with me." He chuckled. "Okay, that's a bit surreal."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Me having sex is surreal?"

"No," said John. "You trying to get me into bed is just…I've thought about taking you to bed but there weren't words."

"I talk all the time."

"Even in bed?"

"I wouldn't know," said Sherlock. "I'm talking now."

John lifted his hand and pushed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. "So you are," he murmured and leaned up. "Sherlock Holmes talks in bed."

"And John Watson babbles," said Sherlock.

"Hey!"

"And makes interesting noises," said Sherlock as he licked his lip. "John, I would like this to continue."

"Yeah, I'm there," said John and Sherlock shook his head. "Now. I'm here now. And I'm up for this."

"For what exactly?" asked Sherlock. "Lovers?"

"Sounds good," said John. "Sounds really good to me, though like I said, I'm kind of starting from scratch with this."

"Because I don't come equipped with breasts and a vagina."

"There is that," said John and moved quickly, easing Sherlock onto his back as John shifted them both further onto the bed. John braced himself on his elbow, one leg thrown easily across Sherlock's own as he slid his hand down over the scant hair on Sherlock's chest. His finger brushed over Sherlock's nipple, felt it rise as John leaned in to kiss the pulse at Sherlock's throat. John's hand slid down to the elastic of the detective's pyjamas and slipped beneath. He felt the flutter in Sherlock's belly as his fingers brushed and then reached for the heavy weight of Sherlock's penis. He grinned as Sherlock let out a quick gasp and John pressed his mouth to the man's ear. "I'm more familiar with this, though."

"Any penis or just mine?"

"Mine, actually," said John and wrapped his fingers comfortably round the turgid length. He could feel the heat beneath his fingertips and the velvet skin that covered it, slid over the flow of blood and offered the promise of satisfaction. "Bit different, touching someone else."

"Different how?"

"I can't feel how it makes you feel," said John and stroked his hand up. He rubbed the flesh that rolled back to reveal the shiny skin at the head, soft and smooth beneath the pad of his thumb. Sherlock caught his breath and John grinned as he leaned in and kissed Sherlock's mouth. "Maybe we're not that different."

Sherlock seemed to catch hold of himself and lifted his hand to John's cheek. "You're very different to me."

"Not here."

"You have freckles beneath your pubic hair, your testicles are larger, particularly the left one and your penis is-"

John kissed him hard enough that the words were lost between their mouths. He lifted his head as he increased the pressure round Sherlock's dick, his fingers sliding over the skin slowly as Sherlock seemed to struggle to find a balance between what they were doing and what his brain demanded. John used his knuckles to work the elastic down a little way and freed Sherlock's erection entirely. He turned his head to look, to confirm that when you can make love to the object of your affection, you don't pretend in the slightest that it's anything else.

He smiled and worked his fingers a little faster, just to feel Sherlock catch his breath and shiver at being very much in the palm of John's hand. John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's neck and licked, tasted him as Sherlock finally lost control and spilled over John's hand and belly. John watched, his eyes focused on the silky, slick spurts that covered his skin and Sherlock's own, evidence that under that bloody coat Sherlock Holmes was every inch the man John had fallen in love with the first time they touched and promised an intimacy he hadn't known before.

John grinned as he reached for tissues beside the bed and wiped Sherlock's skin clean, his fingers trailing through tissue over the man's flesh. Sherlock's eyes opened as John dropped next to him on the bed and he turned.

"Are you staying here?"

"Thought it was the idea," said John and kissed him. "Sleeping together. Lovers, like you said."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "John, I haven't slept with anyone and it's a small bed."

"Then we'll sleep close," said John and reached for the covers. He wrapped himself round Sherlock as the man turned to his side. "I'll be the big spoon."

"The what?" asked Sherlock and John grinned against the back of his neck.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I've never been to Barcelona."

"Should be an experience," said Sherlock as he slowly pressed back against John. "Snow White may be harder to find."

"Just need to find someone who looks like you and watch," said John and kissed the soft skin at the back of Sherlock's neck. "He'll come out of the woodwork."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "It'll be warmer there."

"Then we'll sweat."

"It sounds promising," said Sherlock. "John?"

"Yes."

"It was good."

John sighed and closed his eyes. "Good. Now sleep. It's a long bloody way to Barcelona."

Chapter Text

John was only conscious of the sweat dripping down his back because he was running out of clean shirts.

He leaned over the balcony rail, tumbler of whiskey in his hand as he took in the view. They'd managed to secure a room that overlooked the beach, a regular tourist trap that John hadn't enjoyed in years. His journeys abroad had previously required a full pack and the necessity to be armed. He missed his gun, sure that some of this would be easier if he'd been able to aim it at the concierge, let alone the men they'd been tracking down. Still, though they'd been unable to immediately locate Prince Charming, John quite liked playing tourist, content to check out the junk shops and bars while Sherlock sweated and grumbled his way through local knowledge to pick up the trail of their man.

John had agreed to spend the day looking for breadcrumbs and as each faint trail seemed to stall, turned his mind to what else could be achieved in a city he'd never been to before. He'd passed unnoticed through the city streets and bought souvenirs to take home to Mrs Hudson. There was a certain freedom here he hadn't practiced at home. No one knew them, no-one was likely to turn up at the door and offer Sherlock a dead body to investigate. All of which left John time to think of distractions and how to woo a man who didn't do romance at all.

Perhaps a dead body would be a good idea.

A change of clothes would be a step in the right direction if they planned to go out in the evening. Sherlock had refused to allow the heat of the day distract him from the mission at hand and as such, had been a filthy, sweaty creature unwilling to consider shorts or tshirt. John had ignored Sherlock's act of ignoring and abandoned all his usual attired for something more climate appropriate. Even so, his shirt clung to his back and he wondered where he could get enough ice to lie in. Sherlock had huffed on his return, entered the shower as John got himself a drink and considered the pleasure of Barcelona with a date.

"Are you ever coming out?"

"Bathroom or closet?"

"Bathroom," said John and grinned as he looked out over the rail. "No taking credit for having done the latter."

He turned his head slightly as a waft of steam exited the bathroom door, obscuring long limbs as Sherlock stepped into the bedroom. Twin beds, even here, though John had hesitated when asked what kind of room he wanted. While John had lascivious plans for a king sized bed, he liked the quiet intimacy the queen had offered him in Paris. He'd enjoyed sleeping with a man clearly unaccustomed to sleeping with anyone and the small gestures Sherlock had made were more touching for it. John wanted to sleep, sticky and sweat slicked with a man who stretched out in the night before curling, foetal like and vulnerable into his arms. The bed here promised much and John smiled when the steam started to clear and Sherlock dumped the towel on the floor.

"Not your maid."

"Then don't pick it up," said Sherlock. "It's your idea to go to dinner."

"Yes, because unlike you I like to eat regularly," said John. "Come on, it'll be cooler, we can have something to eat and you can tell me what you found today."

