Work Text:
Janine struggled down Baker Street from the Tube station, arms laddered with carrier bags stuffed with wrapped presents and clutching a violin case on the ends of her fingers. When she finally got to the door marked “221B,” she rang the doorbell with her elbow.
“Daft man,” she muttered under her breath. “Way to leave me with the clean-up.”
After several minutes, a kindly looking elderly woman came to the door.
“I’m lookin’ for Sherlock Holmes,” Janine said.
“Oh, dear, why don’t you go on up? Sherlock isn’t usually up this time of morning, and sometimes it’s hard for him to hear the doorbell when it’s in the refrigerator.”
Suspecting a touch of senile dementia, Janine smiled broadly and nodded her head enthusiastically, hoping to put the woman at ease before she began climbing the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.
As she reached the top landing, Sherlock’s door popped open, revealing a much different sight than Janine had had of the best man the previous evening. Sherlock’s hair was mussed, a fact not helped by the continual running of his hand through it in an attempt to wake. His eyes were barely open, and he made no effort to suppress a yawn as he stood in the doorway in grey pajama trousers and a worn white t-shirt, topped with a crimson dressing gown.
“What do you want at this time of morning?” Sherlock groused, blocking the door and making it clear that he had no intention of letting Janine in. She turned sideways as best she could with her many bags weighing her down and slid in anyway, depositing her burdens on the floor before she dropped them.
“You lied to me,” she said without preamble. “You told me you’d be collecting the gifts from the wedding for John and Mary to pick up when they returned from their honeymoon, but guess who wound up lugging them home and then toting them back here?”
“I must have filtered that,” Sherlock said, dignity mixing with the sleep still coating his voice. “I discharged my primary responsibilities as best man; this seemed…ancillary, at best.”
“What it was, was a fair trek to your place this morning, Mister,” Janine said, not willing to let him off that easily. “And that’s twice you lied to me; you owed me a dance later in the evening, but when I looked for you, you’d gone.”
Sherlock gave her a piercing look, all traces of sleep now banished. “You seemed to be quite involved with your….friend,” he said, the last word sounding more like some noxious species of invertebrate. “I assumed your dance card would be full for the remainder of the night.”
Janine blushed at the implied accusation. She had learned nothing about Sherlock Holmes at the wedding that would be of interest to Magnussen, and he would expect a report that afternoon. She looked around the messy flat, partly to escape Sherlock’s laser-like gaze and partly to gather something – anything – that would constitute privileged information about Sherlock Holmes. She failed in both attempts.
“If you must know, the man was a brilliant dancer but a boring conversationalist,” she said acidly. “And a man who’s no fun to talk to is no fun to do anything else with.”
Sherlock looked somehow mollified by this answer, but he clearly had no intention of demonstrating any of his own powers of conversation at that moment.
Janine walked up to Sherlock and dangled the handle of his violin case on two fingers just under his nose. “And here’s this. I can understand you not wanting to do clean-up duty, but you must have really wanted out of there bad if you forgot this.”
A flash of embarrassment shot through Sherlock’s eyes. “I seemed to have outlasted my…utility…at the event,” he said finally. “I was apparently neglectful when I left. Thank you,” he said, taking the violin and laying it carefully on the coffee table.
“Leave the gifts,” he said, a clear indication of his desire for Janine to leave. “I’ll convey them to John and Mary when they return from their Sex Holiday.” Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Although why one needs to relocate to a more expensive locale to have intercourse, I do not understand. The geographic latitude should have no bearing on either sexual performance or orgasmic satisfaction.”
“Never underestimate the power of a beach,” Janine said saucily, taking the hint and moving toward the door.
Sherlock was already distracted by something on his kitchen workbench, moving to pick up a flask of something that may have been an experiment and may have been a dinner leftover he forgot to refrigerate. “I’ll be off then,” called Janine. “Mr. Magnussen expects me to come into work today anyway – on the weekend, if that don’t beat all!”
At the last statement, Sherlock’s head snapped up, and she was both startled and rewarded with his full attention. “Who expects you to come to work?” Sherlock asked, intensity dripping from every word.
“My boss,” said Janine, “Charles Magnussen. The owner of CAM News? I’m his PA.”
Sherlock took a step toward her; she could practically see the hamster leap onto the wheel behind his eyes as he thought. “That’s….very impressive,” he said. “Indeed, I don’t want to make you late for work.” He placed his hand on her arm, preventing her from stepping out the door onto the landing.
