Son of the sherlockbbc_fills

[mesmiranda]

Snow White and Rose Red
Sherlock/girl!John, Jim/girl!Sebastian, R, 3288 words.

Without context, two attractive women wrestling each other and tearing at each other's clothes sounds very interesting indeed.

However, one of those women is Joanna Watson, and the other is Sylvia Moran, and Sylvia has a high-powered fully-loaded sniper rifle and Joanna has her Oyster card and some spare change in one pocket, and it's possible Sylvia has just broken Joanna's wrist and she definitely wants to kill her.

But don't let me stop you from writing that prompt, if you want.

--

On Thursday Joanna orders the salmon carpaccio with wasabi sauce; Wednesday she got the pad thai with shrimp, Tuesday was the saffron-coated lamb kofta, and Monday was some flat, tasteless vegetable salad. Right now she's pushing her fork around her plate and watching Sherlock, who is staring across the room. "Is Mycroft really going to pick up the bill for all these restaurants?"

"It's part of a case," he says absently, hands folded in that very precise gesture of his. Joanna takes a peek over her wineglass: he's watching a couple by the window. They're in their early twenties, and the girl covering her mouth and giggling incessantly while the boy teases her. He's leaning close; she's biting on her lip and clapping both hands over her face. Two more seconds of this and Joanna's going to be diabetic.

"Yeah? What did they do?" she asks in an undertone, nodding her head.

There's a moment's flare of panic in his eyes, and she's bewildered, and then he shrugs. "Jewel theft, nothing important. Tell me about your clinic duties today."

He's asked her that every night they've gone out, like he's checking something off a list. Is there something going on at the hospital? "Well, a man had smallpox today," she says brightly.

"Smallpox is--"

"Oh, I know," she assures him. "I know. The entire hospital knows. But Goddammit, this man has smallpox, and he's a British citizen with rights, you know."

"So what did you do?" He's actually focused on her now, with a half-smile.

"Got shouted at," she says ruefully. "Prescribed hydrocortisone for his eczema. He left saying he was going to drop dead in a week and get the hospital shut down."

"While dead?"

"Maybe," Joanna laughs, "I mean, you haven't met this man," and as she laughs Sherlock is smiling like there's some kind of victory involved, but she can't imagine what it is.

(On Wednesday he thought he had the perfect couple to observe, but they ended up fighting by the end of the meal and both of them stormed out. Tuesday he only got to watch for fifteen minutes before the middle-aged couple in black were gathering up their coats. Monday's couple was all right, but then the girl kissed the back of her date's hand and the thought of Joanna doing that sent his fork clattering across the table. "Tired," he'd muttered as Joanna froze, startled, and grabbed it back and dug into his plate.)

They're talking, and Sherlock is watching Joanna now, and it says something very important that he hasn't noticed the table across the restaurant from them.

Jim Moriarty has noticed him, though.

"I'm having the brownie cheesecake for dessert," Sylvia mutters, head bent over the menu. Her hair is glossy-black in the candlelight, falling in perfect silky curls over her shoulders . "That's my only indulgence of the night, Jim."

"What about after the restaurant?" Jim teases, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face.

Sylvia smiles, and it's all teeth and red lips and someone is going to bleed in tonight's bed. One day he'll break her down properly, past her silly, meaningless safeword, past all protest, and then he'll have no limits to what he can do and he can put a knife in her hand and it'll all be perfect. He'll break every bone in her body and reshape it how he wants, and she'll let him, because she'll be his, and she'll be beautiful. They'll be beautiful together.
Across the restaurant Joanna Watson's face is lit up by the candle on the table, all aglow. Aflame, burning. Jim turns to Sylvia and smiles back.

(The boy's stolen a couple of pieces of chicken from his partner's plate, and she's laughing at him between her fingers. Easy as that, Sherlock thinks. Of course it is.)

--

They don't go out together on Friday--Sherlock can't manufacture an excuse. But he goes for a walk in the dreary wet gray and huddles into his coat, scarf up about his ears, and watches people strolling by.

Two girls, walking arm in arm, one with her hair clipped short and one with a thousand layers of clothing. They're not talking, but they're utterly content. The taller one wraps her arm around the shorter one's shoulders, hugs her close, and they grin at each other.

If he did that, Joanna would be just the right height to lean her head against his shoulder. He'd have to keep to one side to make room for the cane, though.

The taller girl holds the door open for the shorter girl, gesturing her inside, and they disappear into a coffee shop. Sherlock trudges along past it, pointedly ignoring a CCTV camera that swivels in his direction and rounding the corner. He's got nowhere in mind, no purpose. It's not working: his brain is still stuck.