"Nothing," said Sherlock and huffed as he flipped open his suitcase. "Not a sign."

"Maybe he's not here."

"He's here," said Sherlock. "He has to be."

"Because you said so."

"Because the evidence on Sauvage's computer said so," said Sherlock. "Friends in every city Charming's hit including this one. There's no victim on file here and yet…" he paused, licked his lip and turned back to John. "He has to be here."

"Could be on holiday."

Sherlock stared at him. "He's a killer, John."

"And killers don't take holidays?"

Sherlock shook his head, water spattering everywhere from each damp curl. John leaned his hip on the rail as he watched Sherlock paw through his remaining clothes. The swing of his soft penis was pleasingly hypnotic as Sherlock deemed each item unsatisfactory and tossed his clothes to one side. John tilted his head to watch when Sherlock held up a shirt and let out a grunt of annoyance.

"You know, I'm fine with you naked, but that's definitely going to draw attention in public."

Sherlock looked up at him as he pulled the shirt on. "I'd be fine staying naked here."

"Food first."

"Before what?"

John licked his bottom lip and set the tumbler on the side. He walked over, his bare feet covering the surface as Sherlock stood, shirt on but unfastened, a tempestuous would be god with flesh made firm out of necessity. Sherlock made sure he was fit enough to handle anything and everything thrown at him, his body a vessel made to serve a purpose and until now, abstract from pleasure. Now the gates had been thrown open and John noted the jump Sherlock's penis gave as he stepped closer.

He smiled as he stood, kissing distance away from Sherlock and dropped down to his knees easily. John stretched a hand out to Sherlock's belly, his fingertips registering the sharp breath the man took as John touched him. John kept his eyes on Sherlock's skin, the fine and unnervingly delicate stretch of pale flesh that pulled tight between hip and torso, the feathery spread of dark hair that spanned down from his belly and thickened at his groin. He inhaled deeply, musk and sweat in the intimate room they shared as John focused on the full length of Sherlock's penis. His hand stayed against Sherlock's belly as John watched, enjoying the sight as it thickened, a swaying length that grew harder as it rose and as the slicked head brushed against his jaw, John turned his head, his breath ghosting over the tip. Sherlock groaned and John looked up, his hand drawn back from Sherlock's skin.

"Anything you want," said John. "But I'm eating first."

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock as John got back to his feet and grinned at him. "You're not…seriously?"

"Seriously," said John. "Get dressed. I want my dinner."

"You're leaving me like this," said Sherlock as John located his whiskey and took a drink. "You can't-"

"I really can," said John and sat down in the shade of the balcony. He swirled the glass in his fingers and listened to the melting ice cubes clink against the glass. "It's called teasing. You do it yourself."

"Not like this!"

"Oh you do," said John. "All that business with the scarf."

"I'm not wearing a scarf!"

"You're not wearing much of anything," said John as Sherlock seemed to reach some kind of decision. "Which is sort of my point."

"Your point being that you'd rather have food than sex?"

John raised his eyebrows. "I didn't say that."

Sherlock grinned as he covered the ground between them. "It's a test."

"It's dinner."

"No," said Sherlock and reached down for John's glass. He took a drink and set it one side before he straddled John's thighs and sat down. "You don't care about dinner."

"I like my food."

"You like me more," said Sherlock and bent down, his mouth soft against John's ear. "You want me more."

John licked his lip and slid his hand beneath Sherlock's shirt, touching hip and thigh. "Might do."

"Oh, there's no question," said Sherlock and leaned up, his fingers peeling John's shirt from his torso. He dropped the crumpled material to the floor and bent his head to kiss John's mouth. John closed his eyes briefly, exploring the sensation of being kissed, of being desired by a man who wanted to desire nothing at all. Sherlock's kisses were greedy, his lips and tongue wet and warm as he licked at John's mouth. John could feel the slicked head of Sherlock's erection rub against his bare belly and wrapped his arms round Sherlock's back.

John slid his hands over the bare flesh at the base of Sherlock's spine, memorising each ridge before he slid lower still, his palms registering the firm muscle of his arse. He squeezed, fingers pressed hard enough to threaten bruising and felt the answering throb of Sherlock's erection against his belly. John's shorts felt too hot, too heavy and too much material between them and he wriggled in his chair. He groaned as Sherlock's fingers tugged at his belt, at the zip to unfasten them. He arched up as Sherlock pushed his shorts down to his ankles, the cushion sliding from under his arse as John almost slipped from the chair.

"No broken necks, John."

"Oh shush," said John. "You're heavier than you look."

"And you're more aroused than you pretended to be," said Sherlock and glanced down between them. "John, what do we do about this."

"I thought you had academic knowledge."

"Of course," said Sherlock and frowned before he leaned in and kissed John's neck, his words muffled.

"What was that?"

Sherlock sighed against John's skin. "I don't know what to do first."

"Ah," said John. "Touching's good."

"What kind of touching?"

"Any kind."

"Not any kind. Be specific."

John dropped his head back and laughed before he reached for Sherlock's fingers and brought them down along his body to where his cock pushed up against his belly button. He could feel where he moved against Sherlock, felt the throb of Sherlock's cock against his own and it was hard to think, let alone take the lead somewhere they both so desperately wanted to get to. He pressed Sherlock's fingers around both of them, felt the contact and the slow rub, not quite slippery enough to make this easy, but hot and a touch sticky as Sherlock squeezed round them. John rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock, felt the liquid there and stroked it over Sherlock's own.

"Specific enough?"

"Not bad," said Sherlock and moved his fingers quicker, the contact close and growing slippery with sweat. "I thought you said it would be cooler."

"You care about that now?"

"Inaccuracies," said Sherlock and John groaned as he felt the pressure in his balls build up. He wanted more, needed more than this awkward angle on the chair and he gripped the edge of the chair tight and pushed hard. He got to his feet and felt Sherlock wrap his thighs round John's own, holding tight to his shoulder as John attempted the ten steps it would take to get to the nearest bed. His back ached under the weight of them both and he slipped, one foot removed from his shorts and the other tangled. Hardly the most elegant way he'd landed on top of someone he wanted, but Sherlock laughed when they crashed to the floor and his hands gripped John's shoulders tight.

"You should just say when you want to move. Save us both from broken limbs."

"Man of action, remember," said John and groaned as he moved his leg. "My bloody knee!"

"You'll be fine," said Sherlock and spread a hand out over the tile. "Cooler down here, anyway."

"Well, trust you to see the bright side."

"It's very bright," said Sherlock and reached for the covers on the nearest bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving your knees," said Sherlock and pulled the covers to the floor as John moved back and looked down at his lover. Sherlock pulled his shirt off and nodded toward John's naked body. "I knew you were holding back."

"On what?"

"On showing off," said Sherlock.

John shook his head. "Not a show off."

