storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

32.

[acuriousincident]

[ They've had sex tonight.

It's been precisely twenty-four days since the last time. Sherlock's currently lying on his side with one arm slung over John's midriff, his nose pressed against the side of his neck, right beneath his ear. His breathing is slow, even, which is a bit of a novelty these days what with... the coke. The come down. The constant craving for something, usually translated into hectic activity, not quite aimless but sometimes just a touch too random (pointless). He sighs. Shifts slightly, his now flaccid cock pressing in against John's hip, the traces of cum still wet on his skin. Tightening his grip just a bit, just enough, he breathes the other man in (sea salt and sandy dunes, sweat, remnants of sexual arousal, John's own, darker and sharper scent underneath it all) and blinks, the shadows around them heavy and the quiet almost absolute.

Out here on the moors, the sounds of inner London (cars, people, shops, doors opening and closing, footsteps coming and going) have been replaced by the wind weaving itself around the rooftop of the small cottage. The house itself is quite old and the floors do creak, the walls retracting and the foundation crumbling at a snail's pace. It'll need renovation in another year or two. But right now, it stands - walls them in, as it were, the two of them. There's absolutely nothing to do out here, no one to see and no puzzles to solve.

All the same, it's... nice. To know that they seem to be drawing perhaps a little bit closer for it. Bridging. ]

[docwithablog]

[ They've just had sex.

What with so many other things the man does, sex tonight came as a bit of a surprise. John had counted on at least another week before they were getting to that stage, but Sherlock had approached him, initiated and because John's human and male, he hadn't declined. Not at all.

God, he's missed this.

They're lying together now, John on his back, one arm curled around Sherlock's shoulders, hand in his hair and Sherlock on his side, pressing in against him, all nose and side and cock and other interesting points of contact that John can't rightly be expected to enumerate now, what with the afterglow still making his body feel heavy and his cock spent and his brain on complete lockdown. He breathes in and out, slowly. Lungs filling, emptying. Life passing by outside as nothing but the wind and the waves, further out. London absent from the picture and it's nice, it's very nice. Sherlock smells like cum and sex and something darker, familiarly so, welcome. His breathing sounds loud in John's left ear.

John runs his fingers through his curls again and again. ]

Exemplary serotonin secretion. [ Orgasm, Sherlock. It was a very good one. Slight yawn which he hides behind his other hand, stretching at the same time. Lazily. ] Should lighten things for a while.

33.

[docwithablog]

[ Ingram invited them to to Port Prideaux by way of courier, a maid from the manor biking to the Beach Lodge with a small, hand-written invitation as is the man's usual, extravagant nature. And although Sherlock's famously against new people, John had dragged him to high tea -- which is what they are now having, sitting around a small table in the first floor dining room, the sun filtering through charmingly romantic curtains and the view quite splendid on his right. Well, Sherlock's sitting on his left, so that one's not too bad either.

They've exchanged polite news of current events (so you're a blog-keeper now, Watson, I'd never have imagined the day), John nodding and smiling and eating a biscuit with his tea while responding that it beats an army pension. Ingram has talked about the history of the place, apparently there was a feud over the area around the Beach Lodge, because it was mining territory back in the 18th century and all the while, John could tell, he has his eyes on Sherlock, trying to piece together the need for a retreat, the word partner and the other man looking quite fresh and quite alert after sex and a good night's sleep. Honestly, John feels bad for his old friend. It's not a fair puzzle.

He sips his tea, glancing over at Sherlock, probably in perfect time with Ingram who comments: nothing much of interest happens around here there days, not much to blog about -- a slight nod in Sherlock's general direction, or investigate. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ Another one of John's stellar ideas - dragging him for a social visit with the man who's lend them the cottage, Terence Ingram, at his manor about a twenty minutes walk away. Ingram's currently busy regaling them with boring history lessons and whilst Sherlock could certainly take an interest in relevant info concerning this area, the story of how rich people come to either own or lose their lands simply doesn't fall within any such category. Legs stretched out a bit, he sips his tea and looks around the dining room, taking in the various effects on display and trying valiantly not to die from boredom.

1) Grandfather clock. Thomas Stubbs, 17th century, incredibly rare. Almost certainly predates the manor. Bears no traces of wear, exceedingly well-kept. Family heirloom.

2) Tea set. Belleek pottery, not overly expensive and of a more recent date. Clearly not the best china; the set they use for informal visits, most probably a gift. Family or close relations.

3) The carpet. Persian. Worn in all anticipated areas for a carpet that's been in a casual dining room for decades, very mildly sun bleached in areas subjected to the midday sun. Oh, but what's that? Signs of - hm. He narrows his eyes. ]

You should tell your maid to keep her private life off your Persian carpet. [ He glances over at Ingram who's looking at him a bit expectantly - what, was he talking to him? When? Ah well, no matter. Sherlock gives a slight shrug. ] They can stand quite a lot but that sort of activity wears on them, regardless.

