Archive of Our Own

Sherlock looks over the screen of his laptop at John sat in his faded tartan chair. It's a scene that still causes Sherlock to mentally pinch himself. Not more than two months ago, John's chair had become a place for Sherlock to drop his coat. It had been covered with newspapers and books. . Anything that would cover up its vacancy. Until one evening Sherlock had received a text out of the blue.

Can I stay at Baker Street for a bit? - JW

Always - SH

While it had been nice to have John back, he had been a shell of his former self. For the first few weeks, after he had finally left Mary, John had slept as if he'd been on the run. By the third week, Sherlock had convinced him to join on some smaller cases, but they had received nothing higher than a seven in weeks.

Sherlock reads the email again. It's a case, but barely a five. His eyes drift up to John. He has read the same page at least three times. The case will  take them out of London for a few days. A break from the monotony would do John some good.

Sherlock hits reply.

‘We’ll take the case. Please arrange accommodations  for us, as we will arrive in Paris on Wednesday.

Sherlock’

He closes his email browser and opens another to type in ‘LHR to CDG’.

“Do you have a suit?” Sherlock asks.

“I'm sorry?” John looks up from his book.

“A suit. Do you own a nice suit?” Sherlock waves his hand. “Never mind. I already know the answer.” He taps a message on his phone. “We'll get you something new.”

John rubs his temples. “What are you on about, Sherlock?”

“We have a case that requires you have a proper suit.” He gestures to the phone on the desk. “First thing tomorrow, we're going to my tailor. He'll need to work quickly, but he loves a challenge.”

“I have suits,” John says, unconvincingly.

“No, you have trousers and jackets that you think match enough to make a suit. We need something better.” Sherlock taps away on his computer.

“What is this case?” John closes his book.

“Oh, an old friend is getting married and blackmailed in the same weekend. What are the odds?” Sherlock's eyes sparkle.

“Is he marrying rich?” John asks.

“I'm not certain.” He fishes his bank card out of the inside pocket of his bespoke jacket. “How do you feel about Paris?”

John's eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

“Because John, that's where we are heading.” Sherlock taps away on his laptop. “I took the window seat.” He grins broadly.

**************

John has two new suits, thanks to Sherlock and his exhausted tailor. A pinstripe navy hangs beside a crisp charcoal grey in a quaint French hotel wardrobe. The room itself is beautiful, white furniture and shades of muted blue. The sun filters in through cream curtains to fill the room with warm light.

It's the type of place John would have considered taking Mary, before the bottom of their relationship fell out.

The end had been approaching since Sherlock's return, honestly. All of John’s unresolved emotions toward his flatmate had rushed to the surface the night Sherlock had derailed the proposal. Foolishly, John had forged ahead, and with Sherlock's blessing. He should have known there was something about Mary, or Agnes as it had turned out.

John rubs his temples. On the plane ride to Paris, Sherlock hadn’t given many details of the case - only doing a favour for an old friend. It had to be quite the friend as the case itself is barely a five. Sherlock rarely leaves the house for a seven, never mind the country.

And then there was the hotel room. . Only one was booked under Sherlock's name, and that one room has one queen-sized bed. No sleeper sofa or settee of any kind. John had barely had a moment to take in the situation before Sherlock had begun rummaging through John's suitcase to pull out a pair of black trousers and a grey jumper.

“We've a dinner to attend. Let's go,” Sherlock had said hastily before disappearing into the bathroom, only to emerge breathtakingly gorgeous in slim black trousers and a silk azure shirt.

“Reception?” John asks. “Are you going to tell me anything about this? As far as I can tell, you've got it all sorted. You haven't filled me in at all. I'm not even certain why I'm here!”

“Despite what you may believe, I always want your assistance, John. Now come along. Our  bride is expecting us.” Sherlock taps a message into his phone and holds the door open for John.

“We need to sort out this room situation,” John says in the lift.

“Why? I think it's a perfectly charming room.” Sherlock straightens the cuffs of his shirt.

“It only has one bed,” John protests. “Maybe there's another room or one with two beds.”

“The inn is completely booked for the weekend. Our host made the arrangements and I'm certain she had her reasons.” Sherlock nods to the matronly front desk clerk.

“Fine,” John sighs. Sleeping beside Sherlock will not be a problem at all, as long as he stays sober and doesn't let his mind wander. He wishes he could build a Great Pillow Wall without Sherlock noticing, but the git doesn't sleep. “Who is our client?”

“She's about to marry a very rich slightly older man, and just days ago received a blackmail note,” Sherlock says breezily.

“Does this man have grown children?” John asks as they make their way down the block on a gorgeous afternoon. The air is scented with rich wines, warm bread and creamy cheeses.

“He has three.”

“Then it has to be one of them.” John runs his hand over the soft fabric of his grey jumper. “This isn't mine.”

Sherlock smirks slightly. “You only noticed that now? I would have thought the absence of irritating synthetic fiber would be the first hint.”

“Did you buy this for me?”

“I certainly didn't rent it. Mary did an awful disservice to your already pathetic wardrobe. Plus, you've lost 10 pounds since moving home and those tired jumpers would have swallowed you,” Sherlock says, shaking his head.  

“Shopping for clothes. One room. Sherlock, what are you up to?” John cocks his head.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows as he pauses in front of a house of some kind. “This is all at the urging of our client.” He opens the door. “This is the address. Shall we?”

John is curious to say the least. However the threads are knotting together. “Let me guess. We're just normal guests, and in order to make it look convincing that two adult men would attend a wedding together, they must be involved. So we are to pretend to be involved.”

“Accurate.” Sherlock frowns. “But we are involved, aren't we? We are flatmates who work together. What could be more involved than that?”

John shakes his head as he follows Sherlock through the lobby. “You know what I mean. Involved involved.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I'm really not following you, John.”

“Together, as in a couple!”John hisses.

“Oh,” Sherlock grins broadly as he opens the French door to a garden patio with tables piled with sandwiches and delicious looking pastries. “You'd have to ask the bride if that is her intention.”

Sherlock nods in the direction of a curvaceous dark haired woman. Though her back is to them, John sees something distinctive in her hips, her stance. He has seen those calves before. Her brown hair twists into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Even the way she lays her hand on the older gentleman at her side is frighteningly familiar. Her head tips back as she laughs casually, and John's blood curdles. But she's dead.

She must hear them approach, because she turns around with a wide welcoming grin. “Sherlock,” she says warmly. John hates the way her eyes sparkle at Sherlock. “And of course, John.”

John can't believe he's staring at Irene bloody Adler.

**********

It's odd how comfortable Irene looks pouring tea for John and Sherlock. While Sherlock and Irene exchange cordial greetings and banal banter, John pinches himself repeatedly through his grey trousers.

“I don't understand. You died years ago.” John shakes his head.

Irene cocks her head and fixes Sherlock with a look. “You never told him, did you? Oh Sherlock, when will you learn?”

“You were supposed to be thought of as dead, remember? To that, you still call yourself Irene. That's bold of you,” Sherlock says, bringing a gold rimmed China cup to his lips.

Irene winks at Sherlock, and John feels sick. Two people in Sherlock’s past have filled him with jealousy. Irene Adler had been the first, then came Janine. In both instances, John had never been sure of the true nature of their relationship with Sherlock, and Sherlock had never divulged the truth.

“I'm nothing if not bold. I was able to have a rebirth of sorts while you went on your walk around the world, chasing Jim.” Her face darkens. “You saved a lot people with what you did.”

Sherlock eyes slip quickly to John before he clears his throat. “So, is the old girl back?”

She smiles pleasantly. “ A bit. I’m Irene Charmagne, an art curator. I’ve been in France for years now.”

Sherlock glances over to the older gentleman who holds court with a small group of guests. “Where is Kate?”

