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Not too long ago, Sherlock had started sleeping in John’s bed.
It had started on the day of Violet’s wake. After they arrived home, Sherlock was quiet the whole day and John let him be, leaving him to his thoughts.
Later that night, John was woken up by his bedroom door opening.
“What do you want?”
There was no reply, but Sherlock made his way over and climbed into John’s bed.
John wondered if he should find it weird, but figured that since Sherlock liked to nap on him, maybe it was only natural it would eventually affect the sleep too.
“You know your bed is bigger, right?”
“Hm.”
Sherlock didn’t sleep often, so John never knew when to expect him, but after the fifth time he woke up with an oversized cat on top of him, he started sleeping in Sherlock’s bigger bed.
Might as well be comfortable.
"Yoo hoo, boys!" Mrs Hudson called out one morning as she walked into the flat with a plate of scones. "I made too many so here you go, have them for breakfast. Oh, you really should make sure the front door is locked, you know!"
Sherlock grumbled as he walked out of the bedroom in his dressing gown, throwing himself onto the sofa and grabbing at a scone and just about shoved half of it into his mouth.
"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson tutted and shook her head. "Surely you have better manners than that."
"Mmh."
"Sorry about that, Mrs H," John said as he walked out of the bedroom too. "Thanks for the scones. Will you stay for tea?"
"Oh, no, I'm going to continue my crocheting project," Mrs Hudson said. "But thank you for the offer, dear. And oh, I knew you wouldn’t need the other bedroom, after all.”
After she left, John went to the kitchen to make tea, and then sat next to Sherlock on the sofa, placing the cup of tea in front of him.
"You're going to choke if you fall asleep while chewing," he said, gently running his hand through Sherlock's hair. "Sit up properly and eat."
"Mm, not sleeping," Sherlock mumbled. "Resting my eyes."
"If you say so."
"Yes, I do say so."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
After what happened with Violet, John had forgotten all about the code word thing. He only remembered when he opened the fridge to make a list of what they needed to buy more of and the thought of going to the supermarket reminded him of his meeting with Molly and the discussion that followed.
He also just remembered that he forgot to talk to Molly about the tea.
"Hey, Sherlock."
"No."
"I'm not asking you if you want anything specific from the shop," John rolled his eyes. “Do you trust me?”
Sherlock sat up on the sofa and stared at him strangely. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I was talking to Molly and she brought up—”
“John.”
“Yes?”
“Why do you ask?”
John blinked, staring at Sherlock for a while, before he grinned. “Because I’m not a genius and I missed the signs?”
“Hmph.”
“As I was saying, Molly brought up the idea of us having a secret code, like in spy movies.”
“Hm…”
“I’ll leave the secret code choice to you, something that isn’t common so you can recognise it easily.”
“Vatican cameos.”
“Hm?”
“It’s from a book I read once. About a detective making Vatican cameos.”
“Right. We can use that then. If you hear me say it, I want you to duck down and protect your head.”
“Just that?”
“Yes, I won’t use the code in situations where that won’t work.”
"Alright."
"Alright," John echoed. "I'm going out to the shop then. Don't go anywhere without me."
"Yes, yes, I know. Go already."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
John turned into the biscuits aisle and nearly bumped into Molly. He opened his mouth to greet her, but she was quicker.
“You’re sleeping with Sherlock now?”
John narrowed his eyes at Molly. "Is that how you young people greet others nowadays?" he asked. “Where did you even hear that from?”
Only Mrs Hudson (and probably Mycroft) knew about it so far, but there was always a possibility that Mrs Hudson had told someone else and that someone else was the one who told Molly.
“Not important! Is it true?”
“Yes, whenever he decides to sleep, I suppose.”
“Oh, you mean that kind of sleep.”
“Is that disappointment I hear, Miss Hooper?”
“Maybe. Anyway, did he agree to the tea?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Oh good. I already booked a table for us a long time ago since I don’t want to miss out. I would have had to recruit you into dragging him along if he said no."
"And you assume I would agree to it?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, I would."
"I knew it," Molly giggled. "Ah, well, it was nice meeting you, but I should head back now."
John waved at her and finished his own shopping before heading back to Baker Street. When he got back, he saw a woman walk up towards their building and wondered if she was a client.
"Can I help you?" he asked when he caught up to her.
The woman turned and he reconsidered his assumption that she might be a client. She was dressed nicely and didn't seem distraught nor distressed.