"No, but you should be," said Sherlock as he licked his lip and moved quickly to press himself close to John. John was aware of the way Sherlock spread his knees wider to increase the contact, torso to torso and yet even here Sherlock was taller. His cock was close to Sherlock's own, rubbing slightly as John rocked his hips and wanted more. The frustration he'd felt over the past months was at a high, the possibility of satisfaction here and in this room and he needed a new word for want. John was almost certain it had tripped over into need.

"Should, why?"

"If you're looking for flattery…"

"Oh God no," said John. "Honesty'll do fine."

Sherlock slid his hand down over John's back, fingertips brushing against the sensitive patch above John's arse. "Your body tells stories you've never told me."

"If this is about the bullet, you knew that."

"Not that," said Sherlock and kissed John slowly, his mouth hot against John's own, tasting faintly of whiskey. John kissed him back, sucked on his tongue when it was offered and rubbed up, cock to cock in the middle of the bedroom. "What you've done, where you've been. It's all here."

"Everywhere?" asked John and glanced down between them. "Pretty sure there's only one story my cock's telling you."

"It's suggestive," said Sherlock and slid his fingers down further, the crease of John's arse touched and caressed as he kissed John again. John caught his breath as Sherlock touched that tight entrance he'd never explored in company before. He drew back from Sherlock's kiss to look at him.

"That's not suggestive."

"Not on offer?"

"I don't know," said John. "Haven't thought about it."

"Really?"

"Not you doing that to me."

"Ah, but you doing that to me," said Sherlock. "You've thought about fucking me."

"Well, yeah," said John.

"But not me fucking you?"

"Little bit." John cleared his throat. "Can you stop doing that while we're talking about this?"

"You don't like being touched here?"

"I haven't decided," said John. "Can I think about it?"

"Certainly."

John nodded. "Can I think about it when you're not doing it?"

"How will you know if you like it if I'm not doing it?"

"Because," said John as he felt the giggles threaten again. "I can't seem to think about anything when you're touching my arse like that."

"Like that?" asked Sherlock and shifted forward, his cock pushed up against John's own as he slid his finger forward a little. "Or like that?"

"Oh God," murmured John and shook his head. "Okay, can't think!"

"Man of action," murmured Sherlock and grinned as he kissed John again. John pulled his hand back and pushed Sherlock back against the covers. Sherlock laughed, the sound echoing round the tiles as John climbed on top of him and reached for his hand again. "So sensitive, John. Tut, tut."

"Very fucking sensitive," said John and glanced round before he caught sight of the lotion next to the bed. He reached out and grabbed it, the top lost somewhere between the bed and the two of them. John's hand was slick with it as he reached for Sherlock again and growled at the way he could slide, could keep hold of both of them at this angle and John rolled his hips forward. "Oh fuck," he moaned.

"If you like," murmured Sherlock and spread his legs wider on the covers as John slid his fist round their cocks and moved forward. Every last inch of John's body felt alert, wired into the heat between them and he kept his forearm on the ground next to Sherlock's head as he rolled his hips, gripped Sherlock tight and fucked himself into the palm of his hand. He could feel Sherlock moving beneath him, could feel the way he arched up, pushed his cock further into John's fingers, sliding along his palm. John could feel his balls tighten, brush against Sherlock's own as they moved and every other second there was a delicious moment where his foreskin slid back, pushed against Sherlock's own. John ached to come, to feel Sherlock come and know he'd brought his flatmate to a point where his mind mattered only because it had brought them here.

John could feel Sherlock's hand on his skin, on his back. He was conscious of every bit of contact, of the way Sherlock touched him and slid down to squeeze his arse again. John caught his breath when he felt the intrusion, hotter this time because Sherlock's hand was slicker. One little touch, one little rub and John bucked hard, his hips rocking forward as he almost lost his grip. His fingers scrambled for purchase and as Sherlock pushed a little deeper, John arched his back and came. His hand squeezed tighter and for a few seconds he was in the void, caught in a place where the universe existed only in what he felt and nothing more.

He heard Sherlock gasp, felt the distant jump and splash and his belly and groin was slick with semen. His hand cramped and John groaned as he found his brain again and caught sight of Sherlock, still separated from his own. Sherlock's mouth was open, his eyes closed and his neck stretched as he came against John's palm. No one had ever looked finer to him, more vulnerable or seemed to have come with John Watson's name stamped somewhere on him that only John could see.

John ran his fingertips over Sherlock's bottom lip and leaned down to kiss him, his tongue touched to Sherlock's own when the man came back to himself. Sherlock's eyes opened and he smiled, a lazy angel on a crumpled purple coverlet and to John he was just as brilliant as he'd been the first day. John reached for the towel Sherlock abandoned earlier and swiped it over the pair of them before he dropped to his back and yawned.

"We need food."

"I'm good."

"I need food," said John and turned to look at Sherlock as the man sprawled next to him. "We could go out."

"Good sex says we stay in," said Sherlock. "Oh, unless we could go down to the harbour, scout out our man?"

"The only man I'm interested in right now is you," said John and yawned again. "Okay, we stay in, we order in. I need food, drink and maybe a bucket of ice."

"Oh now, ice could be interesting," said Sherlock. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"You seem to be enjoying yourself."

"See, I knew you were a genius. Worked that out from me yawning, the food or me coming on you?"

"I mean enjoying yourself with me," said Sherlock and rolled to his side. "Not working."

"I usually do," said John. "I mean, aside from when someone's trying to kill me."

"You enjoy that bit."

"Maybe I do," said John. "Oh and I like it when there aren't dead body parts in the room."

"Slightly off putting?"

"Yeah. Like you didn't know."

"Experimentation is an essential part of acquiring knowledge," said Sherlock. "Your annoyance is not only pointless but often betrays the progress of humanity."

"Those knee caps were rotting."

"Exactly, you destroyed a perfectly good record of decomposition in ideal circumstances."

John giggled. "Is this your version of pillow talk?"

"This is me talking. I can grab the pillow if you'd like or we can just…"

John raised an eyebrow as Sherlock leaned toward him and stroked his hip. His fingertips brushed John's still tingling cock and John groaned. "Wishful thinking," he said and smiled. "Food first. Get some energy back." He paused as Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. "Fuel. I need fuel."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh fine," he said and sat up. "John, do you think there's a chance Charming hasn't yet selected a victim."

"Might be," said John and reached for the phone. "Best put some trousers on if we're going to have company."

Sherlock nodded absently. "He could be looking now."

"He could," said John. "You fancy snacking or something more substantial?"

"Whatever you want," said Sherlock and sat up, his hand still on John's thigh as he stared out into the darkening sky. "He must have someone in mind."

"So we'll get him," said John and placed the order. "You'll figure it out."

"But I don't know where he is," said Sherlock. "We tried the museum. We tried every one of the haunts he should have been in and there was no one there he would have chosen."

"It's the weather," said John. "There's no-one with your complexion here. Or if there is they're wearing factor 50."

"But no one?" asked Sherlock as John replaced the phone and reached for him. "John, he has to be here."