Irene shrugs. “Moved on, I suppose.”

John finally finds his voice. “You’re marrying a man? I thought you were a lesbian.”

Irene turns her gaze to John. “I am many things, Dr. Watson, and not one thing defines me. You of all people should understand that.”

John feels as if she is staring directly into his head. Like a dangerous feline, she can smell the fear and jealousy as if he reeks of it. His cheeks burn with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

Sherlock clears his throat. “How can we be of service, Irene?” he asks.

She glances over her shoulder to her fiance. “Jean is a good man who wants nothing more than to make me happy. I’ve lived a hard life, Sherlock. I’ve ascended to power using horrible tactics. Some of those deeds were meant to keep me safe from men like Jim, but I vowed that night in Istanbul that if I lived, I would  purge myself of that life. And I did. With a little help, I became Irene Charmagne, and then I met Jean.” She smiles at Sherlock. “It had been years since I had been with a man.”

John isn't certain at what has passed between Sherlock and Irene, but he is sure that he doesn’t like it.

“Tell me about the blackmail, leave nothing out.” Sherlock steeples his long fingers under his chin.

“Letters started arriving last week.” She hands her phone to Sherlock. “I took photos of them.”

Sherlock smirks. “Look how easy it is to get into your phone now.”

“You aren't trying to destroy my life any longer,” Irene purrs.

“Not yet. The day is young.” Sherlock’s voice drops to a husky level.

John bites his cheek hard enough to draw blood. “The photos…?”

“I don't want to involve Jean. He doesn't need to know about my past, but he also doesn't need to learn that his children are capable of such a thing.”

“Do you think they're all involved?” Sherlock swipes through the phone.

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

“The demands? Simply to disappear?” Sherlock reads from his phone.

Irene settles back in her chair. “They didn't care for me from the start. Even less when they went digging into my past.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Clearly you didn't do a very good job burying it.”

“These days it's impossible to bury anything. A virtual trail follows you from one life to the next,” Irene says thoughtfully.

Sherlock purses his lips. “Did you need the money? Clearly Jean is comfortable and affords you a lifestyle you rather enjoy.”

“I was comfortable enough, but yes, Jean has an excess of wealth and he likes to indulge me. I wouldn't say that I was using him, just enjoying his attention.” Her red lips curl into a gentle smile. “I grew fond. He treats me better than I deserve.”

“I'm not certain that's a reason to get married.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Irene's gaze slides from Sherlock to John. “I'm sorry to hear about your divorce, John.”

“How did you…” John sputters as his head whips in Sherlock’s direction.

“Good news travels fast among villains. I still hear things.” Irene swirls a spoon in her tea.

“You knew her then?” John asks, his heart racing. Mary's past had been convoluted and dirty. The flash drive had only painted a partial picture of the assassin.

“Not personally, no. I had heard of her. I’m sorry you were tangled up in that mess, both of you.” She takes a deep breath and the smile returns to her face. “But I see things are looking up for you two. Back at Baker Street?”

John nods. “Yes, for a few months now. Sherlock was kind enough to take me in again.”

“Always, John. I need someone to go to the shops. Mrs. Hudson can’t carry as much as she used to,” Sherlock says lightly.

“It’s a cozy flat, from what I remember.” Irene’s eyes sparkle they sweep over Sherlock.

The hot spike of jealousy pierces John’s stomach like a harpoon. He has always hated the odd connection Irene had with Sherlock, and the way she had affected him. However, he had felt better knowing  she was a lesbian. John wouldn’t really have to worry, even if Sherlock did form some attachment. Not that it should matter, but it did.

Now, she is marrying a man, and one that she seems to love. What if seeing Sherlock brings old emotions or desires to the surface? John just only returned to Sherlock. He can’t lose him again, and especially into the arms of this woman.

Sherlock has taken no notice of John’s seething beside him, as he reads the letters from Irene’s phone.

“Can you bring the originals?” he asks.

“I can sneak out for a bit this afternoon, before the dinner. I’ll come to your room,” she says.

“Splendid.” Sherlock slides the phone back across the table to her.

“Is your room comfortable?” She turns to John.

“It’s cozy,” he acquiesces.

“I should have mentioned that I booked only one room. I need you to look like regular guests, so I might have told Jean you are a couple,” Irene says.

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “A couple?”

“He knows that I know Sherlock from London, and it would be odd for Sherlock to just bring a friend to a wedding abroad,” Irene explains.

“Problem?” Sherlock replies crisply.

John feels a sense of shame creep in. “It’s fine, all fine.”

Irene gives them a gleaming Cheshire grin. “Wonderful. You’ll come to dinner, won’t you? I need you to observe the guests.”

Sherlock stands. “Of course we will. Send me the details. But now, we must be off. John needs another suit.”

“I do?” John blinks. “I packed some trousers and a jumper.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Then we definitely need to acquire something more suitable.” She lock takes Irene’s hand and presses his lips to her knuckles. “Until tonight.”

John loathes the flush that overcomes her cheeks.

*************

“So, do we hold hands?” John pauses at the door of the posh hotel.

“You were married, correct?” Sherlock sighs. “And you've dated?”

“Yes, women,” John replies with a shrug.

The creases in Sherlock's forehead deepen. “Do you think it's different with two men?”

“I don't know. I've never dated a man.” John senses that the conversation is slipping into murky waters. He regrets even mentioning it and wishes he could just follow Sherlock's lead. Unfortunately, he’s not always good with letting the moment take him.

“Clearly,” Sherlock mutters. He holds the door open for John. “Follow my lead. I promise to not get too tactile.”

Instead of feeling relief, John is disappointed. “Whatever you think is best, um, dear.”

Sherlock turns to fix him with glare. “And do not attempt endearments.”

John nods. “Right. Okay. Fine.”

John notices that Sherlock walks shoulder to shoulder rather than letting him slip into Sherlock's wake like usual. A tall woman with golden curls bats long dark eyelashes in Sherlock's direction as she leads them to a private room. Instinctively, John presses a possessive hand to Sherlock’s  lower back.

“Your party,” she purrs.

“Merci,” Sherlock winks.

“No one will believe we're a couple if you hit on every woman in Paris,” John grumbles.

“While green brings out your eyes, your jealousy might tear  apart.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Sod off.” John shakes his head.

John has no idea how to act like a boyfriend to Sherlock. Deep down, in the place he avoids, he desperately wants to be more than colleague, partner or boyfriend to the madman. The desire to be the sun, moon, stars - air even - suffocates John when he doesn't expect it. Sitting in front of the fire at Baker Street. Watching Sherlock tear Anderson’s ego to ribbons. Out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock dresses in another impeccable suit, tonight with a crimson shirt.

*************

“Sherlock! John! Bonsoir!” Irene calls from a long table.

“Shall we?” Sherlock smiles at John. “Darling?”

“It sounds odd coming from you, too,” John says.

Irene greets them both with a kiss on the cheek before introducing them to the table. Jean’s handshake is strong, and his smile is warm. He must be at least fifteen years older than Irene, but is still fit and dashing. Jean introduces his three sullen children - Clare, Steven and Danielle.

“Clare lives in London,” Jean offers.

“West Brompton?” Sherlock asks.

Clare grimaces. “Chelsea.”

A tall man with black hair chuckles beside her. “You make West Brompton sound like a slum, Clare.” He stands to offer his hand to Sherlock. “I'm Matthew.”

Sherlock gives him an easy smile. “You're with Clare.”

Matthew’s mouth twitches. “Yes. We both live in Chelsea.”

“Please, sit,” Irene says, as she ushers Sherlock and John to the table.

As John had expected, Irene has placed Sherlock beside her. John had always wondered what would have been, if Irene had not been a fugitive. Though relationships ‘had not been Sherlock's area,’ would he have made an exception for her? John hasn’t seen Sherlock so influenced by another person since.