"Oh, my, hello there," the woman said flirtatiously.
"Sorry, not interested," John replied with a genial smile.
"Gay?"
"Pansexual, and I'm but a normal man. I can only handle one force of nature in my life."
"Oh?" she asked. "You know Sherlock Holmes."
So she knew Sherlock personally too, otherwise she wouldn't know what he was referring to.
"Yes, I live with him."
"Ah. I did wonder if Mrs H had found a new tenant for the other flat," she said. "Irene Adler."
"John Watson," he introduced himself. "Let me show you in."
He opened the door and let Irene through first. They walked upstairs and he opened the door for her again. She walked into the living room and stood in front of the sofa, looking down at Sherlock who was lying down on it, while John went to the kitchen to unpack the groceries.
"It's been a while, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked up at her and scowled. "Not nearly long enough. How did you get in?"
"Your... hm. Your John let me in."
"John," Sherlock turned to look at John with betrayal. "Aren't you supposed to be my bodyguard? Why did you let her in?"
John shrugged. "She posed no threat to you."
"Not physically, maybe, but don't you care for my sanity?"
"Not particularly."
"I'm hurt."
"No, you're not."
"And how would you know that?"
"Because I've said worse."
Sherlock frowned in thought. "Are you still talking about the fire? I already told you I'm not--ugh, fine, you win."
Irene watched the two in interest and made herself comfortable in the armchair. Sherlock sulked and pointedly looked the other way. John made some tea and served them the cups of tea before settling down on the sofa next to Sherlock.
"How can we help you?" he asked.
"I'm not helping anyone," Sherlock grumbled as he picked up his tea.
The other two ignored him and he once again mumbled about being disrespected in his own home.
"Have you heard of Blue Bolt?" Irene asked.
"The racehorse?" John asked.
"Mmhm," Irene nodded. "It was favoured to be the winner in the last race, but it lost quite spectacularly instead. The owner has since started receiving death threats. It might be a bluff, of course, but she would like to be safe than sorry, as most people do. There's another race soon, one she will have to attend, and they think that's when the sender will strike."
"And? What does that have to do with me?" Sherlock frowned. "Tell her to call the police or something."
"Our dear owner looks a bit like you," Irene said. "And if we hide your face behind a veil, it will be even harder to tell the difference."
"They don't think the threats are from an organised crime gang?" John asked.
"No, the threats are sloppy," Irene said. "Our prime suspects are a couple of people who lost a lot of money because they bet on the horse. I said a couple, but there are about twenty odd of them, so it's hard to pinpoint which one."
She then turned towards Sherlock and smirked. “And isn’t that what you do?” she asked, trailing a finger down his jaw. “Dress up to lure out criminals?”
Sherlock rolled her eyes at her. "Does Kate know the owner?"
"Ahem," Irene pulled back and cleared her throat. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because you would never protect this random owner out of the goodness of your black heart," Sherlock sneered.
"Rude."
"Still right."
Sherlock hummed as he finished his tea. "Fine," he said. "I'll do it."
Irene smirked. "Of course you would," she said. "Well, thank you, John. The tea was lovely. And I'll be in touch to discuss the dress fitting."
"Dress fitting?" Sherlock frowned.
"Of course," Irene said. "You will be wearing Gwendolyn's dress. Makes it more believable, don't you think?"
"Whatever."
As Irene left, John escorted her down to the street despite Sherlock's protests ("She can show herself out!").
"You knew he would take the case."
"Of course I do," Irene said. "He's been bored, hasn't he? No new cases and nothing to do. Dear Detective Inspector has been withholding cases from him, wanting to give him space or something. Tsk. I say nothing will get him back into his element faster than a good case."
John smiled. "Or a fun day out at the race?"
Irene barked out a laugh. "Oh, I like you," she said. "Pity he found you first."
"No," John shook his head. "I found him."
He watched her go, and as he made his way back upstairs, he wondered if Sherlock was being clueless or deliberately obtuse. Either way, he was glad that there were quite a few people who looked out for him.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The next morning after breakfast, John told Sherlock they were going out. Sherlock didn't even ask where they were going and simply followed, and John wondered if he had developed cabin fever during the past two weeks.
"A shooting range?"
“I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”
“You think there’s more than one?”
“Just in case there’s more than one.”
“But not more than two.”