“But Janine, I was wondering. When you have more time, could I interest you in going out to dinner? We had so little chance to get to know each other at the wedding.” Janine felt her pulse race; maybe this was her chance to learn more about Sherlock Holmes and keep Magnussen from making her daily life miserable. At the very least, dinner out with the handsome detective would be entertaining.
“Yea, that’d be brilliant,” she said.
“Good,” Sherlock said. “I’ll text you soon.”
***
A few days later, Sherlock and Janine agreed to meet at a curry place that Sherlock had recommended. The owner had been particularly solicitous, inviting Sherlock to order anything on the menu, gratis.
“Well, now, that was nice,” said Janine. “Where did that come from?”
Sherlock looked at her appraisingly, then said, “A few years back, the drugs unit at Scotland Yard suspected this place as a front for illegal drug running activity. I was able to help the owner,” here Sherlock waved his hand in the air as if searching for the right word, “’strengthen’ his alibi.”
Janine snickered. “Didja now?” she asked.
“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “I hate to see a good curry shop go out of business on what seems at best a legal technicality. And they do really have the best curry in Central London; you can tell by the way they maintain the vent hoods in the kitchen.”
Janine shook her head. “You are somethin’ else, Mr. Holmes,” she laughed.
Sherlock cracked a smile as well, apparently pleased that his story didn’t frighten Janine. “If you prefer,” he said, “you may pretend that he owed me a favor because I helped him put up some shelves.”
Janine laughed throatily, enjoying this man who seemed one part rigid correctness and one part juvenile delinquent.
But this was the last chance she had to gather any information on Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was the most intensely interested date she had ever had, asking her all about her work with CAM News and what being Charles Magnussen’s PA entailed. Janine couldn’t help telling him stories about the kinds of people she met coming in and out of Magnussen’s office, and, after the third glass of wine, a little bit about how difficult it was to manage the multiple layers of security that Magnussen insisted on for the top floors of the building that housed his offices and private penthouse. “Some of the security measures aren’t even….but I can’t tell you that bit,” she stopped herself.
Sherlock looked at her – perhaps through her – and seemed to back off a bit. “No, I imagine you can’t. Shall we walk you home? You live near here, and I daresay we could both stand some fresh air,” he said.
Arm in arm they walked the blocks to Janine’s flat, with Sherlock pointing out buildings where he had solved cases in the past. Soon, they reached Janine’s front door.
“Well, I don’t know if I should invite you up or not,” she half-stated, half-asked. She hated this part; she couldn’t afford to lose Sherlock’s attention when she was on an assignment for Magnussen, but something about the man made her feel more shy than she usually was.
“Certainly not,” Sherlock said, leaning in for a kiss. It was soft and sweet, Sherlock eventually putting his hands around Janine’s waist while her hands went to the lapels of that fabulous Belstaff coat, her index finger absently tracing the red buttonhole. When they finally broke apart, Sherlock leaned his head against Janine’s forehead for a moment while he said, “we need to have something to look forward to for our next date.”
“Oh, are we having a next date, Mr. Holmes?” Janine asked, the lowered register of her voice belying her interest even as she strove to keep the tone playful.
“Oh, I think we are,” Sherlock said. “I’ll text.”
And with a swirl of coat, he was gone into the London night.
***
“You’ve disappointed me, Janine,” Magnussen said in his soft voice. It wasn’t the quiet menace behind his words or his disrespect for personal space that bothered her; she’d gotten over that months ago. No, what scared her now was that he was flicking her face, periodically popping a finger against cheek and chin and eyelid, creating just enough sting to make her feel abused, not enough to leave a mark.
“I could leave this job, you know,” she said with more bravado than she felt. “I don’t need to be your spy every time you snap your fingers.”
“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong, Janine,” Magnussen said in the tone of a reptile or some other cold-blooded animal. “I know how you have behaved while you’ve been on assignment for me. I know who you would prefer not know about your activities. I own you. And with ownership comes obedience.” To make his point, he flicked just close enough to her lower eyelid to bring tears.
Shaking, voice wavering, Janine started to babble; anything she could think of from the past two weeks to get the bizarre form of torture to stop. “Look, I tell you, there’s nothing odd about Sherlock Holmes other than what you read in your own papers,” she said quickly. “His flat is a mess; his kitchen looks like a chemistry lab, but I don’t know what any of the chemicals are for. He had a bag of elbows in the fridge” – Janine shuddered at that memory, given that she’d opened the refrigerator looking for milk – “but he really does seem to do anatomy experiments. I tried to look at his computer, but he said it involved a 24-character password with a rotating final three digits based on a formula that only he knows. I’d never get through that,” she said in a rush.