John is sat between Sherlock and Steven, Jean’s only son, who decides to only speak in French. In fact, most of the table converses easily in French, including Sherlock, leaving John at a loss for what to do. Since he can’t follow the conversation, he watches the siblings’ mannerisms and listens to how they speak. He makes mental notes in his head, though he knows that he will not be enlightening Sherlock with anything he has to share. Sherlock probably already has the suspect in mind, and this will most likely be solved by midnight.

After what seems like forever, the dessert plates are cleared, and the party moves to an outside patio with tall cocktail tables and a bar. John feels lost in this setting of great privilege, watching Sherlock turn up his charm and chat easily as he moves about the room. All John can do is hover in the corner and  watch his partner work, and try not concentrate on how intoxicating his voice sounds as French flows from his lips. He takes comfort that Irene does not linger at Sherlock’s side all night. She seems perfectly content to grasp Jean’s hand.

Eventually, John finds a chair to settle into after his attempt to engage Steven or Danielle in banal chat falls flat. Sherlock has managed to hold court with Matthew and Clare for a good portion of the evening. Though Clare primarily sulks and only offers a few words, Matthew does enough talking for them both.

“There you are,” Sherlock chirps as John joins them.

It takes him a moment to remember his role, and his frown relaxes into a smile. “Talking about me?”

Sherlock leans into him slightly. “I wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

Sherlock’s tone is all wrong - too high. John has seen him act for a case many, many times. He can cry on demand, even vomit if needs must. John gazes up at Sherlock’s shimmering grin and knows it's not real. He tries not to think what it might be like to have Sherlock’s full attention, his ardour.

“I was just having a sit. I think I'm the only person here that doesn't speak French.”

“Clare and Matthew were just saying that we should get together when we're back in London,” Sherlock says cheerfully.

“Uh, yeah. That sounds great.” John forces a grin.

Though Clare looks unimpressed, Matthew whips out his mobile. “Wonderful. Let's trade numbers. We don't go out with other couples much.”

Sherlock nods knowingly. “It's difficult to make friends in London.”

“It's a big city. What's your number?” Matthew asks.

John watches Clare’s dour expression. He doesn't think he has seen her crack a smile yet. He glances over to Steven, who chats easily with his wife and Jean. Danielle sits by the bar with a much older woman, who seems likely to be Jean’s mother. Curious indeed. His eyes slip back to Clare again, who is chewing on the corner of her mouth. Her stare lands squarely in the middle of the patio, but with no fixed point. He can hear Sherlock fishing for information from Matthew, her companion.

How did you meet? What do you do in London? How long have you known each other?

Matthew answers with an easy grin, while John searches Clare’s face for any reaction. She hums and nods when prompted, but clearly despises every moment of the night.

*******

“It's Clare. It has to be. Did you see her glare all night?” John sits on the edge of the bed, his belly warm from a few glasses of delicious red wine.

“It's not Clare,” Sherlock says from the bathroom.

“What? You talked to her, or at least tried. She barely said five words all night. She doesn’t want to be here for this wedding.” John kicks off his shoes and works at the buttons of his shirt.

“You are correct about that, but not for the reasons you think.” John hears the taps turn on.

“You're telling me she doesn't hate Irene?” John tosses his shirt on the chair in the corner.

He can hear the brush scrub Sherlock's perfect teeth. The red wine would now be mixed with mint. John closes his eyes. No, he can't think of that now.

Sherlock's head pokes out from the bathroom. “Oh, she definitely hates Irene, but not enough to blackmail her.”

Sherlock’s eyes seem to linger for a moment on John's bare chest before he ducks back into the bathroom.

“She seemed very disgruntled.” John's fingers pause on the buttons of his trousers.

Suddenly he remembers that there is one bed and two men - one dashing and impossibly sexy heterosexual, and a divorced man with burgeoning homosexual tendencies. Parts of John begin to tingle, and now is not the time to dwell on the fact that  he'd love to kiss Sherlock’s robust lips.

Quickly, he divests himself of his trousers, while willing away a growing erection. Of course he didn't pack pyjamas or even a pair of sweatpants. He hadn't expected to be lying beside anyone. Clicking off the bedside lamp, John slips under the sheets and allows the coolness to soak into his skin. Christ, they were so silky and soft, like Sherlock's curls.

“She doesn't want to attend this wedding, but when you have your own secrets to hide, you're not about to blackmail someone else.” Sherlock turns off the taps.

John rolls to his side toward the bathroom door.

“Clare doesn't want her family to know she's gay.” Sherlock opens the door wearing only a pair of black pants, illuminated by the soft light from the vanity.

Every cell in John's body aches to reach out and touch him. That lanky bastard has muscles stretched across his frame like a Greek god. John swallows hard and forces himself to stare at Sherlock’s nose, the safest place to look.

“Lesbian? But what about Matthew?”

Sherlock chuckles lightly, filling the room with warmth. “He's her companion, or her beard. They live together but as flatmates, nothing more.”

John scoots to the far edge of the bed as Sherlock slips in beside him.

“They are both gay, pretending to be a couple,” Sherlock says.

His voice is too close. John smells the cool mint when Sherlock speaks.

“It must be something about weddings,” John murmurs as he curls into a fetal position. “So if it's not Clare, who do you think?”

“Danielle, definitely. I just need proof,” Sherlock tucks his hands behind his head.

“That won't be easy.”

“Nothing easy is satisfying.”

Sherlock's words float around in the darkness.

“Matthew wants to meet for lunch tomorrow,” Sherlock says.

“With Clare??” John asks.

“He didn't mention Clare coming along. Perhaps alone, I can get some useful information. He's been a family friend for years.” Sherlock rolls to his side. His knee grazes John's.

“Sorry,” John mutters and straightens his legs to give Sherlock space.

“It's fine, John.” Sherlock sounds tired.

“What do you want me to do while you interview Matthew?”

“Meet with Irene. Inform her of what we know. Hopefully, it will be meaningful to her.” Sherlock lets out a sigh.

A sense of relief fills John. Sherlock having lunch with Matthew is a better solution than meeting Irene alone.

“I'll call after breakfast,” John says.

He feels Sherlock's eyes searching his face. Panic strikes into John's heart. Is he being transparent? If Sherlock suspects John's attraction, will he want John to leave? Would it break their friendship to be on uneven planes?

“Excellent,” Sherlock finally says, a touch wearily.

John wants to ask him if he's alright, but he's too terrified of the answer. Maybe Sherlock is upset that Irene is marrying? John tries to recall Sherlock's behaviour  around Irene, or even before, while they dressed for dinner. He had seemed fine, almost cheerful. However, Sherlock is a master of disguise, even without a costume or cloak. He can distort his face and posture with a blink of his eye. John has seen him mask pain.

The silence between them feels like a deep cold gorge. With a sigh, Sherlock rolls away to face the bathroom.

“Good night, John.”

Even in the dark, John can see silvery scars, some thin and some deeper, crisscrossing Sherlock's back. He wants to run his fingers over them. He longs to pull Sherlock into his arms and listen to him recount the two years he'd been away. What horrors did Sherlock face? John has never asked, and Sherlock has never offered. John wants to press his lips to every white and pink mark on Sherlock's back, to heal him from the outside in.

Sherlock's breathing deepens and evens. In two beats, out three beats. In two beats, out three beats. John's heart pounds along in time, until his eyelids droop and dreams carry him away.

********

John is exhausted the next morning. Every time Sherlock had shifted, John was frightfully aware of how close they were. He had jolted away with every leg bump, arm graze. John had finally rolled away from Sherlock and stared out the window for hours. He had even seen the orange hues of morning stretch in the sky.

John apologises to Irene for yawning as they meet for a quick tea.

“Long night,” she cracks with an impish grin.