--

When Sylvia crawls into bed beside him, she still smells faintly of cordite and iron.

He turns her over and pins her wrists to the bed above her head, bites down hard on her mouth. She struggles against him, twisting, and he chuckles deep in his throat.

(He wants a violent fight, a fight for her life, a real fight. He wants to see utter despair and hopelessness in her eyes, heartbreak, and then he's going to soothe it away, he's going to be the only one who can do that, ever.)

She loves it that she can claw at him, bare her nails and teeth, get a little rough. The other guys she's slept with get scared of her, slip away and make excuses and stop calling, but with Jim she can get as wild as she wants and it doesn't matter.

Because he cares about her. He really does.

"Who'd you shoot, darling?" he murmurs, his Irish accent thick as he drags her underwear down to her knees. She tilts her hips up, helping him, sighs with pleasure.

"Nobody important," she says, settling back with her legs crooked up as he lowers himself over her, still keeping her wrists in a painful grip. She tells him, and he laughs and thrusts bluntly into her, leaving bruises everywhere with his mouth and fingers--he lets her wrists go, she keeps them stretched up above her head--and he says her name once when he comes. It's too dark in the room to see his face.

--
Sherlock stands silently by Lestrade's bedside. Joanna slips an arm around his waist and leans her head against his shoulder.

She thinks of herself as a half-hearted blonde. It's dirty blonde verging on mousy brown; she's dyed it platinum before, because at least that settles it on a single colour, but she hasn't bothered since before the war. Her hair gets tangled up in the brush, and lies flat and limp no matter how hard she tries with the curling iron, and is altogether very, very boring. When she runs her hands through it, it's to push it back from her face or sigh with frustration.

Sherlock's hair is dark and messy, and it looks very dark and very messy right now against his drained-white face, and if she could run one hand through it she's certain she'd feel much better.

But that wanting is nothing new. And Lestrade is lying there and Sherlock had seen a red dot hovering over him in the instant before, like the touch of a fingertip.

--

When Joanna sees flowers in the flat, sitting on the table, her first thought is 'experiment'. In this flat, with Sherlock, God knows a weird vomit-coloured stain on the carpet or an empty milk carton could be an experiment.

"Oi," she calls out to him; he's just stepping inside, pulling off his scarf. "What're these for? One of your cases?"

Sherlock's face closes up for a minute. "Lestrade," he says abruptly, "they're for Lestrade, you're supposed to bring flowers to people in hospitals."

Joanna raises an eyebrow.

"Mycroft left them here," he mutters, and stomps off to his room. Why would Mycroft--oh. Oh. That's. That's something she hadn't expected.

Joanna shrugs with a faint grin, and goes to find some water for the bouquet. They're beautiful, an armful of cream-coloured calla lilies--they must have cost Mycroft a fortune. Lucky DI Lestrade. Poor Sherlock must be throwing a fit right about now.

--

Sylvia pulls the trigger and feels the sharp crack, running up through her arms and in her veins. It's a perfect headshot, the victim crumples up lifeless. Down there it's all wet splatter and oozing of blood and brain matter--up here it looks almost clean, clinical. Beautiful.

She disassembles her gear and locks the door behind herself, taking the elevator down. By the time people start scrambling into the building, searching for the shooter, she's halfway down the street.

It only takes a moment and a couple of text messages to confirm the deposit into her offshore account. She buys herself lunch to celebrate, something ridiculously gooey and chocolatey, and leaves a hundred-pound tip for the waiter.

The plumbing doesn't work in the hotel room she's rented that night, and she's lost one of her heels--worse than losing both, and these were an expensive pair--but it's still a good day.

--

When Joanna comes down to breakfast there's a full mug sitting in front of her place, and she's taken aback, and Sherlock stares resolutely down at the paper without blinking.

"Thanks," she says at last, warm clear through, catching Sherlock's eye to make sure he gets the smile and picking the mug up for a lingering sip.

Sherlock sees her face two seconds later and peers into the kettle, then grabs her mug and tosses the contents into the sink. "No, really, please don't tell me what was in there," she's still protesting, even as they're walking down the street towards Scotland Yard.

--
"Anderson, once you get back from recess, check the man's background and known associates--" Sherlock is ordering. They're exiting a museum after examining a dead body wearing a period-authentic medieval knight costume, in the middle of the Chinese pottery display, and that is far from the weirdest thing Joanna's ever seen.

"No, you listen up, just because the DI's not here doesn't mean we have to put up with your shit--" Anderson returns, gesturing furiously. Dimmock is backing Anderson up, arms folded. They're sliding into the daily shouting match early today; behind Sherlock's back, Joanna shoots an apologetic glance at Donovan.