"We'll get him," said John and licked over his bottom lip as he settled his hand on Sherlock's jaw. "Said they'd be twenty minutes. Any plans to fill those?"

Sherlock paused and leaned in to kiss John back. "We could talk about the case."

"Sure," said John and stroked his cheek. "Talk away."

Sherlock opened his mouth and was swiftly tackled back to the floor by John, who claimed he was fascinating, interesting and busy being clever when he could be rolling round naked with John Watson. Sherlock was bright and even geniuses only needed a few seconds of persuasion before they caught on. John was still grinning when they heard the knock on the door. The dressing gown was fluffy, white and nearly swamped him as he headed to the bathroom to wash himself down, leaving Sherlock handle it. He turned his face up into the spray as he heard the bedroom door open and wondered what it would be like to take Sherlock out on a romantic date. Maybe they could drop by a morgue on the way to the restaurant, business as usual.

John wrapped himself up in the robe as he walked back through and scrubbed a hand over his hair, making it stick up haphazardly as he took in the full table.

"Now that's what I call room service," he said and glanced round. "Sherlock?"

If John only stopped thinking of food when he saw the open door, it wasn't exactly his fault. A Sherlock-less room was hardly what he'd expected to come back to, and as he reached quickly for his clothes, John played back everything he could remember Sherlock saying. Alone in Barcelona, Sherlock missing and this city's version of Charming with his victim, John really wished he had the gun. It'd taken him months to accept what he and Sherlock were and he had no intention of losing that at all.

John stepped out in the night and focused. The plan was very simple - he'd come back with Sherlock or not at all.

Chapter Text

Knights in shining armour sometimes wore it on the inside, especially when shorts and tshirts were more practical attire.

John Watson, knight-errant, might have been stripped of his gun and the comfort of home territory, but he was far from unarmed. Barcelona had provided him with a mote of happiness, a quiet evening with the one person he actually loved, but had almost immediately stripped him of the same. Sherlock had been taken quickly and quietly, scarcely disturbing the room they'd shared. His phone sat beside John's own, scratching the screen in his pocket as John made quick decisions on where his boyfriend had been taken. He wasn't and never would be a detective on the level of Sherlock Holmes, but he was smart, observant of details Sherlock always missed and very much goal oriented.

In this case, ensuring Charming didn't do anything to Snow White.

Barcelona offered many paths, all of which looked similar to John, none of which he planned to take. He was well aware that Sherlock had tried museums and galleries, none of which had given him any details on the potential victim, because Sherlock had failed to look at himself. John sometimes thought he knew Sherlock better than the man knew himself and hoped it was especially true now. Sherlock's life might actually count on it and he pushed all the soft and squishy feelings deep inside, his focus keen and grabbed the soldier inside, never too far from the surface, as he tried to work out where the bastard had taken Sherlock.

Sherlock, the man who should be doing the detecting here, was gone and that didn't do for John at all. Flatmate, boyfriend, lover, whatever he was, he should be here with John and John bit down heavily on his panic and buried it deep. Sherlock first, flap later.

The concierge wasn't much help, having seen nothing more than a tall man draped over the shoulder of another. John had listened and established that Sherlock wasn't fully dressed, flailed drunkenly and therefore hadn't gone willingly. He moved quickly, feet light on the pavement as he ran through the possibilities. Charming hadn't taken Sherlock to tease, although it would have been far easier if he had. John clearly wasn't a factor in this, just a spare part Charming had chosen to ignore in order to pick up Sherlock, drag him somewhere and do…well, John just wasn't willing to think about that. Better to find the man, take Sherlock back and do some damage before he left.

It seemed only too obvious that once Charming had picked Sherlock, everything about his planning must have been close by. John chose to find a path up toward the rooftops of the city, his feet firmly on crumbling plaster, determined to get the best view he could. He'd never been a sniper, though he had mates who were and told him about the bone numbing hours, (and sometimes days) it took to get that one perfect shot. John had picked up the basic concepts and looked round slowly, selecting the position he would have needed if he wanted to keep his eye on Sherlock Holmes while on holiday.

The little room on the far corner was unlocked and unkempt, plaster falling from the walls and scuffing the line of the window ledge where something heavy had rested. John bent so that the ledge was eye-level and growled as it confirmed their love making earlier had not been entirely private. Sherlock would, no doubt, have sifted through the dust beneath his feet, but John crushed what was left beneath his sandal and stood up straight, unable to put himself in the position of kidnapper, but quite able to work out where he'd take something he wanted to protect.

It had been the issue all the way through the case. Sherlock could imagine evil deeds quite vividly, his brain able to scope out what might be done to punish and destroy, but this Charming wanted to take something ideal and keep it that way. Punishment might come later, but for now John was certain that Sherlock had been taken somewhere, prepared and possibly poisoned so that Charming could enjoy what he'd secured. John struggled to identify with anything that drove the man, but obsession, desire was familiar and he could work with that.

John took a slow breath as he ran over what was Charming's most likely plan. He'd watched them from here, possibly through binoculars or just a camera. John winced at the idea of someone taking pictures of what they'd done, not through any notion of shame, but because they owned it between them. This man, this bastard who John thoroughly intended to hurt, had intruded on something new and intimate. He'd sat here, watched them and then struck as John moved to the bathroom and left Sherlock vulnerable. Charming had entered the room, done something to Sherlock to get him out without raising an alarm and got him down the stairs and out of the building without anyone questioning him.

It suggested he'd been drugged, not poisoned and maybe just in a position to leave him acting drunk. People wouldn't offer to help a drunk man who was clearly already taken care of. John stared at the darkening city, the moon already high in the sky and his chances of locating Sherlock lower by the second. If it had been him, what would he have done? John frowned as he tried to remember anything from the times he'd been kidnapped and completely failed to do anything to alert Sherlock. He'd been found anyway, Sherlock's brilliant mind compensating for John's failure to leave a trail of anything. Sherlock was far better at breadcrumbs, even drugged and dopey, John was sure of it and he headed back to the bedroom, stepping down firmly on the edges of panic that wanted to count down in seconds.

He looked round, determined to observe, to see something, anything that would tell him where Sherlock was. There couldn't have been time to do much, couldn't have been time for Sherlock to say anything, but there would be something, John was certain about that. He turned slowly round the room, picturing what had been there and what had been added or subtracted. Had to be something small, something unobtrusive and yet he couldn't find it. He sat down heavily on the bed and fished his phone out of his pocket, sure in that second that his only chance was to contact the police. Charming would wish he had.

The thing that caught his eye was nothing, really, just the cap of the lotion they'd been using earlier. It wasn't in a different place than before, but the bottle looked emptier than John remembered. John frowned as he stared at it, his head wrapping round the possibilities, even if some were grim. But this had Sherlock written on it. Lotion, and a good deal of it squeezed out. Not on the floor, clearly, so where? John picked up the bottle and ran quickly through the ingredients before he settled on the one that stood out, a memory of the year before when Sherlock had claimed he always knew where John had been celebrating himself. Petroleum at the core, excellent for moisturising and lubrication and possessed of one rather special quality.