“I miss London.” John rubs his eyes. She had always enjoyed torturing him over his relationship with Sherlock.

“Where is Sherlock?” She pours tea into a porcelain cup.

“Lunch with Matthew.” John takes out his notebook.

“Really? And you're okay with that?” She settles across from him.

John shrugs. “Yes, of course. He thinks Matthew might know something since he's been a family friend.” He searches her face. “Are you okay with it?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” She stirs some sugar in her tea. “I know that he is not Clare’s paramour.”

“You do? Does Jean?” John asks.

Irene rolls her shoulder. “If he suspects, he hasn't let on. Like me, he's very private at times. So, I gather that Sherlock does not suspect Clare.”

“No, something about a person with their own secrets wouldn't dare blackmail.” John burns his tongue as he sips.

“And he's having lunch with Matthew…” Irene muses.

A young woman enters the room with a white envelope. She speaks in French and hands it to Irene before leaving.

“Another note,” Irene sighs.

Like the others, magazine letters are pasted to a plain white sheet of paper. The message isn't new. ‘DO NOT GO THRU WITH THIS WEDDING OR YOUR PAST WILL COME OUT TO SHOW U 4 THE WHORE U R’

“Whoever it has no patience,” John remarks. “They couldn't be bothered to spell all the words out.”

Carefully, he lays the note on the table to take pictures of the note and the envelope to send to Sherlock.

“Can I take this with me?” he asks.

“Of course. Sherlock will want to see it.”

“So,” John delicately returns the note to its envelope. “What are you planning to do?”

“I'm counting on you to find out who it is before tomorrow,” Irene replies plainly.

John folds his hands in his lap. “And then what?”

Irene crosses her legs. “You'll have enough evidence to confront them.”

“And if we don't?”

Irene smooths her red skirt. “I don't know. If Jean doesn't want to marry me, maybe I'll return to London.”

John doesn't like the prospect of Irene and Sherlock in the same city. He stands swiftly.

“We'll do our best to be certain you get down the aisle tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I'll see you both tonight?” Irene asks.

“Wouldn't miss it.” John nods as he leaves.

It takes Sherlock two hours to respond to John's text.

Meet back at the room in 15 - Sherlock

When John walks into the room, the humidity hits him, as does the spicy scent of Sherlock's soap. He hears the water running in the bathroom.

“How was lunch?” John tosses the envelope on the bed. He sees Sherlock's trousers discarded by the bed, his striped dress shirt crumpled beside it.

“Illuminating,” Sherlock calls. “Did you know that Matthew writes crime novels?”

“He does?”

“Under the pen name Robert Clarkson.” Sherlock's head ducks out.

John's knees nearly give out at the sight of a damp Sherlock with a towel slung low on his narrow hips. His wet curls are pushed off his forehead and droplets of water  stream down his shoulders and chest. Perhaps the sexiest is his face covered in white foam with a few strips of his cheek and throat exposed.

“Oh...don't think I've read him.” John's voice sounds too high.

“Probably best. I don't think he's very good. He could benefit from following us on a case.” Sherlock presses the razor to his cheekbone. John can hear the scrape of his stubble, and his mouth waters.

John crosses to the other side of the room before his cock begins to twitch. “Did you learn anything useful?”

Sherlock huffs out a short laugh. “You sound like me.”

John turns to see Sherlock draped across the doorway with an amused grin. “Well…”

Sherlock's gaze lingers for a moment before he returns to shaving. “The mother died about five years ago, but they had been divorced for fifteen. Steven and Clare live in England while Danielle stayed in France.”

“Did you tell Matthew that you know about him and Clare?”

“I didn't have to, he told me the moment we sat down,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm. That's odd.” John unbuttons his shirt. “What does he think of Irene?”

Sherlock smiles. “He likes her style.” A dollop of shaving cream drops onto his chest. John's cheeks grow warm. What would life be like if he could walk over and wipe Sherlock clean with the palm of his hand?

“So, if it's not Clare, who?” John asks.

“Who do you think?” Sherlock continues to shave.

“Danielle. She's the closest to Jean. She has the most to lose.” John untied his shoes.

“Now we need to prove it.” Sherlock wipes his face clean. “Do you have the latest note?”

John points to the bed, and Sherlock outstretches his hand. Rolling his eyes, John snatches the envelope and places it in Sherlock's open hand.

“I wish we had more time,” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Do you think she'll follow through?” John asks.

“Irene or Danielle?” Sherlock asks.

“I guess both.” John slips off his socks.

Sherlock steps out of the bathroom. “Irene will hate to back down. You know how tenacious she can be.”

John sees shaving cream on Sherlock's neck and earlobe. “You've got cream on your neck.”

Sherlock wipes with his hand and misses all of it.

“No...you didn't get it.”

“Now?”

“Not even close.”

Heavy sigh. “Can you just get it for me?”

John's brain goes blank as Sherlock grabs the towel from around his waist to hand it to him.

“Here.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Right.” John focuses on the shaving cream and not the dark line of hair from Sherlock's navel down. He wipes quickly and tosses the towel on the bed. “Okay, I'm getting in the shower.”

He closes the door and tries not to collapse on the other side. Sherlock has never been known for understanding personal boundaries. He frequently crowds John, hovers and hangs. More times than John can recount, he has shuffled out of his bedroom in nothing but a sheet. However, Sherlock standing starkers had been a new boundary gone up in flames.

John cannot will away the throbbing erection. The frigid water feels like tiny ice picks against his skin, but it doesn't help. Only one thing will make it go away. He turns the taps to hot and firmly grips his cock. Thinking of the curvaceous waitress from the morning does nothing for him. He tries to think of rivulets of water across her breasts, and nothing. Relief only comes when he imagines Sherlock pulling back the curtain, naked as the last moment John had seen him. Thoughts get blurry as to who does what to whom. It's just a flurry of flesh and lips. John stuffs his fist in his mouth to muffle the groan that rips through his body as he comes. It's not the first time that John has mastubated to thoughts of Sherlock. However, the dashing detective has never been so close before.

Though John feels mildly relaxed after his shower, Sherlock's suit and salmon coloured silk shirt start to set him on edge again. He turns salmon coloured himself when Sherlock compliments him on his charcoal grey suit - a suit Sherlock had personally selected for the rehearsal dinner.

“Watch Danielle tonight. She's going to get desperate and make a mistake,” Sherlock says in the taxi to the restaurant.

“And if she doesn't?” John asks.

Sherlock smirks. “I'll have to break into her flat.”

“When are you planning that?”

“A brunch is scheduled tomorrow for the family. Danielle will have to attend. Then we will pay her flat a visit,” Sherlock says.

“What wedding wouldn't be complete without breaking and entering?” John muses.

The room is filled with beautiful people all speaking French. John feels lost among tall, elegant men and sparkling women. But tonight, Sherlock could earn BAFTA playing the role of doting boyfriend. He keeps one hand on or near John all night long. During cocktails, he leans into John, translating French close his ear. At dinner, Sherlock's arm lays casually along the back of John's chair, his body turned toward him.

John sinks into the feeling and enjoys the warmth of Sherlock beside him, his breath ghosting over his cheek. For a moment he can pretend that this is how they could be. Okay, not exactly. Sherlock would never be so complimentary or attentive.

Or would he? To John's knowledge, Sherlock has never been in a proper relationship. He's not sure what occurred with Janine, except that she wore his shirt and joined him in a shower. And he's certain that something had transpired between Sherlock and Irene, but it was obviously fleeting.

As much as it hurts to know it could never belong to John, he relishes his one evening as Sherlock's lover. Even the way he looks at John feels so real that at one point, he needs to stop himself from pressing his lips to Sherlock's full mouth.