“It should be hard enough to sneak a weapon into such an event. I don’t think anyone reckless enough to try and shoot a racehorse owner because they can’t take responsibility for their own gambling problems will have the mental capacity to organise a bigger group than that.”
Sherlock whistled. “Talk dirty to me, Doctor.”
John snorted. “You’re a menace. Just because I don’t insult people to their faces like you do doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes insult them in my head.”
Sherlock laughed. "You should do it more often," he said. "Or maybe not. Wouldn't want the novelty to wear off."
As they practiced, John wondered if he should be surprised or should have expected Sherlock taking to it like a duck to water. He was calm and his aim was pretty good, although John wondered if Sherlock would be affected by the idea of shooting someone. After all, shooting a target was different to shooting a living, breathing human.
"Don't worry about it."
"Hm?"
"I won't shoot to kill."
John chuckled. "Are you a mind reader now?"
"No, you're just predictable," Sherlock huffed. "So don't worry about me getting blood on my hands. I won't shoot to kill and I won't even shoot if you don't tell me to, okay?"
"Alright," John conceded. "Just make sure you remember that."
They left the range and went to the front to find a cab. John looked at his watch and noted that it was just past lunch time.
"Lunch?" he asked.
"Not hungry," came the expected answer.
"We could go to Angelo's," John said. "Get the tiramisu, but you'll have to eat lunch first."
Sherlock scowled, stewing over the decision of agreeing to lunch if it meant he could satisfy his sweet tooth. When they got into a cab, Sherlock gave the address to Angelo's, so John counted it as a win.
"Oh, if it isn't my favourite couple," Angelo greeted them cheerily. "Come, come, the best seat is always yours."
The two took a seat and John ordered the prawn ravioli with pistachio and brown butter to share. The food didn't take long to arrive, and if Sherlock noticed that the portion was much bigger than usual, he didn't comment on it.
John started eating, pointing at the other fork to tell Sherlock to eat, but the other refused to pick it up. With a sigh, he paused eating and picked up the other fork, trying to feed Sherlock who still refused to eat.
"Come now, don't be so difficult," John coaxed. "Or do you want me to do the airplane thing?"
"Don't you dare," Sherlock hissed.
"Mm, because you know I would," John said with a wide smile. "Open up, dear Sherlock. Here comes the--"
Sherlock snatched the fork from John's hand and shoved the ravioli into his mouth, chewing angrily as he glared at a laughing John.
"Adorable," John cooed, picking up a tissue to dab at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, where some pasta sauce had ended up. "Will you eat properly now?"
"Ugh, fine."
The rest of the lunch went well. There was a reason Sherlock kept going back to Angelo's after all, and not only because they got free meals. He liked the food there, and he only refused to eat in the beginning out of spite.
"Some dessert before you go?" Angelo asked as he cleared the plate from their table.
"Of course," John smiled. "I promised him the tiramisu."
The tiramisu came shortly, and John simply watched fondly as Sherlock began to eat without prompting.
He was about to finish the last spoonful of the tiramisu, but paused and looked at John curiously. "Do you want some?"
John laughed, but deep inside he felt flattered that Sherlock actually stopped to offer him some. "No, that's alright," he said. "It's your reward for being so good."
Sherlock glared at him, then went to finish the last spoonful while John went to the counter to settle the bill. Angelo waved him off when he tried to pay, and handed him another portion of tiramisu to go.
"You're spoiling him," John said.
"No, he's not!" Sherlock protested as he snatched the bag with the tiramisu and left to go find them a cab.
Angelo laughed. "You're spoiling him too."
John grinned. "Never said I'm not."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The next morning after breakfast (eggs and a peanut butter cup as incentive), Irene sent a text with a time and address.
"For the dress fitting?" John asked.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Even if any adjustment is required, it'll probably with a temporary solution. The race day is this weekend and they wouldn't want to alter the dress permanently to fit me."
"Unless they give it to you as payment," John said. "But you already have too many dresses."
"Don't be silly," Sherlock said. "You can never have too many. How else am I supposed to throw them all onto my bed and complain I don't have anything to wear?"
"You know if Molly knew you said that, she would hit you, right?"
"Then let's make sure she never finds out."
They arrived at the address at the mentioned time, and Irene ushered them in to the living room before introducing them to Gwendolyn.