And immediately leaps at her--two seconds too late.

They tumble down the stairs in a breathless pile, Joanna on top of Donovan. Donovan jerked all over and now she's gasping for air, fumbling at her clothes with shaky hands to see. "Stop it, don't move," Joanna is ordering her, putting pressure on the wound with both hands, and Anderson is cradling Donovan's head and babbling her name, and people on the street are turning to stare. Sherlock is already off and running towards the building opposite, Dimmock in tow.

A perfectly steady red dot tracks across Donovan's body and up Joanna's arm. Donovan is shivering with shock. Joanna doesn't turn around, doesn't look up, but keeps Donovan held steady and staunches the flow of blood as best as she can and talks in the softest, most soothing voice she can manage. Anderson's face is broken open and devastated, and as the ambulance comes wailing down the street she reaches out and grips his shoulder.

--

"Stop, stop," Sylvia moans, arching her back as Jim draws the knife down her inner thigh and a thin crimson line wells up. "Oh God--Jim, stop."

Jim bends his head to lick the blood up, tongue hot and greedy, twisting the point of the knife in deep to draw more and sucking hard. Sylvia cries out incoherently, grabs at his hair. He snarls back at her.

"Jim, stop, stop," she's begging, her voice ruined, and his hand tightens around her leg and his grip tightens on the knife--on an unsteady breath--and then she's saying, "Toulon," over and over, panicked, her safeword, and he shuts his eyes and lets go.

He keeps his face turned away from her as he gets dressed. The disappointment is so heavy inside him, so nauseating. Sylvia watches him with her words stuck in her throat, and feels a sudden chill all over.

--

"I have a lead on Sylvia Moran," says Sherlock quietly, and Joanna looks up.

That night, after they've gotten off the plane and booked the hotel, Joanna takes him out to dinner. He doesn't look after any couples; they eat mostly in silence. When they walk back to the hotel Joanna takes his hand--her hands are very small, almost dainty, surgeon's hands with callused fingers, and Sherlock's hands are very large.

(Any other time he'd jerk back, flinch nervously. He'd been imagining her fingertips on his skin for so long now, calculating the exact texture and warmth, and he couldn't tell whether he was hopeful or terrified. Now he finds, to his surprise, that having her hand in his is absolutely necessary.)

The cane doesn't cause any problems.

--
Without context, two attractive women wrestling each other and tearing at each other's clothes sounds very interesting indeed--

Sylvia kicks at Joanna's kneecaps, making her buckle, and makes a mad dash for Joanna's gun lying on the floor. Joanna grabs at her jacket and drags her backwards, pulling at her hair and pinning one arm behind her back. They're fighting tooth and nail, grunting and swearing and sweaty, and Joanna's nose is bloodied and her wrist hurts like almighty hell.

Sylvia wrenches herself around and sends Joanna crashing to the floor, knocking the wind out of her. She scrambles to her elbows, her head spinning and nearly blinded white with pain, when she sees Sylvia raising Joanna's gun.

Sylvia fires.



In the hospital Joanna gets a bouquet of calla lilies, with a card attached. It reads: These are actually from me this time. Feel better soon. --MH

In the streets of Paris, Sylvia looks down at her Blackberry as she walks. There are seven text messages, all from Jim, and one missed call. She stuffs her phone back in her bag and heads down the steps, going underground to wait for the next train.

Once she's sitting next to the window she allows herself to fold up inside, small and miserable and very, very tense. She's hurting all over. But nothing shows on her face, nobody can see a single trace, and she's proud of herself for that.

--

"She's awake," Sherlock tells Joanna in the cab as they leave the hospital--his face is still drawn, thin lines and blue-black bruises under his eyes. "And Lestrade was discharged yesterday."

"Into the care of Mycroft," Joanna says sleepily, still floating around on the drugs as she tips her head back to listen to him.

"Joanna, I deleted that," he complains, making a face.

"I bet Lestrade's getting lots of bed rest."

"Joanna."

"Sorry," she says drowsily, cracking a grin, and reaches up to run a hand through Sherlock's hair. It's unexpectedly soft to the touch as it slides through her fingers. She should make a joke about hair products but she's too sleepy think of one. "That really does make me feel better."

"What does?" The baritone cracks--she didn't think that was possible.

"Touching your hair. I wanted to do that before, but I was being sensible and you were being married to your work. But now it's all so easy. I'll stop in a minute, I just wanted--"

Sherlock kisses her. It's at the wrong angle and it's horrifically awkward, more uncomfortable than anything, and she's blank with confusion when he pulls back. His eyes change in an instant--she can see his heart plummeting in a sickening drop--and she gets it.