Tonight, it’s not Irene hovering around Sherlock. She is radiant in a pale pink dress beside Jean. Instead, it's Matthew that attempts to orbit Sherlock. A part of John is incensed because as far as Matthew knows, Sherlock is in a relationship. The other half feels a bit sorry for him. In the real world, neither of them could turn Sherlock's head.

After dinner, Sherlock attempts to engage Danielle in conversation. It's rare that John doesn't see the Sherlock charm melt an icy exterior, but wonders never cease. Her face is blank as copy paper and her answers are short. Even with Sherlock's flawless French, she is an impenetrable wall.

Sherlock leans casually against the bar surveying the scene. “Irene intercepted a note meant for Jean. Danielle is getting desperate.”

“Has he received one before?” John savours his tumblr of aged scotch.

“Irene can't be sure, but she thinks this was the first. Since Irene is not showing any sign of relenting, Danielle had to switch gears.” Sherlock sips his wine.

“What did it say?”

“The usual blackmail fodder. It was incredibly unimaginative.” Sherlock gestures to a sullen Danielle. “But not unexpected from someone who insists on a monochromatic wardrobe.”

“You're right. I haven't seen one primary colour on her.”

Sherlock grins warmly. “Because you see and not observe. After all these years. You would think I would have taught you something.”

John nudges Sherlock. “Sod off.” He looks around the slowly emptying room. “Can we go? I'm knackered. We've got a long day tomorrow. Breaking and entering before brunch.”

Sherlock's eyes sweep over his face. “I think we'll be fine to leave. Danielle is preparing for a long night of note making. She'll have to hit a newsstand for more magazines.”

John chuckles lightly, but he's dead on his feet. Hopefully the two glasses of scotch will carry him to a dreamless sleep, regardless of who is beside him in bed.

They make their excuses.“This one needs a full eight hours or he's a bear,” Sherlock winks.

John enjoys giving Sherlock a playful shove while they bid good evening. As they walk away from the restaurant, Sherlock's posture changes. He creates some space between him and John. The jovial grin fades, replaced with a frown. John feels his own posture change as his shoulders round and sink. As Sherlock's pretend partner, his spine straightened as if given a shot of confidence. Now that the ruse has lifted, he feels shorter, softer, less brilliant.

When they reach the room, Sherlock heads straight for the bathroom, stripping off his suit jacket along the way. John begins the ritual of going to bed. He pulls out his new pyjama bottoms and a threadbare t shirt out of his suitcase. The more clothes between them, the less likely John will do something stupid. His cheeks feel warm and his is a bit fuzzy. He had found himself staring at Sherlock's lips as he spoke tonight, trying to how they looked forming words and sounds, and smiles.. Luckily, John was meant to ogle at Sherlock. Normally that kind of mooning would raise an eyebrow. Tonight, it had been acceptable.

Sherlock has not closed the door to the bathroom, and John can see him at the sink. John's eyes drift to the striking profile at the sink, shirtless and brushing his teeth. The mirror provides a partial view of muscles moving under alabaster skin, marked with an angry white or pink line here and there. John turns away before his gaze is discovered. In a room of Irene's wedding guests, it is fine to openly admire Sherlock, but not here.

Like the night before, Sherlock exits the bathroom smelling of mint and wearing only dark blue pants. John has seen more of Sherlock's skin in 24 hours than he had seen in the many years he had lived at Baker Street.

Wordlessly, Sherlock slips between the sheets as if it is the most natural thing to do.

“You're done with the loo?” John asks.

“I'm obviously in bed,” Sherlock replies dryly.

“Right.” He shuffles into the bathroom and closes the door.

Taking a deep breath into his lungs, he blinks at the man in the mirror. Lines around his eyes, his mouth. Creases in his forehead. Frown marks. He runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling silver and grey strands.

Sure, since their meeting years ago, even the detective has new lines on his face. Yet they have only transformed him from a baby faced genius to a distinguished detective. His awkward smile has grown into a mysterious grin. Meanwhile John just gets older and softer.

Cursing his reflection, John quickly scrubs his teeth hard enough to draw blood. Patting his face dry, he steels himself to join Sherlock in bed.

It takes a second for John's eyes to adjust to the darkened room. He can make out Sherlock's form on the bed, on his back with his arms tucked behind his head. Despite the darkness, his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. He doesn't stir as John slips in bed beside him.

“Night,” John says.

“John.”

It's a closing, not an opening. John rolls away from Sherlock and wishes he had one more drink to end the night. Though he's drowsy, his heart races. The room is so still that he's certain Sherlock can feel his pulse through the mattress. John squeezes his eyes shut to will himself to sleep. Deep breath in and deep breath out. In two. Out two. In two. Out three.

On the other side of bed, he can practically hear Sherlock thinking. Why is he concentrating so hard on a case that's barely a four? What if Sherlock knows exactly how to solve it and save the wedding but chooses not to - out of his own selfish desire to be with Irene? The thought turns the alcohol in John's stomach. He wants to roll over and ask Sherlock, why he had taken her case? Why help Irene - a woman who had caused him such pain?

John tries to recall every moment of Sherlock's acquaintance with the dominatrix. He focuses on Sherlock's interaction with her this weekend. Flirty at times, but otherwise professional. In two. Out three. Tomorrow is the final day that he can touch Sherlock without receiving a frown or raised eyebrow. In three. Out three.

*******

Sherlock wonders how John could fall asleep curled in a tight little ball. He knew there had been nightmares - before the fall and after he had returned to Baker Street. He has heard the moaning, unintelligible cries. John's unmade bed shows a man who sleeps in a tight fetal position. Did he sleep beside Mary like this?

He hears the moment John slips from actively attempting to sleep and unconsciousness pulls him under. The forced breathing deepens and evens. Sherlock's mind switches to the case. It doesn't matter if Sherlock exposes Danielle as the blackmailer. Irene and Jean will be married regardless. What Danielle and Irene don't know is that Jean is completely aware of Irene's past.

Complete acceptance and unconditional love shine in Jean’s eyes whenever he looks at her .

While the weekend will not showcase Sherlock's brilliance as a detective, it has brought a spark back to John's eyes. He has even weathered the masquerade as Sherlock's partner well enough to give Sherlock a flicker of false hope. John slots into his side so perfectly, it is as if he was made for the role. However, when the weekend is over, the charade will end. John will retreat to his tartan chair with his books. Sherlock only hopes the spark will remain in John's eyes.

The thought of Monday fills Sherlock’s chest with loneliness. So many years have stretched since the last time he’d been desired by the right person, someone who tantalised his mind and stirred his desires. His eyes shift toward the suit jacket thrown carelessly on a pastel tapestry chair. In the inside pocket is a small piece of paper folded twice. Sherlock doesn't have to be lonely. Matthew wants to have lunch when they return to London. All Sherlock has to say is that he is not with John, and Matthew will  do anything for him, to him.

It would be less than what he really wants, but this weekend at John's side has reminded Sherlock of desires long buried. He wants skin to skin contact and the drag of stubble. He longs for rough play and tender kisses, while catching his breath on dirty, twisted sheets. John has no interest in these things. If he did - Sherlock's world would be made over in the most vibrant colours. But Sherlock doesn't deserve a fine life like that. He will have to settle for moments of escape, be it a needle full of drugs or comfort in the arms of someone not John.

********

A long hot shower feels good to John. Though he had slept like the dead, his dreams never stopped. One only bled into the next, with distorted realities and ghosts from the past taunting him. Somewhere in America, Mary is walking the yard of whatever penitentiary she's been set to live out the remainder of her life. She'll never hurt John or Sherlock again, except for in his dreams.

His skin pink from the hot water, he pulls back the curtain to finish getting ready for the wedding. The planned visit to Danielle’s had been thwarted by her sudden stomach flu. According to Irene, brunch had been a peaceful and joyous occasion - with no notes.