The moment he saw her, he understood why Irene had looked for Sherlock. They were both tall and reedy, with high cheekbones and an angular face. Gwendolyn was slightly shorter, but if she wore heels and Sherlock didn't, they would be roughly the same height. If people were to look at both of them from behind, they might not be able to tell the difference.
"Sorry for the trouble," Gwendolyn said, "and thank you for doing this. I thought it was a bit much, but I do agree it's better to be safe than sorry."
"Yes, yes, and unfortunately, we don't all have our John, do we?" Irene said.
"What makes you think you deserve a John?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Since when am I 'a John'?" John protested.
"Well, you're one of many Johns, aren't you?"
John sighed and Gwendolyn only laughed.
"Come on," Irene said, grabbing Sherlock's arm and dragging him into the bedroom. "You two wait here."
The door closed and John and Gwendolyn were left in the living room. They looked at each other, shrugged, and settled down on the sofa.
"That's your partner?"
John shrugged. "It's complicated," he said. "We live together."
"But you're his John."
"That seems to be the general consensus, yes."
Inside, a teal-coloured dress was laid out on the bed. Sherlock picked it up and to look at it. It was a sleeveless dress with high collar and mermaid skirt, and next to it was a matching teal-coloured fascinator, with a bow and feathers and a mesh veil.
Irene helped him put the dress on, pulling at the dress and pinning it with small clothespin at the spots where it hung a bit loose, then helped clip the fascinator in place.
"I wonder, would he be able to pick you out from a crowd like this?" Irene asked, smoothing the mesh veil over Sherlock's face.
"Of course."
"You have a lot of faith in him."
"No," Sherlock said. "I do not expect any less from him."
Outside, Gwendolyn and John were talking about the threats, and she showed them to John, who agreed with Irene's assessment that the threats were quite sloppy.
"I really hope nothing happens," Gwendolyn said. "Hopefully this is just us being paranoid. I would hate if anything happens to him because of me."
"Don't worry about it."
The two turned and saw Sherlock and Irene standing by the door.
"John is a professional."
"So I am," John said. "You look good."
Sherlock smirked. "Of course I do."
"It looks good on you," Gwendolyn said. "I have another dress you could try, but I think this looks good."
"This is fine. I suppose now we just need to decide what you'll do on the day," he said to John.
"Oh, don't worry about it," John said. "I've talked to Anthea about it. We've... made an arrangement."
"Hm. If you say so."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The day of the race arrived, and they all went to the race track. Sherlock and Irene made their way to their section, where the VIP guests were, standing close to the fence separating them from the track. Gwendolyn had stayed home, watching the coverage of the race on telly instead, and John was off to do whatever he had to do.
"He's quite hot, isn't he?" Irene asked.
"Hm."
"A bit short, though."
Sherlock glared at her. "Tell me something I don't know."
"Have you two fucked yet?"
"Language," Sherlock hissed. "And no."
"Pity. I wonder how he is in bed."
"You can keep wondering."
The two turned and saw John, dressed in a wait staff uniform, standing next to them with a tray of champagne.
"Would you beautiful ladies like some bubbly?" he asked with a charming smile.
"Oh, I like him," Irene smirked. "No chance of finding out?"
John chuckled. "Only one force of nature in my life, remember?"
"Well, I could be the one."
John looked at her, then at Sherlock, and smiled. "No," he said softly. "You couldn't."
They arrived late enough that the race started not too long after, because they all knew Sherlock wouldn't be able to stand still and wait long for the race to start.
Blue Bolt won the race, and John stood on standby, sweeping his eyes over the crowd. If there was anyone who targeted Gwendolyn, this would certainly make it worse, as they lost their money on the one race that the horse lost, before it won again.
As if Gwendolyn had any say on how the race ended.
A local news station had a reporter there and had asked for a quick interview with Blue Bolt's owner. It was as Sherlock and Irene made their way towards the reporter that John saw someone point a gun at them.
"Vatican cameos!"
Sherlock ducked down while John pushed Irene down as well. He pulled out his gun and shot the gunman in the knee before he could recover from the recoil, then dashed over to disarm him and knock him out. A second gunshot rang out while he knocked the gunman out, but he didn't flinch as he was expecting it.
With the gunman unconscious, he stood up and turned. Sherlock was still holding a handgun and John went towards the direction he was aiming at, and quickly knocked out the other gunman, who had been shot in the shoulder.