"Calla lilies were my mum's favourite," she tells him, her hand still in his hair, "my father always kept them around the house growing up." And kisses him properly.

--
Sylvia sits alone in the hotel room, a pistol underneath her pillow and her gear hidden underneath the mattress. She's checked every window and bolted the door shut. She's got her arms wrapped around her knees and her hair loose over her shoulders, a mass of untidy curls, her eyes staring straight ahead at nothing as she sits unmoving on the bed.

In London Jim has his laptop open and balanced on his knees as he sits cross-legged on the bed--he's typing. The bedside lamp is turned on and casting a warm glow over everything. His face looks composed and normal as he works, except his eyes, which are very, very black. His hands are barely shaking anymore. He's fine. He'll find her. It's fine.

--

Sherlock and Joanna are lying in bed together and Joanna is laughing, but not at him, she's kissing him, mouthing along his throat and wrists and shoulders as she works his shirt off. His brain is shorting out like a light bulb sputtering, flickering out, and he can't get any air into his lungs no matter how hard he keeps trying. "It's not supposed to be serious, it's ridiculous," she's telling him, tracing the lines of his ribs and kissing him--firm, sealing kisses, stopping his attempts to breathe normally altogether--her mouth is softer than he could have ever guessed or imagined, and he decides he's gone completely insane.

"Ridiculous," he manages.

"Absolutely, think about it--"
"I can't," Sherlock grinds out desperately, because that's what she's doing to him, and Joanna laughs again and takes both his hands, pulling him down onto the bed and showing him what to do.

He gets his brain back again much later, when Joanna is lying quiet and warm against his shoulder--still naked, her hand touching his arm and her knee nudging against his. Her skin is surprisingly soft, like her mouth. The bullet wound is still jagged around the edges, a mass of scar tissue; Sherlock thinks of the Arabic tradition, the one flaw in a work of art that saves it from the sacrilege of perfection.

Joanna is blasphemous, he thinks, and tilts his head towards her. She rests her hand on his stomach and looks up at him. "I'm not very good at this," he says quietly.

"Neither am I," she says simply, with a shrug, and rests her chin against his chest with a smile. "In fact, I probably could use some practice."

"Practice," says Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, only until Robert Downey Jr. comes along," Joanna says serenely, the corners of her mouth twitching, and Sherlock flings a pillow at her and almost tumbles her off the bed. Then he finds out she's ticklish, and she can't escape, and altogether it's eleven-thirty in the morning when she wakes up again beside him.

"Practice for the rest of my life," she says quietly in his ear as she gets up, almost certain he's asleep. (He's not. But he doesn't move, and she disappears into the bathroom before he draws a long, shaky breath.)



The fundamental things apply / As time goes by
Sherlock/John, PG, 1610 words of sappy nonsense.

John doesn't remember this at the right moment later, but it's relevant:

"Do you mind if I ask a question?"

Sherlock makes an absent noise. Of course, in his voice, it comes out deep and rich and velvety, and this is very much one of the things John hates about him. He's absolutely clear about that part.

"Mycroft said your father gave that to you..." John nods to the violin in his hands.

"That's right."

"Is it really a Stradivarius?"

"Yes, it's the Lord Dunn-Raven Stradivarius, I have the certificate of authentication. It dates back to 1710." Sherlock shrugs and keeps tuning, humming the right pitch under his breath.

"1710--" John stares, stunned, unable to blink or shake his head. "Christ, Sherlock, that's. That's got to be worth millions."

"I suppose so." Sherlock doesn't lift his eyes from the strings. "My father never said where he got it. He would sit and listen to me play on my first violin, before he left, and then on my twentieth birthday this came through Mycroft."

John doesn't look away from his face. He was supposed to be shocked about a priceless antique and now he's wondering about that day in Sherlock's history--about a twenty-year-old Sherlock, just grown into his nose and cheekbones and elbows, tall and gangly and whip-thin. He wonders if Mycroft was there to give it to him. He wonders if Sherlock's father's heard him play since.

"Who gave you your first violin?" he asks, putting the newspaper aside.
"Mycroft," said Sherlock. His voice is very carefully neutral. "He saved up with Mummy's help. He said it was to keep me quiet for once, and Mummy laughed and said he'd regret saying that in twenty-four hours."

John nods, keeping quiet, watches as Sherlock plays a couple of notes. They're tuneless, out of sorts. Before he'd get up and go but he has a feeling--an instinct--it's okay to stay at Sherlock's side right now, when he's being unguarded. It's another wall down. John is nothing if not patient.

Finally Sherlock settles into something slow and stately and classical, and John relaxes as he listens. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson--tidying up dishes in the sink--utters silent thanks that it's not that noisy rubbish and replaces two glasses in the cupboard.