John takes his time shaving the previous day's stubble away. Carefully, he combs his silvery hair. Today is the last day of his fake relationship with Sherlock and  he wants to look his best. He'll have to savour the colours of today, because everything will turn back to grey scale once he returns to London.

When John opens the bathroom door, he finds Sherlock fully dressed in a midnight blue suit. John's breath catches for a moment in his chest.

“A tie and everything,” John muses.

Sherlock's fingers dig at the knot. “It's hateful.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you in a….” John stops short as he remembers the last time Sherlock in a tie.

He remembers the speech and how he had desperately wanted to flee the reception hall with Sherlock after his words. He also recalls being angry with Sherlock for leaving the wedding for a case, and how they didn't speak for a month, until he found him in a drug den covered in a sickly sweat.

“Irene has requested that we meet her at the church right away.” Sherlock gestures toward John's pinstripe suit on the bed.

“Did something happen?” John asks.

“Danielle is missing.”

******

“Thank God you are finally here,” Irene sighs. She is wrapped tightly in a pink robe.. An elegant white dress with a pearl embroidered bodice hangs on the door of an old wardrobe.

Sherlock closes the door behind them. “Who saw Danielle last?” he asks.

“Steven dropped her home last night. At six this morning, she sent a text to Jean to tell him that she wasn't feeling well and she was skipping the brunch. Matthew and Clare went by after to see how she was, and she was gone. She's not answering her phone….” Irene rattles off in one breath.

Sherlock holds up one steady hand. “Irene, I have seen you handle far more complicated and harrowing situations.”

She brings a shaky hand to her forehead. “I know it's her.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes, and she's feeling a bit desperate. Her notes aren't working. If she runs away, she buys herself some time.” He crosses the room to pluck a purple grape from a fruit and cheese platter.

“One way or another, she's going to ruin the day for me.” Irene sags onto a chair.

Sherlock glances at his watch. “Irene, you will have your happy ending. After all, you've given so many to others.”

John can't sort out what Sherlock knows. Whatever it is, he is calm and confident, popping grapes into his mouth. John feels more like Irene, a cat on hot tin roof. He's not sure where to stand or what to do with his hands.

“Continue your makeup and hair,” Sherlock gestures. “You've only a few hours till the death do you part business…”

“Has he gone mad?” Irene turns to John.

John raises his eyebrows. “Gone mad? No. Born mad, possibly.”

The door flies open to reveal Danielle with red cheeks and unruly hair.

“Ah, just in time. Do come in.” Sherlock smiles broadly.

********

John leans against the bar and rubs his temples as he tries to recount the last three hours for his blog write up.

Danielle had come barrelling into the bride’s room filled with fire. Her vitriol at Irene echoed through the stone halls, and had caused Jean to come flying in with his own booming voice. Danielle had spilled all of Irene's secrets in one long breathless tirade. At the end, she shook like an addict in need of a fix, sweaty and flushed. Irene gripped the vanity and braced for her world to come crashing down. Images of a despondent Irene crying into Sherlock's neck all the way to London had flashed before John’s eyes.

Jean had grown still. With heavy steps, he had walked to Irene and placed his hands on her shoulder. John braced himself for the boom….which never came. Instead he leaned to kiss her forehead and disclosed that she wasn't the only one keeping secrets. Jean had known about Irene’s technicolour past for months. After all, a man of his considerable wealth had to be certain if he was to bind his life another person. In the end, Jean had understood the hunger in Irene, the need for control. He had done many things to survive and to rise from the gutter. He had even known exactly who Sherlock and John were.

Tears had fallen, from both Irene and Danielle. Jean had told Danielle his marriage to Irene would be something she would have to live with. Then he kissed his future bride once more and told her to get ready.

The ceremony had been concise, not overly flowery, yet lovely. When Irene said ‘I do,’ a great weight had lifted off John's chest. Sherlock's smile had been warm and honest. Perhaps there had been nothing to worry about.

“Great party,” Matthew says.

John pulls out of his reverie. Matthew leans against the bar with a glass of wine in his hand.

“Yes.” John glances at the tiny white lights framing the patio.

“I'm surprised she actually pulled it off,” Matthew smirks.

“She's genuinely happy.” John shrugs and wonders where Sherlock has run off to. “How's Clare handling it?”

“She'll get over it. It's not like she sees the old man much, you know, being off in London.” Matthew finishes his wine. “I told Sherlock we should get together once we're back home.

John nods, his stomach tightens. “He mentioned that.”

Matthew gestures for another glass. “And now that I know he's single…”

“Excuse me?” John's head swivels.

“Oh, everyone knows you were here to investigate Danielle, and were just posing as a couple. I looked you up on the internet. You're his partner in crime only,” Matthew smiles. “It was brilliant news to me.”

John's hand tremors a little. He opens and closes it to shake it off.

“Uh yeah, I guess so.”

“So, yeah.” Matthew pats his arm and winks. “Glad we cleared that up.”

He doesn't give John a moment to respond before he stalks across the room. At first, John is stunned. He had noticed that Matthew seem to hang on Sherlock's every word, but that’s a typical occurrence with Sherlock, who is the star of any show. John stands in Sherlock's shadow all the time - even at his own wedding.

John orders another drink. He can't believe that Matthew is so brazenly pursuing Sherlock. He wonders if that is what lunch yesterday had been about. His hand quakes a little. Shaking it out, his eyes search for Sherlock. Probably out for a smoke.

Before the panic fully seeps in, he remembers that Sherlock doesn't engage in relationships. Matthew can turn on his sparkling smile, flash those blue eyes, but he'll get nowhere.

John takes a sip of his gin and tonic feeling a little satisfied.

However, why had Sherlock gone to lunch with Matthew, if he had known that it was Danielle all along? John shakes his head clear of those silly doubts. As he takes his drink to a nearby table, he becomes aware of the dull ache in his right leg. It's been years since it’s bothered him. He kneads the muscles with his knuckles and discounts it as the weather. It must be weather.

John takes in the beauty of the patio, lit only with candles and white Christmas lights framing the woodwork.The gentle lighting is really quite kind to the lines framing Irene’s eyes. Jean doesn't seem to mind as he kisses her cheek and nuzzles her ear.

A sudden cool breeze causes John to shiver despite his suit jacket. Unlike last night, Sherlock is no longer his attentive partner. The warmth had disappeared, leaving behind the Sherlock John knows so well. The tall detective drifted away from his side, but he could not help watching him. It's not as if John's never seen him in a blue suit, but today’s has a silver sheen that seems iridescent when he moves. It has darkened his eyes to shiny sapphires and It's making John ache with want.

John slips his phone from the inside pocket. Nothing. He sends Sherlock a text.

Where are you? Did you find a new case? - JW

He returns back to the bar for a whiskey this time, ignoring the throb in his leg. His eyes catch on a sulking Danielle at the far edge of the party. On the table, six empty cocktail glasses line up like soldiers. The seventh glass is half full and gripped tightly in her hand.

John checks his phone. No word from Sherlock. He grits his teeth.

Did you go back to the room? JW

Slowly, John walks along the perimeter of the dance floor. A few faces look familiar but the features begin to blur with every sip. He squints at the face of his watch. When was the last time he saw Sherlock?

John makes another patrol of the dance floor, searching the tables along the wall. His heart begins to race. It's entirely possible for Sherlock to have enemies in Paris. John still has no idea what Sherlock did or who he worked with in the years he spent taking down James Moriarty’s expansive web of crime.

John slips outside to the garden. He hears voices among the intricately trimmed hedges. He turns the corner to find a man and woman locked in a heated embrace.

“Sorry,” John mutters and moves away. He imagines that he might encounter a few more lovers in the leaves.