John took a quick breath before he headed downstairs and found the receptionist. She flailed at him when he walked round the back of the counter and looked beneath the desk. Her loud exclamations and protestations that he was not allowed went completely unnoticed because John needed the little light she used to check notes that passed through. Black light, useful in so many places and especially now in the dark of the city.

"I'm just borrowing this," he said as she raised her voice and gestured to him. "I'll bring it back."

She yelled again and John slipped out quickly as the security came through to find out what the problem was. He stood outside the building as they headed in and risked switching on the light. In the darkness of the city, he held it against the wall at roughly the level he guessed Sherlock's hand would be and there it was, a smear, blue under the black light, vaguely J shaped but only in John's mind. Just a smudge of petroleum, but enough for John to pin his hope to. He moved quickly, eyes still on the walls as he caught the flash of blue on each corner and as he found the edge of a door with the same, John paused and glanced up.

The building was nothing special, nothing that screamed, 'here lives a madman', but it was the right building all the same. John laid a hand on the edge of the frame, his knuckled aching as he listened for something on the inside. Sherlock was conscious, at least to here and John had no clue if that was still true. The door was locked but the hinges were rusted, barely holding the wood in the frame. It didn't quite fall over, but John's sandalled foot pushed through in relative quiet, as the city went about his business behind him. He grabbed a length of wood from the broken door as he set foot on the first step and listened as hard as he could.

Once, long ago, he'd saved a man's life by registering what he'd heard, Sherlock's basic principals in evidence long before he knew the man himself. John observed, understood immediately what he had heard and acted appropriately. That time they'd managed to move before the ground beneath their feet caved in and John had saved a life. Just one and for far too short a time, but minutes counted, using his head and his instincts counted and nothing on that score has changed at all. He gripped the wood tighter as he turned on the landing and prepared to deal with whatever Charming had in place.

The tableau was simple enough. Not even a bed in the middle of the room, a dais covered in cheap material, even the velvet looked to be an imitation of the real thing. The pillow was small and mostly flat and John couldn't count the candles that burned round the room. He looked at the still form on the dais, ascertained that there was a pulse at Sherlock's throat, before he tightened his grip on the wood and swung. Charming might have been able to take Sherlock from his own bedroom, but he'd clearly not planned for this.

He'd underestimated John Watson, clearly a fatal error.

Charming opened his mouth to say something glib as the block of wood smacked into his belly and all words seemed to escape him. John moved quickly, feet in front of Charming as he pushed him back against the wall. He wedged the wood beneath Charming's chin and held, cutting off as much air as he could while he got his questions in place.

"What did you give him?"

Charming coughed loudly and stared at John, drool on his chin as John leaned harder on the wood. "I said what did you give him?"

"Nothing," said Charming after a moment and his face crumpled into an attempt at a smile. "Snow White's all mine."

"Fuck you," said John calmly as he pressed harder. "Just tell me what you-"

He broke off as Charming gagged and his eyes rolled back. John dropped the wood and ignored the splinters in his fingers as Charming dropped to his knees. Not the plan at all and John grabbed for the rope by Charming's feet and tied him up quickly, scarcely daring to look back at Sherlock until he had to deal with what had happened. If he happened to kick Charming squarely in the belly when the man groaned, John would live comfortably with that as well.

Sherlock lay still on the dais, his head cushioned by the flat pillow and his body covered by the thin sheet Charming had picked out. John swallowed before he dared set his fingers against Sherlock's pulse, relieved that it was strong and steady, but his skin showed signs of an injection site, the needle mark clear and purplish on his skin. John glanced round, located the bottle and groaned. Ketamine accounted at least for the sleepiness and flailing at the hotel, John just couldn't be sure that it was all he'd used. All the other victims had been poisoned and though they'd found an antidote, John didn't know at what point that happened.

He bent down, cheek pressed to Sherlock's chest as he listened to his heart beat. It felt stupid. Only an hour or so before he'd been pressed rather more intimately than this, had begun something that promised to end in bed with both of them in a good mood. He'd planned to try out being a couple with Sherlock, had looked forward to the little things that made the difference between being mates and lovers. John wanted all of that and he hesitated, his hand curled into a fist as he conquered the tremor and stood back up. He kept a hand on Sherlock's neck as he found his phone and made the call, summoning any emergency service he could get ahold of.

"Had to bloody well get caught," he huffed as he risked looking at Sherlock. "We were having a nice time. A really nice time and you got caught with your bloody mermaid eyes and ridiculous girly mouth. Couldn't just look a bit ordinary for five minutes so we could fly under the radar. You had to be you."

He leaned closer as he listened out for anything that would suggest Sherlock was playing at being asleep, but the man didn't move, didn't so much as twitch the corner of his mouth and John huffed and considered carefully.

"And this isn't impressive either," he said softly and sighed. "You're boring when you sleep."

Nothing.

"Really boring."

John leaned in and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's own, lips moist as he gave a kiss he hoped would do some good. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his skin, but not the recently familiar sensation of being kissed back. Sherlock's eyes didn't open immediately and John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's ear instead.

"You're not going to let him beat us, are you?"

The noise was faint, barely there, but just enough for John to let out the breath he held so he could look up. Sherlock's eyelids flickered, the left one opening first as he made a noise John hadn't heard from Sherlock before, something vaguely squeaky and drunk. John felt Sherlock's hand move, his fingers brushing against John's own as Sherlock made the attempt to move. John smiled and leaned in, kissed Sherlock again and sat back up.

"Good to have you back," said John and grinned at him.

Sherlock opened his mouth and flailed his hand as he tried to move. His mouth failed to shape several words before he managed to focus on one, the single syllable a struggle for the usually articulate mouth to shape. Several hundred words a minute usually, but one when it mattered.

"John."

"Right here," said John as he sat on the edge of the dais and glanced back toward Charming. "Our friend's out for the count. Bit of a pushover. Not sure how you let him take you."

"Off guard," said Sherlock and struggled to gain control. He tried to sit up and John held him where he could, his arms tight round Sherlock's sides as he listened out for the local authorities to arrive. "Drugged."

"Gathered that," said John. "Not the brightest crayon in the box."

"I am," said Sherlock with some effort and a delicate slur to his voice. "brilliant."

"Mostly," said John and stroked his hand over Sherlock's hair, vaguely aware his free hand was trembling. "Lucky that bastard was an idiot. He didn't think I'd come after you. After everything he spied on. Arsehole."

"Lucky."

"Damn right."

"No," said Sherlock. "Me. I have a John."

John didn't blush. He did roll his eyes and squeezed Sherlock a bit tighter. "Guess you're pretty drugged up," he said. "Not how I planned to end tonight."

"Sex," said Sherlock and closed his eyes as John nodded and looked toward the stairs.