(It's only much later that John will notice how Sherlock flinches and changes the subject if anyone mentions his father.)

--

This is a month later, then:

"This is really stupid."

"Oh, come on, John..."

"This is really stupid."

"It's for charity!"

"This is really fucking stupid."

"John, we're in the paediatric ward."

"I am not signing on for a kissing booth!"

"No, you're not, I already signed you on."

"You bloody well haven't!"

"I knew you'd disagree, and quite frankly you're the best-looking bloke we've got, you're our only shot."

"What the--how the hell do you figure that?"

"We polled all the nurses, they agree. And stop swearing in front of the five-year-old cancer patients."

"Come off it, they only agree because I bring them coffee and muffins, and it's--it's not happening! I'm not doing it!"

"Oh, you hear that, kids? Dr. Watson here hates joy and happiness, you remember that the next time he comes to check up on you."

"This isn't funny! It's sexual harassment in the workplace!"

"John, it's just one night, please. I'll be there to take the donations and I promise you don't have to kiss anybody you don't want to. I swear."

"I really, really hate you for this."

"Excellent! I'm going to get a signup list ready."

"A signup for what--no, Morgan, get back here!"
--
Three days later:

The party's in full swing. The corridors are blaring with music, there are decorations dangling everywhere, people are clinking glasses and laughing. Apparently there's going to be a magician coming in later, and there's some sort of silent auction thing at one of the tables.

In the past two hours, they've raised twenty-eight pounds for charity. Mostly from the nurses. One from a very enthusiastic Torchwood fan--he's not entirely certain what that was about, but she seemed quite nice.

He'd demanded a drink but was told it would ruin his breath, and now sits morosely in the booth--three cardboard walls taped together--as the music switches tracks. Morgan is chatting up a doctor from the maternity ward, leaning against the wall and hanging on her every word; a kid in a hospital gown gets wheeled by, prattling non-stop to her attendant and giggling madly about something. He waves to her and folds his arms, kicking one foot idly as he represses a sigh.

His mobile beeps and he fishes it out:

Isn't your shift over by now? -SH

Bollocks! He hunches over to type the response, quick as possible. Sorry, I forgot to tell you I got tricked into doing this idiot kissing booth thing. Be back at the flat soon just after I kill Morgan. -JW

One of the male nurses, Williams, comes up with his wife--a pretty young redhead in a short skirt--and she teases him until they both hand over a pound each. Nurse Williams is game enough to give him a short peck on the lips, as his wife Amy laughs herself silly; they're clearly ridiculously and foolishly in love, and John can't help grinning.

It's only after they've disappeared down the hallway that he realises his mobile's pinged again. Kissing booth? -SH

It's a thing where people hand over money to get a kiss from you, we're doing a pound per kiss. It's all for the hospital and it's horrifically embarrassing, I'm off as soon as I'm able. See you soon. - JW

Too late: John feels his face heating up as he sends the text. He stuffs his mobile deep in his pocket and scrubs at his cheeks, glaring at Morgan as Morgan smiles serenely back with the grace and dignity of someone who's got a pretty nurse's number newly programmed into his mobile. Sod his breath, he really needs alcohol right now.

He doesn't get his wish. He does get his hair mussed up a bit, and a smudge of lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and seven more pounds for charity.
And then he's just about to chuck it, make a break for the washroom and mercifully drown himself, and he hears Sherlock's voice and he's pretty sure he's hallucinating.
"What," says John dumbly as Sherlock pulls back the cardboard walls and steps inside.

"I see they haven't let you out at all this evening," Sherlock says with one eyebrow up. He's in his scarf and overcoat and he's got his hands in his pockets, and he looks so much like normal that John has an odd moment of wondering if he's being rescued by some case or experiment.

"I'm the only person Morgan got to agree," he says, flushing in spite of himself. He's certain he hates that scarf and he's fairly sure he hates that coat, and he really does hate the way Sherlock's hair curls over his forehead and the mole on his neck.

"Dr. Morgan said all the nurses voted for you," Sherlock says, raising both eyebrows now. Dryly, clinically.

"You talked to him?"

"Of course I did. I gave him a five-pound note."

"You wh--"

It's cut off instantly.

The first kiss is not awful. It's chaste, both lips closed, an even pressure as John's eyes flutter closed in shock. Sherlock's mouth is firm and warm, testing, insistent and demanding a reaction.

He reacts. He tips the angle right, draws them closer together, nudges Sherlock's lips apart. The second kiss is like a pin being pulled on a grenade.