As he turns the corner, the moon illuminates the courtyard in a magical glow. A tall silhouette with curls stands in its spotlight. Sherlock's hands are in the pockets of his trousers. He nods as if in conversation. John moves across the yard to assess the situation. Sherlock's shoulders are relaxed and his tone sounds casual. John can't see who he is talking to, but the other voice is deep, male.

Another silhouette emerges from from the greenery, male and with more than an inch on Sherlock. John has a sense that something is wrong. As he draws near, he recognises the voice. Matthew.

A cold sickness slides down to John's belly and sits like an acidic rock. Matthew steps closer and rests his hand on Sherlock's neck. John expects Sherlock to recoil or laugh at such a cheap move, but he doesn't. He holds still, but his hands remain in his pockets. Matthew leans forward and touches his thin lips to Sherlock's. Once again, no reaction from the detective. He doesn't pull away, or push Matthew back. Instead, his mouth opens to invite Matthew inside.

John's world slips sideways. His glass slips from his shaking hand. It hits the courtyard and shatters, filling the night with whiskey.

Sherlock starts and turns toward the racket. “John.”

“I-I-I was just looking for….I thought something was wrong….I'm sorry, so fucking sorry.” John's legs are not moving fast enough. The gin and whiskey hit him like an anvil, making his legs feel like liquid. The throb in his leg returns like the day he had landed home from Afghanistan.

John moves past the couple, onto the patio. His eyes sting as his mind tries to make sense of what he's just seen. Sherlock isn't gay.

John pauses by the bar and contemplates another drink. Not here. He needs to get away. He pushes through the dance floor to the lobby. He must look a fright, judging by the wide eyes that turn his way. The elegant dinner he had eaten not more than two hours before burns at the back of his throat, threatening to reappear.

When John pushes through the lobby doors, the night-cooled air offers no relief. He pauses on the pavement and wonders where to go. His mind takes a dark trip to his empty hotel room and John alone in a big bed while elsewhere, Sherlock settles between Matthew’s toned thighs. Their deep voices mingle in grunts and sighs.

John presses his fingers into his eyes so hard that it hurts to the back of his skull.

“John!” Sherlock's voice booms from the doors.

He stops and takes a deep breath, but does not turn around.

“John,” Sherlock says again.

Suddenly, John’s shock changes to anger. He whirls around. “What was that?”

Sherlock smirks uneasily. “If I have to explain it to you, you have not earned your nickname.”

John’s fists curl, eager to punch the smile from his face. “You're not gay!”

Sherlock steps back. “I'm not?” His eyebrow arch in feigned shock.

“Irene! Janine! I've seen you flirt with Molly,” John fires back.

“Only to get what I want. Despite appearances, I was never intimate with Irene or Janine.”

“But that day in the bath.”

“You cannot believe everything you think you hear.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Why should this bother you? I never took you for homophobic.”

John cocks his head and grits his teeth. “You know that's not true. I fully support Harry.” He pauses for a moment, unable to look Sherlock in the eyes. “Are you saying that you are gay?”

“Not that it is any business of yours, but my past relationships have been with men.” Sherlock takes no notice of the people staring as they pass.

John’s heart has been hit by a lorry. Sherlock does do emotions. He has been in relationships.

“But your brother,” John says in a weak voice.

“Is an idiot. No, I think he is the one that is unspoiled.” Sherlock's lips curl into a devilish smirk. “I've been spoiled many times.”

The sound of his own heart shattering to a million pieces mutes Sherlock's words. It's not that Sherlock doesn't want anyone, he just doesn't want John. If he hadn't interrupted Matthew and Sherlock, anything could have happened. It still can.

“You said it wasn't your area.” John takes in a few gulps of air.

“It hasn't been in years, but I got tired of waiting,” Sherlock says.

“Waiting for what? The perfect man?” John feels the bitter sting of rejection.

Sherlock's hands ball up in a fist. “If that's what you want to believe, fine. I’m not going to wait anymore. Despite what you think of me, I enjoy physical contact, losing myself in base primal need.”

“Then go. Sorry to interrupt. Go and get off with Matthew. I won't wait up,” John barks.

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond. He stands for a moment, leaning toward John, then as John watches, he retreats physically and emotionally.

“Good night, John.” Swiftly, he turns on his heel and stalks into the hotel.

John wants to punch something hard enough to feel his bones break and his knuckles bleed. He thinks of hitting Matthew until his nose crunches, and that perfect face bruises and bleeds. Anything but what Sherlock might do when he goes back to the patio. A drink? A dance? A kiss?

John could walk down the street and find another bar to numb what's left of him. Going back to the hotel alone is the last thing he wants.

Tired of waiting.

Sherlock's words had a sense of urgency and yearning, not for Matthew, but for someone. John looks down the street contemplating how much courage exists inside of him. Their friendship is on the ropes as it is.

“Fuck this.” John barrels through the hotel doors. He's afraid of what he'll find when he returns to the patio. Will they have made a hasty exit? Is Sherlock apologising for John's outburst?

John rushes through the French doors. The party is still in full swing with a crowded dance floor. He scans the tables and corners of the patio. No sign of them. His stomach drops to his feet at the thought of what could be happening in the garden.

Sherlock with a sexual appetite? It seems impossible to John. He's only seemed  indifferent to, if not appalled by, the notion. How long has Sherlock been celibate? John remembers the nights Sherlock never returned home. Was he actually on a case?

To his relief, John spots the mass of dark curls at the bar - alone. He swallows his pride and strides over with determination.

“Do you want Matthew?” he blurts.

Sherlock starts. “What?”

John takes another breath. “You said you were tired of waiting for someone. Is he what you've been waiting for?”

Sherlock places his drink on the bar and looks directly into John's eyes. “No.”

“Then who?” John's voice is tight.

John watches the cold wall carefully constructed around Sherlock’s emotions crumble as his entire being softens.

“You.”

The room sways. John places his hand on the bar for support. “Me?”

“It's always you.”

The walls expand and crash in, all at once. John blinks. “Sherlock, you never have trouble getting exactly what you want...I…”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “Don't I though?” He pauses for a moment. “John, you deduced, extremely incorrectly I might add, that I was heterosexual. How might I have deduced you? You gave me no other possible evidence otherwise. You only dated women. In fact, you married a woman.”

“I married a murderer,” John counters bitterly.

“Who is a woman,” Sherlock adds. “Of course I took you for straight.”

John scratches the back of his neck. “I don't know what I am. I know how you make me feel.” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe in fireworks or any of that, but when I met you in the lab that day….something inside me changed.”

Sherlock says nothing, and takes a sip from his drink as a part of John wants to disappear. He’s revealed too much, and they can never go back from this. John loves the tall git, outside and in. He loves his strops, his temper, his smile and of course his voice. Given the opportunity, he wants it all no matter what it means for what others think. He longs to explore the hidden desires he’s harboured for years.

Placing his drink on the bar, Sherlock extends a hand to John. “Dance with me?”

John’s not sure he heard correctly. “Dance?”

“Yes. Right now.” Sherlock’s hand is steady.

It’s a peppy dance song, one John has heard at a thousand weddings. In fact, probably his own.

Sherlock’s hand is a gift that he would be foolish not to take. With a nod, he slips his hand inside Sherlock’s and it feels like finally finding home after the longest journey.

Though the song is upbeat, Sherlock pulls John close, resting one hand on his lower back and curling the other against his heart. John's mouth runs dry. Just a minute ago they were bellowing at each other on the pavement. Now they  sway slowly in each other’s arms, among the others hopping about.

Oh, what a night

Late December, back in '63

What a very special time for me

As I remember, what a night

“I hate this song,” Sherlock sighs.

His breath tickles John's ear.

John attempts to swallow and nearly chokes on the dryness. “You do?”

Sherlock tips his head. “This was played at your wedding, right after I played your waltz. It was the moment that I knew I had lost you.”

John looks up to see Sherlock's eyes glistening. “What?”