"There was sex," said John. "And you. So I suppose this bit is all right. Course now I have to take you home and watch in case you end up sick and hallucinating."

"You're here," said Sherlock as he slumped. He gripped John tighter. "Mine."

And that would have to be that, thought John as the authorities showed up and asked him questions he couldn't quite answer. Sherlock dozed through much of it and though the medics checked him out, he and John were firm in that Sherlock would be spending the night in their bedroom. They escorted them both out and back to the hotel and John was left with messages detailing when he'd have to go down to the local police station. He left without giving Charming a second glance and landed back in their bedroom, tired and supporting a lumbering Sherlock. He dropped Sherlock on the bed and reached for the chair, wedging it under the door handle before he closed the blinds.

"Knew you'd find me."

"You left me hints," said John and moved the furniture carefully, pulling drawers out so he could push their beds together. He stripped the sheets down and climbed on the bed, his hands on Sherlock's trousers to push them down. "A 'J'. Bit dramatic, even for you."

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock and blinked up at John. "What?"

"On the wall, in lotion. That reminds me, I'll have to take this bloody black light back down to reception at some point."

Sherlock yawned and dropped his head back to the pillow. "Not now, John. In the morning."

John grinned. "No, I mean the lotion on the wall. The sign you left me. Not breadcrumbs but still."

Sherlock licked his lip. "No crumbs."

"What? Yes there was."

"Not me," said Sherlock and closed his eyes. "Smudges, John. I was…"

John stripped his clothes off and climbed on the bed, taking the advantage of space to sprawl next to the languid detective. Sherlock moved in, hand landing with a hearty smack against John's chest as he turned toward him. John kissed his fingertips and settled Sherlock's hand against his shoulder. "You saying it was chance?"

"Luck," murmured Sherlock.

"Well, typical," said John. "I follow your secret breadcrumb trail and it turns out it was chance. You just happened to squeeze a load of lotion on your hand and I followed it." He sighed. "I thought I was being clever."

"Wasn't for him," said Sherlock and his hand pushed against John's shoulder, fingertips circling the scar they never talked about. "Do your research, John."

"On lotion?"

"On me," said Sherlock and giggled before he settled back against the pillow. "We could be having so much fun."

"Oh," said John and raised his eyebrows. "Oh! That's what you were doing? You were…preparing yourself? That's sort of very arousing and a little bit disturbing."

"Really?"

"A lot disturbing," said John. "I found you because you wanted to have sex with me."

"Shame," said Sherlock, words slurred against John's shoulder. "Thought you wanted to."

"I got you off," said John. "We snogged, we practically shagged! Of course I wanted to have sex with you."

"Wanted?"

"Want," said John. "Very much want. But not now." He sighed and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "Sleep. You can show off in the morning."

"I'm fine."

"Of course you are," said John and settled back against the mattress, prepared to keep watch. He reached for the bedside table and checked that his phone was handy. "I'll be here."

"Where else would you be?"

John smiled, settled his free hand behind his head and watched the door. He could be anywhere, could do anything but this mattered, the one touch that had always mattered and John yawned as he settled in for the night's watch, prepared to keep safe what was his, needing to hear that 'mine' when Sherlock sobered up.

Chapter Text

The sun slunk in under the blinds, lighting the bed from the feet up.

John's legs were lightly crossed at the ankle as he lay back on the bed. Sherlock settled next to him, his hand firmly on John's chest as he slept away the drug he'd been doused with. Checked over briefly the night before and watched through the night by his lover, he was out of danger and better rested than John. John hadn't slept at all and the circles that usually lay beneath his eyes felt swollen and uncomfortable. Three continents might be a bit ambitious for this particular morning.

He felt a little distant from the unnerving events of the night before. Charming was caught and behind bars, but John had moved from the bed somewhere before dawn to put a chair under the door handle. He'd checked the blinds again before coming back to bed, and all the while Sherlock slept on, the effects of the drugs wearing off while he slept. John had followed Sherlock through Europe on the trail of some bastard only Sherlock seemed able to catch, but this one caught him instead and John knew, absolutely, that if he was going to have to fight like this, he wanted to do it on home territory.

Of course that would involve dealing with what they'd become back home and John wasn't sure any of the conversations they'd had about what they were involved the boyfriend thing. Mutual attraction and admiration, yes, but not actually going out together. Staying in together and not just because neither of them had something better to do. These were the things that remained undiscussed and in the small hours of the night John had thought them all through, come to certain conclusions and was still frowning when Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow and looked at him.

"His name is Martinez," said Sherlock and lifted a hand to touch his neck. "He got me with something."

"Ketamine. You're fine now," said John absently and turned to look at him. He stroked his hand over Sherlock's shoulder and smiled at Sherlock's dazed expression, clearly just from having woken up. "I want to go home."

"Of course," said Sherlock and yawned. "Oh, you mean now?"

"Not right now," said John. "Soon as we can. If I'm going to have to go chasing after you I'd rather it was somewhere I know the streets."

"You don't know all the streets in London. You get lost a lot."

"I can always grab the tube."

"There's a subway here."

"Sherlock," said John as patiently as he could manage. "I want to go home."

Sherlock leaned up on his elbow and ran his index finger over John's cheek, touching the dark circles beneath his eyes. "You haven't slept."

"I was keeping watch," said John. "Last night, I had to find you in the middle of a city I don't know and it turns out I only tracked you down by accident."

"Brilliant deductive skills," said Sherlock. "I'm impressed."

"I don't need you to be impressed," said John. "He almost poisoned you."

"He didn't, though. You found me before he got to that point." Sherlock scrubbed his hand back through his curls. "That was good. In case I didn't say it last night."

"Yeah, what do you remember about last night?"

"There's something of a blank once the door opened," said Sherlock. "His door. He had some kind of fancy box and the drugs were quite strong. The staff here thought I was drunk and seemed very keen to get me out of here. He told me he was Charming, but I doubt it. Of course I pinched his wallet and I suppose Tomas Martinez didn't have the same ring to it."

"Less prince based."

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "It made me sleepy and he was talking about apples and toys and I couldn't keep my eyes open."

John nodded and reached for Sherlock's fingers, intwining them with his own as he listened. "I don't like to think of him just sitting there, watching you."

"Bit creepy."

"A lot creepy," said John. "So nothing after the door?"

"I slept."

"That's it?"

"You woke me up and he was out for the count." Sherlock looked where their fingers were linked. "I take it that was your work too, or did our friend trip over, hit himself in the head and knock himself unconscious?"

"There was a bit of wood involved," said John. "And then you woke up."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Bit of kissing involved."

"A bit."

"It was nice," said Sherlock. "A little cliché, but very nice."

John grinned. "It's like that, is it?"

"I don't know what to tell you," said Sherlock. "It seemed very nice in the middle of the night. Because there you were. I like nights when I can look up and just find you. I think all nights should end with 'there you were'."