The third kiss comes after a gasp for air--John's hands are tugging at the lapels of Sherlock's coat and Sherlock is dragging his hands through John's hair, pulling at it, his lips are going to bruise like this and Sherlock tastes of cigarette smoke and chemicals and ashes and fire, that's his tongue, those are his teeth sinking into John's mouth like he wants to tear him apart and eat him--

Sherlock breaks away, sucks a vicious mark over John's neck as his fingers tighten against the back of John's head. And exhales, panting, and stares down at John with wild, desperate, panicked eyes.

"That was only four," John manages, tipping his head up to look straight at Sherlock.

That look disappears. "The fifth is on reserve for when you get home," Sherlock murmurs, in that voice John hates so much it drives him mad, and traces the outline of the mark he's made on John's throat. "Which is going to be very soon indeed."

"Hey, I'm raising money for the hospital here," John croaks, "I'm performing a public service."

"No," Sherlock counters, leaning close, "no more kissing anybody else. Not ever."

He has to make himself leave. John sees his hands shake as he unknots them from John's jumper, sees the way his body sways like's he reeling drunk. He makes a move to pull Sherlock back in, and the look on the man's face sends a shiver through him from head to foot. But Sherlock shakes his head, just for John, barely noticeable--not in public. At home.

But before he leaves: "I stopped by the front desk before I came up and saw you."

"Oh?" John's still getting his breath back.

"Yes, I made out a cheque for a substantial donation to the hospital. Didn't really specific an area, but it shouldn't matter."

John stops short. "For how much?"

Sherlock just grins as he goes.



What the water wants is hurricanes / ...What the water wants is sun kiss
Sherlock/John, Rish, 2465 words.

1. quite drunk

"Nine glasses of beer," John moans, stumbling against the stall door and wobbling bonelessly. "Nine. How th'hell are you not drunk?"

"I am drunk," Sherlock points out matter-of-factly, taking off his jacket and inspecting the sleeve where the dart had gone through. The man had tried to stab him with it after he'd beaten him at the board for the third time in a row, but John had tackled him to the ground and there'd been a lot of drunken roaring and the bartender had intervened--with a fresh pint for Sherlock.

This has absolutely nothing to do with a case, and for that reason only the whole world feels surreal right now. Slightly out of tune, slightly off-colour. "And I had ten pints, counting the last one."

"Lemme see your arm, I'm a doctor," John is saying now, slurring very seriously.

"You're a drunk doctor. First do no harm."

"Your face is a drunk doctor," John returns, and when Sherlock stares at him he grabs at Sherlock's arm and pulls it close.

Or, rather, he pulls Sherlock close--they stumble into each other--and suddenly John is leaning up against the stall doorway with Sherlock leaning against him, braced with one hand, their mouths almost touching. "Is this part bromance or romance, I can't tell," John says thoughtfully, pulling a frown.

"Bro--John, shut up," Sherlock huffs, and bangs the stall door shut and flattens John against the wall like he's smoothing out a piece of crumpled paper, and kisses him.

John gasps when they break for air, and his whole body is stunned--eyes, face, shoulders, hands--and before Sherlock can lose his nerve and bolt he surges forward, his mouth is wet and hot and tastes of tea and beer--a bit sour, a bit stale--and it's perfect. It's the white flash of an atom bomb.

They don't get farther than shoving each other's trousers down; Sherlock is flattening his palm against the stretch of John's stomach, pushing his shirt up, when John wraps a hand around his erection and pulls, just like that, and Sherlock is thrusting blindly against him. It's nothing, it's chemical reaction, it's biological function, and Sherlock can't breathe--no air within his lungs, nothing coming in from the huge gasps--as John strokes him.

John bites savagely into the crook of his neck, squeezing his fist hard, and Sherlock comes back to a sticky mess everywhere and John nestling a gentler kiss into the bruise. John's softer now, blurred, out of focus. His skin is very warm and flushed and his breathing is slow.

"Don't let this be a mistake," Sherlock says, very quietly, and wonders what scraped his voice so raw.

John breathes out against Sherlock's throat. "I've only ever made a mistake once when I was drunk. This isn't it."

"Oh?"

"It involved high heels and a bunch of flavoured condoms, and I'm not saying anything more." John rests his hands on Sherlock's bare hips, in between briefs and sweaty skin, thumbing over Sherlock's bones like he can just sink his fingers in deep and rest them there. Maybe he can. "You go ahead and deduce the rest."

2. quite enthusiastic

"Sherlock, stop, stop, stop, there are kids outside--" John is panting, laughing, hands fumbling everywhere. If it were a cartoon he'd have eighteen hands, all flailing, all protesting.

"Good, make more noise," Sherlock says briskly, and works John's fly open and drags his jeans down.