The security guards hurried over towards them, and called the police and ambulance. The people watching nearby were evacuated, and the interview was canceled. With the gunmen taken care of, John went back towards Sherlock and Irene to check up on them.
"I did wonder why you were pushing me down instead of Sherlock. You two have a secret code? Who came up with that idea?"
"A friend," John said, remembering his discussion with Molly at Tesco. He should probably thank her for the idea.
They stayed long enough to give the police their statements, and then Irene left to check on Gwendolyn, and the two left to return home. They left the racecourse and soon enough was on a cab home.
"Good shot."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to compliment yourself, instructor?"
"Who, me?" John grinned, then patted Sherlock's head. "You alright?"
"Yes, John, I'm fine," Sherlock said. "I didn't kill him."
"No, you didn't," John agreed. "But that was still the first time you shot someone."
"I'm fine," Sherlock said, leaning back onto the seat. "I told you, I won't do it unless you tell me to."
"Hm. Then I hope you won't ever have to again."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Gwendolyn had offered them payment for the trouble, but Sherlock declined, so she sent a box of high quality chocolate and cacao powder instead.
John had a feeling Irene was aware of Sherlock’s sweet tooth and had suggested the choice of present to her.
“If I make some cupcakes,” John started, watching in amusement as Sherlock sat up straight on the sofa, looking over in interest, “will you eat proper lunch before dessert?”
“Ugh,” Sherlock threw himself back down onto the sofa. “Is this another of your tricks again? I told you to stop manipulating me.”
“Is this another dramatic Sherlock moment again?” John teased. “Lunch before dessert and that’s final.”
Sherlock scowled. “Chocolate?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve learned my lesson after the raisin incident.”
Sherlock humphed. “As you should.”
What was the raisin incident, you ask?
Well, John got a box of raisins as a sample from a new brand and decided to make some muffins with it. The spoiled brat (rightly, John had to admit) assumed it was for him and swiped one from the tray, taking a bite from it before making a face and complained to Molly and Lestrade that John hated him.
Molly texted back and told him it must be a misunderstanding. Lestrade happened to be nearby and decided to drop in and check in on them.
“What did you do?”
Sherlock looked offended. “I told you he hates me and you ask what I did?”
“Well, yeah. There must be something, right?”
John sighed. “I made raisin muffins.”
“Oh,” Lestrade said before he made a face, then turned towards Sherlock. “Okay, I understand, but let’s keep a lid on the theatrics a bit next time, yeah?”
"You two are such kids," John shook his head. "I'm going to see if Mrs H appreciates the muffins."
And so since then, John learned better and never brought raisins back to Baker Street again, even if it was free.
Anyway, ever since the first success, John had started dangling the promise of dessert as an incentive for Sherlock to eat. He hadn't had as much practice baking as he had now, living with Sherlock, and Sherlock had started asking if he could bake increasingly difficult ones.
He agreed, but with the condition that the level of difficulty would be proportional to how full a meal he had before dessert, and so the pastries and entremets were saved for when they were between cases and Sherlock was more likely to eat a full meal.
John watched in amusement as Sherlock sat, still deciding whether he wanted chocolate cupcakes enough to eat a proper meal beforehand, so he decided to bring out the big guns.
"Or I can make opera cake," John mused, looking down at the box of chocolate. "This is some good chocolate."
"Fine!" Sherlock shouted, dramatically flopping down on the sofa. "I suppose we're between cases now."
Well, that was quick.
So he started working on the cake, and while the cake baked, he cooked their lunch; a simple chicken stir fry with rice.
They ate together while the cake cooled, and Sherlock waited impatiently while John assembled the cake. He didn't bother writing anything on the top chocolate layer since it was just for them, and cut a slice each for them.
John watched fondly as Sherlock ate the cake. He was humming and looking pleased with himself, although John couldn't figure out why, since it wasn't him who bought or made the cake.
Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock knew just how much power and influence he had over John, and other times he hoped the other didn't. If Sherlock had insisted that John still bake him something even if he refused to eat, he knew he wouldn't be able to say no.
Sherlock finished his cake, then stared pointedly at John and his slice of cake that was still untouched. With a sigh, John pushed the plate towards him, and Sherlock grabbed it before John could have second thoughts about feeding him another slice of cake.
Well, as long as he didn't abuse the power, it should be fine.
And maybe that was what all of them, who kept spoiling him, told themselves to make themselves feel better.