"There I was," murmured John. "And a good thing too. So let's go home."

Sherlock frowned, his nose crinkling. "But you found me."

"Yeah, and like I said, if we're going to keep doing this, I want to be at home," said John. "Plus, we've got things to sort out."

"The police?"

"At home," said John. "There's things at home we need to sort out."

Sherlock stared. "Like the rent?"

"This is not the time to stop being a genius," said John as he shifted in the bed, his toe rubbing absently against Sherlock's calf. "Things need to change when we go home."

"John, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said John. "Are you fine?"

"A little headachey, but fine," said Sherlock. "I don't think I'm following this train of thought, John. What do you want to change?"

"The way we live," said John and shook his head as Sherlock stared. "I don't mean the work. We continue with that, and we'll share the rent but if we're doing this, then we should be comfortable."

Sherlock's tongue made a brief appearance. "Is this about the bed?"

"A bit about the bed," said John. "I do want to share a bed."

"Yours or mine?"

"I was thinking about a new bed," said John. "One that's…well, ours."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Good. Because yours is dreadful."

"Fine," said John. "Hey, what's wrong with it?"

"Poorly maintained mattress," said Sherlock and sat up, his hand still holding John's. "John, is this preamble some attempt to establish a more traditional relationship?"

"I don't think there's anything about us that's traditional," said John. "But yeah, that's about the size of it."

"And your big changes are to do with where we sleep and whether or not you're my date?"

"Mostly, yes."

"And if I'm quite happy to acquire a new bed for us both and we can agree that while a candle does signify in some small way a sentimental attachment, I have no objection to one on the table while we eat?"

John allowed himself a little grin. "How big's the if?"

Sherlock moved surprisingly quickly for a man who'd been drugged the night before. It was almost as though the enforced rest had reset his system and he straddled John quickly, naked beneath the sheets and deliciously hot to the touch. John could feel the weight of Sherlock's cock against his belly, not quite aroused but insistent as Sherlock pressed John's wrists back against the pillows. Sherlock stared at John, narrowing his eyes before he leaned down and kissed him, his teeth nipping John's bottom lip before he lifted his head.

"I may have theorised that the story of Snow White is vapid, childish nonsense."

"You said it was drivel."

"And I was correct," said Sherlock. "The stepmother is much maligned, given that removing Snow White was by far the most sensible notion for a monarch, given the lack of equality and the questionable removal of the King. It is quite possible that the child was a brat, hardly fit for the throne and the notion of the magic mirror can be entirely substituted for courtiers lying to the Queen. However, I've come to understand that while it's a ridiculous idea that the kiss represents true love when it's really a displacement of the poisoned apple, having your own John Watson wake you is far more interesting than it has any right to be."

John licked his lip, tasted the kiss. "I'm interesting."

"And heroic," said Sherlock. "Steadfast and stalwart."

"I thought you said heroes don't exist," said John and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hey, you said it."

"And you say lots of things that are wrong."

"You're admitting you're wrong?"

"I'm admitting nothing," said Sherlock. "But although unlikely, if this situation were to be repeated then my choice is always to have you be there when I open my eyes."

John nodded. "Snogged you a bit."

"A little," said Sherlock. "My lips felt numb."

"Better now?"

Sherlock bent to kiss him again, his tongue tangling with John's before he sat back up. "Much improved."

John smiled, pleased and shifted his arms so he could capture Sherlock's hands and lock fingers. "So I'm your date?"

"Are you happy with boyfriend?" asked Sherlock. "You seem to like being called boyfriend."

"You can call me John."

"As in John, come here?"

"How about, John, let's fuck?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shifted his hips slowly, a slow drag of his cock over John's own, the comfortable weight of his ass pressed to John's thighs before he moved forward again. John groaned, arched his back and felt the blood fill his cock, felt the way it swelled and hardened so that each rub of Sherlock's stiffening erection against his own made everything that much more sensitive. John bent his knees, pressed his heels on the mattress and lifted up as Sherlock teased him.

"Um, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"About that thing?"

"Fucking?"

"Yeah, that thing."

"Well?"

John wiggled on the bed and pushed up harder, his cock sliding along the length of Sherlock's own as the man leaned forward. His hands gripped Sherlock's tighter and he could feel where his cock was slick with pre-come. The liquid covered the head of his cock, slid down over his foreskin and he could feel where it rubbed against Sherlock's own. He admitted freely that the idea of his spend on Sherlock's skin made his cock that much harder and though John wanted very much to continue what they were doing, what he really wanted to do was feel Sherlock ride him like a pit pony.

"I've no idea if that's even possible."

John blinked. "I said that out loud?"

"Yes you did. And how exactly does a pit pony ride?" asked Sherlock as he released John's fingers and reached for the bottle slick liquid on the bedside table. "I'd imagine it was rather a short and bouncy ride. I'm not sure that it's an ideal thing to do the first time, especially if we're about to get back on a plane. Those seats are hardly-"

"Yes, yes," said John and snatched the bottle from Sherlock. He squeezed a large amount into the palm of his hand and sat up. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John settled his dry hand against the back of Sherlock's neck and tugged him close to kiss him. His lips felt warm, pliant under John's and John grinned against his mouth as he drew his hand round, along the lean line of Sherlock's hip to the firm muscle of his arse. Sherlock bit down on John's bottom lip and John squeezed, his hand slippery and warm as he felt his way round to the cleft.

"John, that's not where we require lubrication."

"Shut up."

"I'm pointing out that while your hand feels very good on my skin, a slippery arse cheek will do you no good at all."

"I'm getting there."

"Getting where, is essentially my point," said Sherlock. "Can you reach?"

John raised an eyebrow and tugged at Sherlock until he was closer still. He slid his hand down and stroked down along the line of the cleft until he found the puckered opening that seemed to quiver as he rubbed his fingertip over it. Sherlock groaned against his mouth as John rubbed, his finger circling that tight little entrance until Sherlock clenched up against him and his erection throbbed against John's belly. John grinned, pushed, finger sliding in, slick and warm as Sherlock pulled back slightly and pressed his mouth to John's ear.

"Good move."

"I have better ones," said John as he stroked slowly, not just preparing Sherlock or getting him used to the feel of it, but giving John a moment to deal with what they were going to do. He had done this before, but never with another man and though the start of it felt similar, the swell of Sherlock's cock was helpful feedback. Sherlock wanted this, John wanted this and as they kissed, John couldn't imagine lasting long, no matter how much he wanted to fuck.

Sherlock knelt up and broke the kiss, his hands sliding over John's shoulders. His gaze was direct, challenging and John moved carefully, hands guiding the way as he watched his lover. He slid his slick hand over the length of his cock, the liquid puddling in his lap as he tried to gain purchase. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as John gripped tight to the head, sought entrance and pushed up. He caught the grimace on Sherlock's face and held still, unable to slide back, unwilling to move forward.

"We can stop," he said and Sherlock stared back at him, incomprehension etched across his face.