"Sherlock--" John tries to shove him, misses because Sherlock has sunk to his knees, and clasps a hand white-knuckled over his mouth as Sherlock takes him in hand. His cheeks are balled up underneath his fingers, his eyes slits. He's smiling in spite of himself. Sherlock can feel the laugh through John's stomach, bubbling up in his chest, his blood's rushing.
Adrenaline, Sherlock thinks, pheromones. Nicotine patches for cigarettes. There is no substitute for this, for John. That's not the chemicals talking, some part of his brain points out in a puzzled way, but he ignores it.

Sherlock sucks him off and John keeps his hand clasped over his mouth, biting down helplessly, spreading himself wider and pressing his back hard against the wall to keep from sinking down on shaky legs. Sherlock wraps both hands around John's waist and takes him deeper, root to crown, and does something insane and twisty with his tongue and John very nearly draws blood from the life line on his palm. When he comes he's practically sobbing with need--his noises are piling up on top of each other, pained breathless keening--and his legs give out underneath him and Sherlock is the one holding him up.

John lets himself slump to the ground to return the favour, burying his face in Sherlock's thigh and nuzzling there--a hand runs through his hair, more gently than he expected--before getting his pants open, but Sherlock doesn't bother putting his hand over his mouth and there's a noticeable lack of noise from outside. John, thank God, does not get an ASBO the very next day.

3. quite injured

"Hold still," John snaps, and Sherlock obeys.

The doctor's face is drawn. Normally it looks like a rumpled sheet on a bed--warm, worn-out, ordinary, inviting. Right now it looks like a very old black and white photograph, with scratches, flat and stiff with a fixed stare.

Sherlock puts his fingers onto John's wrist to feel his pulse; it's well above a hundred.

"Stop that," John says curtly. He's cleaning up Sherlock's wounds with wet paper towels--it's all the library has on hand, John cursed them out for being a public library and not carrying a properly stocked first-aid kit. There's a slash across Sherlock's forehead, slanting down over one eye and oozing thick red, and John is applying pressure to it. "You'll need a tetanus shot, God knows where he got that knife. Was he one of your Irregulars?"

"No," says Sherlock truthfully. He had good reflexes, though, and the police took him into custody, he can look up his information later.

"So now random nutters from the street are attacking you." John has both his eyebrows lifted.

"Maybe he's part of Moriarty's grand plan, I don't know. Or he's taking his revenge." Sherlock shuts his eyes, suddenly very tired. The world's only consulting detective. Barefoot, and every street in London is littered with broken glass. "Or he's related to one of the seven cases I have on at the moment--"

"All right," John interrupts him, his hands steady. "Christ, you take a break for an afternoon and someone tries to knife you. What would happen if you went on holiday?"

"The last time I went to Sweden and ended up meeting some man named Assange at a café," Sherlock says thoughtfully. "He wanted me to retrieve his stolen laptop--it only took a day or so. It was quiet."

"That wasn't an actual questi--Sherlock, stop making things up." John rolls his eyes, his mouth tugging at the corners; he's not glaring anymore.

"I'm not. Why would you say that?" Sherlock frowns at him.

"Sherlock, do you pay any attention to the news?"

It turns out Mycroft is going to throw a raving conniption fit if he ever found out about Sweden, which turns Sherlock's day completely around. John is trying not to smile, too, and that eases something in Sherlock's chest. He's just more useful and compliant to you now than when he's angry, that's all, keep him happy and docile, says one part of his brain, and Sherlock recognizes it as a lie.

"You need to carry a properly-stocked first aid kit at all times, Christ," John is saying, but it's mostly grumbling now.

"I have a doctor," Sherlock points out.

"Is that what I'm around for?"
"Yes," says Sherlock promptly, and kisses him.

John makes a tetchy noise and tries half-heartedly to shove him off, but Sherlock is having none of it; when John presses his mouth to the knife wound in a gesture of resigned frustration, coming away with a faint smear of red across his lips, Sherlock pushes him into one of the stalls.

He ends up in a horribly awkward position, with his legs hitched up and John pushing into him, and John's breath is running ragged and his nails are scraping down Sherlock's ribs under his shirt. It's gritty and grinding, and there's an edge of uncomfortable sore pain along the pleasure, and Sherlock's head swims brilliantly with it.

"We're going on a proper holiday," John says into his ear, his eyes half-lidded and his jawline tight as he pulls Sherlock's hips up to get a better angle. "A beach somewhere, with a hammock."

"You'd get on the next flight back home in an hour," murmurs Sherlock, tightening his legs around John's waist, and draws him down for a proper kiss. His fingers linger along John's neck; his pulse is still going like mad.

He can keep that pace going in John's veins for the rest of his life. He has to.