“I even looked in his medicine cabinet when I went to the loo. This is all I found that you couldn’t buy at Boots.”
Janine took out her phone and rapidly paged through to a photo that she turned to show Magnussen.
On the worn label was printed:
Dr. J. Watson
Holmes, Sherlock
Alprazolam, 0.5 mg
Take three times a day as needed for anxiety.
Qty: 30 NO REFILLS
The label included the address and phone number of a Dartmoor chemist shop.
“Dartmoor,” Magnussen said with interest, absently stroking the temple of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I was aware that Mycroft Holmes visited Baskerville Military Base a couple of years back. But now I wonder if maybe only Mycroft Holmes’s identification card made the trip,” he said softly. “I shall have to file this information for further investigation.”
Magnussen took Janine’s hands; she shuddered at their clammy dampness, fought the urge to pull away and wipe her hand on her skirt. “You see, Janine,” he purred. “You are well able to get the information that is useful to me. I suggest you continue your…investigations.”
Finally, Janine could take it no more. She pulled her hands away, barely suppressing the tears, and muttered, “If that will be all, Mr. Magnussen, I’ll be goin’ now.” And without waiting to be dismissed, she grabbed her handbag and coat and ran out into the London night.
***
Without really being sure of her intentions, Janine felt her feet lead her onto the Tube and then to Baker Street. When she arrived at Sherlock’s flat, she rang the doorbell, still sniffling into her coat sleeve.
“Janine,” he said, perplexed, taking in her red face and teary eyes. He looked as if he was attempting to deduce what had happened and was coming up empty.
“I’m sorry, Sherl,” she said, voice breaking. “I shoulda called first, but I’ve had such a horrible day.” Without thinking, she flung herself into his arms, laying her forehead against the smooth silk of his camel dressing gown.
After a moment’s confused pause, Sherlock put his arms around her. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, not permanently,” she said. “It’s Mr. Magnussen. He just,” here she stumbled, unsure of how much to say. “…can be very mean when he’s not getting what he wants.”
She pulled back to look Sherlock in the eyes; he appeared to be mentally flipping through responses before settling warily on, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I don’t think so. I shouldn’ta come and bothered you. I just didn’t want to be alone,” she said, voice breaking.
Sherlock considered for a moment, then a genuine concern settled in his eyes. “No, nor should you be. Would you like,” he started, faltering, starting again. “I think you should stay here tonight,” he finished softly.
She smiled up at him through teary eyes. “Yes, I think I’d feel better,” she said.
She broke away to put down her handbag and drape her coat over the desk chair, pondering. They had only been seeing each other for a brief period; although they seemed to be getting along well, the physical side had been progressing slowly. Sherlock was clearly enjoying that aspect, but Janine knew that he was usually the one responsible for calling a halt to things before they reached their natural conclusion. She wondered how much she should assume about this invitation to spend the night.
“Of course, I’ll be sleepin’ on the couch,” she said with a bit of false brightness. “Just point me to an extra blanket and I’ll be fine.”
Sherlock turned a piercing gaze on her and looked to be battling with himself. He appeared to reach some sort of resolution, and his face relaxed into a small but warm smile. “No, with me,” he said.
After a while spent with Sherlock finding Janine some extra, clean towels and volunteering one of his blue button-downs for her to sleep in when they both realized she’d come straight from work without night clothes, Janine curled into the big sleigh bed in Sherlock’s bedroom. “A girl could get used to this,” she thought, feeling the silkiness of the sheets. How was it that a man who couldn’t seem to organize the top of his own desk or the cabinets in his own kitchen came into possession of sheets worthy of a luxury hotel? She pulled herself into a ball facing away from the door, conscious of not invading the space Sherlock was about to occupy and feeling rather battered after her day.
Minutes later, the light clicked off, and she felt the bed sink as Sherlock climbed into bed facing toward her back. The two said nothing as the minutes ticked by, the awkwardness of sharing a bed for the first time palpable in the room.
Then, Janine felt Sherlock’s hand on her back, ghosting over her shoulder blade and beginning to rub gentle, comforting, questioning circles. Janine uncoiled just a bit, leaning into the massage, giving silent permission and encouragement, until Sherlock reached around her, and, with one fluid move, took her around the waist and pulled her into him, her back flush with his front, his nose buried in her thick, dark locks.
“Good night, Janine,” he whispered. And they both dropped into a peaceful sleep.