"Your head's muddled, because we bloody can't," said Sherlock and spread his knees a little wider on the mattress. He kept his hands firm on John's shoulders and eased back slowly, taking his time until his buttocks met John's thighs flat. John caught his breath as he felt himself enveloped, connected as Sherlock pushed him back down on the mattress again. He leaned over John, his hair in riotous curls, damp at the roots as Sherlock pressed back again. John kept hold of Sherlock's hands, palm to palm as his lover set the pace. Boyfriend in control, his hips moving steadily and John could feel the slick squeeze of tight flesh round the aching length of his cock.

He'd never been shy about making noise in bed and this morning was no exception. John groaned loudly as Sherlock rode, slowly at first but faster, harder as he adjusted and John knew that every last thrust could be the one that sent him over the edge. Sherlock delivered kiss after kiss before he altered the angle he moved at and John was conscious that Sherlock's cock, hard and slick at the tip, rubbed between them. John pulled a hand free and slid it awkwardly between them, gripping the warm length, the last of the lubricant sliding over Sherlock's erection.

The guttural roar from Sherlock's throat seemed to bypass John's ears and go straight down to his groin. He bucked up, unable to help himself and Sherlock cried out again. John thought he might have whimpered at one point, definitely called out Sherlock's name as he came, slick and hard and slippery within Sherlock's indulgent body. He dropped back against the mattress, aware, but only just that Sherlock had followed him only seconds later. His body felt sweaty and sticky and John felt great, even if it was a struggle to open his eyes again.

John felt rather than saw Sherlock fall down against him. He could hear the detective's breathing next to his ear, could feel the way his hand still gripped John's own. John smiled absently when he felt Sherlock kiss his skin, his tongue touched to the smooth skin at John's shoulder.

"I hate to think of your riding lessons if this is a good example."

John giggled and stroked his hand over Sherlock's shoulder. "I can't ride."

"Hmm?"

"Never tried it. I can ride a bike, not quite the same thing."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Quite. Perhaps tomorrow you should start to learn."

John yawned and stroked Sherlock's shoulder as the man carefully pulled away from John and dropped to his back next to him. "I'll give it a whirl."

"I strongly recommend leaving whirling alone until you've mastered an adequate gallop."

John liked the sound of Sherlock's laughter mingled with his own and turned his head to look at the boyfriend. He felt tired, exhausted from the night before and still certain he wanted to go home. "Any idea what time the next flight leaves?"

"Get some sleep," said Sherlock. "I'll take care of it."

John blinked and looked at the man who was, even now, stretching and looking far too desirable for a man who'd just made John Watson beg for mercy and come his brains out. Sherlock grabbed his phone and started to thumb through various screens as John watched. He stretched an arm out to rest on Sherlock's thigh.

"You're organising this?"

"You're supposed to be asleep."

"But you're organising this," said John. "You're going to take care of all of this?"

"Obviously."

"Packing the bags?"

"Yes. I am capable of organising a return trip," said Sherlock. "You're missing out on sleep."

John rubbed his fingertips over his eyes and grabbed a handful of tissues to swipe over his belly and groin. "It's just I usually get everything together."

"Well, you said you wanted things to change."

"Not so that it's weird."

"Me doing things is weird?"

"No," said John. "It's nice. It's just-"

"Just what?"

"Just you haven't done those things before," said John.

Sherlock sighed, leaned back and kissed John before he dropped the sheet back over him. "It's what people in relationships do, isn't it?"

"Yeah, people but," John paused and then leaned back. "You're really doing this?"

"I'm trying to, but you will insist on talking." Sherlock smiled absently as he scrolled down his phone. "Couple of hours. You can get your head down for a few hours and then we'll head to the airport. Home in time for tea and scones."

John grinned as he closed his eyes. "No more Charming?"

"I think he's entirely taken care of, although there does seem to be a new case in Ealing that requires our attention."

"Tell me later," said John and yawned. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I know you don't like sentiment."

"Wrong."

"You do like it? Because you've been hiding that well."

"It's not that I don't like it," said Sherlock. "It's dangerous. It exposes your weaknesses."

"Is that what you think I am? A weakness?"

"No," said Sherlock and kissed him again. "No, you're not that."

John smiled and kept his eyes closed as he relaxed on the bed. "It's because I'm yours," he said and heard Sherlock sigh. "Right?"

"Mine," said Sherlock. "Yes. Exactly what you are."

John sighed and pressed his face against the cool of the pillow. "Wake me in a few hours."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Oh and John?"

"Hmm?"

"If I can be yours too, I'm comfortable with that."

John risked opening an eye. "You're serious?"

"Have you known me be otherwise?"

John smiled. "Yes, I have actually." He stretched a hand out to stroke Sherlock wherever he could reach. "And you're still mine?"

Sherlock leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Of course."

John sighed and drifted to sleep. He slept heavy, barely moving on the bed until Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and said clearly it was time to wake up. The trip to the airport was something of a blur, a series of people waving them through until John sat down heavily in his assigned seat and felt the brush of Sherlock's coat against his cheek as he squeezed past. "We'll be home soon."

"Good," said John as he looked at the bag Sherlock stuffed under the seat. "What's in that."

"Souvenirs," said Sherlock. "You said Mrs Hudson would require something to remember our trip. Why, Mrs Hudson requires something to remember a trip she didn't go on is quite beyond me, and I doubt any of the evidence would be suitable, but I have procured something suitable."

John unzipped the bag and looked back at Sherlock. "A bad toro teapot? Not bad."

"Glad you approve."

"I do," said John and frowned as his hand settled on the soft fur beneath the teapot. "What's this?"

Sherlock smirked. "Take a look."

John drew the toy bull out and looked at it carefully. "It's a bull."

"Well observed," said Sherlock. "You vetoed pandas and polar bears. I thought this one was more you."

"It's a cuddly bull. It's…Sherlock, is this a romantic gesture?"

"Yes." He hesitated and took a quick breath before he spoke again. "Is it not good?"

John grinned and leaned over to kiss him, in public, even if the seats they occupied were scarcely the most visible in the plain. "It's very good," he said and set it back in the bag again. John sat back in the chair and folded Sherlock's fingers with his own. "Don't ever change."

"I thought you wanted change?"

John shook his head. "Not everything. Not you. You're perfect as you are."

Sherlock frowned, but he held John's hand as they took off, kept it while they left Spanish airspace and only excused himself to the bathroom as the stewardess walked down the aisle and offered drinks. She smiled at John as she drew close. "Something for you and your…friend?"

"Boyfriend," said John and smiled. "And we don't need anything, thanks. We're fine as we are."

She smiled. "You sure?"

He nodded and waited for Sherlock to return, his hand tingling where he wanted to reclaim Sherlock's own. Needed to have that touch. "Positive," he said and his smile lifted as he saw Sherlock angling back toward him. And though John Watson had never believed in love at first sight, love on repeated viewing was something he bought into completely.