4. quite disgusted about the cleanliness of the bathroom

The first stall has a toilet that hasn't been flushed, the second stall has suspiciously damp toilet paper everywhere, and the third has an empty tampon box lying on the ground. "What--" says John, doing a double take.

Sherlock merely jams the door shut, and bends John over the counter with one hand low on his back and slides two fingers into John's mouth.

5. quite sure they're alone

"John, get it off me," Sherlock pants out as they crash into the stall, John banging the door shut. "Get it off me right now, get it off--you've had it on me for the whole morning, it's not fair, I already can't think around you and you're doing this, get it off me or I'll put you face down on the ground and fuck you in front of Scotland Yard--"

"Oh my God!" Dimmock screeches, from the next stall over, and runs from the bathroom.

John and Sherlock stare at each other. "Did you--" John starts.

"I really didn't," Sherlock says, completely bemused.

Another moment of silence, and then Sherlock shrugs and slams John into the wall with a kiss. "No, that's not actually okay, Sherlock," John is trying to say, his eyebrows knotted up together, and Sherlock bites down hard on John's lower lip and tears apart their clothing. His hands are trembling, he can't get his fingers to work, his body is completely beyond his control--he's never enjoyed it, he hates losing control, he hates being reduced like that, but with John it's different, it's okay, it's good. Before John he would have classified the heart as an myogenic muscular organ that pumps blood through the human body.

He's begging. He doesn't know what he's saying, his mind is gone. John is kissing him to shut him up, or to swallow those words whole, and his clever surgeon's fingers are undoing the ring around the base of his erection, and finally--finally--Sherlock thrusts frantically and coughs out an angry rough noise into John's neck, clinging tight. His eyes are squeezed shut.

His legs don't work right when he comes back out of the washroom, it feels like they're reattached backwards at right angles, and he's sure their tiny little brains would be able to tell the truth without Dimmock's help. Certainly nobody on London's official police force is looking him in the eye. Lestrade is practically purple with embarrassment. Anderson is frozen and bug-eyed.

Sherlock smiles blindingly at them all, and walks past them to the waiting corpse.
1. quiet

They're at one of Mycroft's galas, both polished and dressed up, because Sherlock's behind on the rent again and John wants to take him out to a Thai place across town this weekend. They've had flutes of champagne pressed into their hands but neither has drunk anything; neither one of them is injured (except for John, who stubbed his toe while looking for his other shoe); the bathrooms here are immaculate and the room is completely deserted.

"He'll come in any minute," says Sherlock, with his lips against John's ear, "don't make a sound."

"So why are we having sex and not listening?" returns John, barely audible, even as he's tugging Sherlock's shirt loose from his pants.

"Because you're wearing a tuxedo," Sherlock says reasonably, and gets John's pants undone and his underwear out of the way as John tips his head back wordlessly against the wall. John's throat is working as he strokes him with one hand, getting it damp and slick, and Sherlock can hear him stifle a whine as he slides that hand around to John's backside and presses his fingers in.

He's shuddering with the effort but he's being quiet, he's being good. John is following his orders perfectly, and Sherlock lets himself imagine a collar, the riding crop, John bowing his head. The only sound coming from their stall is a very faint rustle.

The door opens. Their suspect is talking on his Blackberry; he flicks it off and turns on the tap. John swallows dazedly, clenching his teeth desperately to keep from whimpering as Sherlock crooks his fingers--his toes curling in his shoes, his hands fisting up in Sherlock's jacket.

Sherlock's smile at that should be terrifying. It's the one thing he can never get enough of.

The suspect is washing his hands, sniffling with what appears to be a very bad head cold. Sherlock drags his teeth noiselessly over John's carotid artery and John reacts like he's been gut-punched, his stomach caving in; he arches up pleadingly against Sherlock's fingers, rising up on the balls of his feet, and flattens his hands against the wall to steady himself.

Sherlock wedges one knee between John's and stretches out his fingers inside John, slowly, torturously, and John makes the tiniest helpless noise and comes on a stuttering breath. The suspect's phone rings again and he answers it, wiping his hands off. "Hello?"

John is limp against him, trying to get his breath back; Sherlock circles both arms around him and kisses the scar tissue on his shoulder, lingering there, and listens to the man speaking sharply in Polish. "Nie, Radowicz, nie przelać pieniądze jeszcze, mówiłam ci..."

Done. They've got him. He nuzzles into John's shoulder, finds his heartbeat--safely above a hundred and ten--and smiles again. If John could see his smile at that moment he wouldn't think it was terrifying; he'd think it was startling, something he'd never seen before on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's not quite sure of it himself.

The suspect leaves again, still talking, and he hasn't noticed a thing.