“Watching you and Mary dance, feeling like a definite intruder…”

Oh, I

I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room

Hey, my

As I recall, it ended much too soon

John stops. “You left without saying goodbye. Now I remember. I was so angry with you because you left for a case.”

“I didn't leave for a case. I wanted to get so high that I would be numb for days,” Sherlock says too casually. “I was interrupted in my quest to find a dealer when Lady Smallwood called.”

John pushes back to look. “Sherlock, no.”

Sherlock worries at his bottom lip. “I'm afraid so. You were truly gone, and you looked so happy in her arms. I just…” He blinks rapidly, tears rimming his eyes.

“It's done. She's gone.” John holds Sherlock tighter. “I was conflicted that entire day. But I didn't know about you. Maybe if I had known…”

Sherlock presses his finger to John's lips. “It's all fine. It's settled now, isn't it?”

“Between you and I? You know I'll follow you anywhere. Rancid sewer or Paris.” John flashes a brilliant smile.

Oh, what a night

Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me

She was everything I dreamed she'd be

Sweet surrender, what a night

When Sherlock chuckles, John feels in his chest. Something sparks in his belly and spreads to his pelvis, across his thighs.

“Would it be rude to kiss in public?” Sherlock asks.

“You want to kiss me?”

“Only since forever.” Sherlock cuts off John's reply with a soft press of lips.

Oh, what a night

Why'd it take so long to see the light?

Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right

What a lady, what a night

Sherlock’s lips feel like heaven. His kisses are short and light, and John wants more. He opens his mouth to let Sherlock know that he wants to taste him. Tentatively, Sherlock touches the tip of his tongue to John's bottom lip. When John sighs, he dives in like it's an oasis in the desert. He invades and lays claim to John's mouth. The sweet press of lips grows hungry and a bit sloppy.

Their breath mingles as they part, hot and stale from booze.

Oh, I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder

Spinning my head around and taking my body under

Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s. “This song is truly awful. Why do they play it at weddings?”

John shrugs. “It's festive, makes people feel good. I never thought much about it, but I kind of like it now.”

Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)

Sherlock closes his eyes. “I still see you dancing with her.”

John slides his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, into the curls that brush his collar. “I'm dancing with you. For as long as you'll have me.”

Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)

Sherlock surges forward to kiss him desperately, like this is the first and last kiss. “Let's go. I don't want to share you anymore.”

Oh, what a night (Do do do do do, do do do do)

Over Sherlock's shoulder, John sees Matthew glowering at the bar.

“Same, c’mon.” John tugs on Sherlock's arm. As they pass Matthew, he smiles brightly. “Have a good night, Matt.”

***********

The door clicks to a close behind them. The room is appropriately cozy tonight, and the large bed with silly sheets awaits them. Suddenly, Three Continents Watson feels shy and very nervous. He's only thought about this moment a few hundred times, but it had always been a daydream, a concept. Not reality. Even Sherlock seems unsure what to do, as he slowly removes his jacket and drapes it over the chair.

“So,” John starts. “We're here.”

Sherlock turns to him and it takes John’s breath away to see his cheekbones highlighted by the soft lights in the room.

“It's been many years since I've engaged in a physical relationship,” Sherlock confesses softly.

John smiles. “I've never done this with a man, so…”

With a few steps, Sherlock closes the distance between them. His lips hover over John's. “You taste like a gin distillery.”

“I can brush my teeth,” John offers, shamefully.

“No. I'm going to make you taste like me,” Sherlock whispers huskily before he devours John’s mouth thoroughly.

John has never been kissed like this, as if he’s being taken apart to be put back together, but better.Sherlock’s kiss, declares that no one will ever touch John this way again, for he now belongs to someone. Despite the sensory overload, John’s hands find their way Sherlock’s tie to pull it off and discard it on the floor. He can’t help but kiss the skin that is revealed with every undone button. The smattering of moles and tufts of dark hair across Sherlock’s chest are all claimed by John with every lick and nibble.

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock moans with his fingers in John’s hair.

The silk shirt joins the tie on the floor. John moves behind Sherlock to run his fingers and lips along the silvery scars on his back.

“One day, I want you to tell me about these,” John breathes into Sherlock’s skin.

“John, I don’t have the stamina to last much longer. I haven’t been touched in this manner….ever. So, you might want to get naked very soon.” Sherlock shudders against John’s touch.

John comes back to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “What do you mean ‘ever’?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “My past relationships have always been about immediate release. Just having your hands on me is driving me insane. I’m concerned that I will disappoint you if I lose myself to premature ejaculation.” Sherlock casts his eyes toward the floor and purses his lips.

John takes his face in his hands and kisses the insecure genius tenderly. “Then let’s undress and go to bed.”

John’s head spins from the booze and the scent of Sherlock’s skin. Hastily, he strips off his clothes. The suit is worth more than two of his paycheques but he leaves it crumpled on the floor. Glancing down at the soft flesh above his pants, he suddenly feels self-conscious. He can’t see why Sherlock would want to get naked with an sad middle-aged man.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock calls from the bed. In the midst of John’s self-doubt, he’s managed to strip and slip into bed. “I want to feel you.”

The urgency in Sherlock’s voice travels directly to John’s cock, which has been throbbing since the first kiss on the dance floor. As he strips off his pants, his cock juts out hard and flushed. Even in the muted light, he sees Sherlock watching him with his pink tongue running over his red lips. John’s certain that he won’t last long either.

John slips between the sheets, their coolness chilling his hot skin. He rolls to his side, and Sherlock presses against his chest and hooks a leg around him. His cock slots perfectly against John’s.

“We don't have to rush,” John says between wet kisses.

“I'm so stimulated, John,” Sherlock breathes against his lips. “I'm beyond impatient to touch you and feel your hands on me.”

With a groan, John rolls Sherlock onto his back and slips between his thighs. The room fills with the sound of moans and wet kisses. John can't believe he's allowed to touch this gorgeous man. For two nights, they have shared a bed while wanting each other, both terrified of their feelings. His fingers feel the scars that crisscross Sherlock's back.

Long fingers wrap around his cock and John sees sparks behind his eyelids. He works a hand between their bodies to finally touch Sherlock.

“I want to see you,” Sherlock moans.

John shifts to lie beside Sherlock as the sheets and duvet are tossed back. It's quite an amazing scene, his cock hard and lips deep red from kissing. John's never seen anything more beautiful.

John's cock disappears inside Sherlock's fist. “John, I want to make you feel so good.”

“I do...God, you do…” John’s hand slides down Sherlock's flat stomach.

“Fuck yes,” Sherlock growls.

John has never a harsh foul word uttered from these sinful lips, and it very nearly pushes him to the edge of his orgasm.

“Come for me, John,” Sherlock purrs.

He can't believe Sherlock can talk this way, so dirty, so lustful. John's hand matches the pace of Sherlock's.

“John, hmm. John, yes. Harder. Oh God, yes.. Fuck!” Sherlock's eyes close as he comes between their bodies as his body arches closes to John’s. Sherlock utters a string of nonsense that is music to John’s ears.

Hearing his name being moaned, John tenses as his cock pulses in Sherlock's hand. He bites his bottom lip so hard, he tastes blood.

“Gorgeous.” Sherlock kisses him.

John blinks in amazement. “That was…”

“You're so quiet,” Sherlock laughs, lightly.

“I love that you're not. So amazing.” John nuzzles Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's fingers gentle stroke John's back. Or he's labeling John vertebrae in his head  - equally sweet.

“We should get cleaned up,” he murmurs,  sleepily.

“Hmm.” Sherlock sighs. “I don't want to move.”

“We'll end up sticking together.” John smiles.

“Problem?” Sherlock nestles closer.

“Maybe when they come to clean the room. I forgot to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign up.”

.......Epilogue to come with May Prompt.......