34.

[acuriousincident]

[ When they left the manor two days ago, it hadn't held any interest to Sherlock in itself - lots of history, true, many family heirlooms and relics that no one else truly cares about - in other words, boring. So boring. But then, earlier in the morning, something quite marvelous happened. Ingram called John for a second medical opinion as his son (twelve y.o, temporarily home from public school, lively and athletic, popular amongst his peers) had suffered what he'd termed a "nervous breakdown", though judging from the look on his face when they arrived, he might as easily have been talking about himself. Sherlock's left John to his business, examing the boy who's currently lying on a sofa downstairs, staring off into space with a blank, lifeless expression. He breathes on his own, basically. That seems to be it. Catatonia, the Helston local doctor had proclaimed. Early onset skizophrenia. Apparently, the boy had attempted to drown himself in the lake behind the manor before descending into his current mental state.

Sherlock's intrigued.

Sliding under Ingram's radar, mostly (the man's preoccupied drowning in his own sentimentality, it's useful at times like these really, that basic, human fallacy), he's investigating the halls of the manor, going upstairs to take a look at the boy's room. First, a woman goes insane in the village, shooting one and injuring several others (67 y.o., history of mental disorders, most of them affective, no prior known psychotic episodes) and then, Ingram's son, healthy as can be? He thinks about his soil samples back at the lodge, the wind whining around the corners of the house, John's body warm and strong against his at night, the evenness of his breathing. Quiet. Peace. And underneath it all, this roaring craving for something he can't have, for the rush. Always the craving, everywhere, constantly.

Pushing open the door to the boy's bedroom, he steps inside, blinking against the harsh stream of sunlight flowing in through the windows. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Ingram had called in the morning, asking him to please come and give a second opinion on his son who had -- and hold on for a second here, at an age of twelve tried to drown himself in the nearby lake in what appears to be a psychotic episode, after which he'd gone into a state of catatonia, the local doctor believing it to be early onset schizophrenia, although they have no history of mental illness in the family, Ingram had insisted (probably a lie, they're two steps down from royalty, they undoubtedly have their fair share of stuff they don't talk about) on the phone, close to tears. They want to admit him, Watson, I can't -- So, John had agreed. Had asked him to make the local doctor stay, so he can use his equipment, having (for very good reasons) not brought his own gear. And as he'd shrugged into his coat, Sherlock had come out into the hallway just looking at him, knowing exactly what was going on. Obviously, John couldn't not tell him and once he'd told him, of course he couldn't not invite him along.

They're here now. Well, John's here -- in the sitting room with Ingram's son, Daniel, lying on the sofa, where the hell Sherlock's gone off to he really doesn't know and he honestly can't find it in him to care, either. Dr Williams from Helston is waiting outside, giving him time and space to work with his penlight, forcing the kid's eyelids apart to flash him in the eyes, though there's no immediate reaction of the pupils and his eyelids close only droopily afterwards, too (waxy flexibility). John looks over at Ingram and his wife, Charlotte, who look grief-struck, both of them. ]

And he doesn't reply when you speak to him? [ They shake their heads almost in time. John frowns, strikes mutism off the list and swirls the penlight between his fingers, using the back end of it to jab Daniel in the knee, right where his reflexes would be. There's no reaction to the agitation, not even a delayed one. Okay, then. Dr Williams wasn't wrong, it seems. ] All right.

[ He looks the boy over one more time, just to be sure. ]

35.

[docwithablog]

[ Rosehaven, as the base is rather romantically and thus unaptly named, has been positioned at the heart of a woodland territory lying a good hour's drive from Helston. To get there, well, they had to get a car first, so Sherlock had rented them a Land Rover which wouldn't exactly perish in the terrain. John's driving, though. Because, as Sherlock hadn't actually needed to insist, but insisted nonetheless, John's the military man and will fit into the environment at the base much better than Sherlock who'll instead be accompanying him in the guise of technical assistant.

Oh, but the tables have turned, then. Usually John's the assistant here.

Standing at attention near the main entrance to the complex, car parked in the parking area at the far end of the old industrial buildings marking the sight, they're currently waiting for their guide. John's military ID card only gives them reasonable cause to be here, it's Mycroft's clearance -- wherever the hell Sherlock's got that from, that functions as their authorization and, as Sherlock had rather off-handedly mentioned, it will only grant them twenty minutes. What they're going to do after that, who knows. He purses his lips, raises an eyebrow as a tall, lanky officer seems to be handed the job, them, yes, across the hall. He salutes his commander. John glances sideways at Sherlock.

That's the adventure of it, supposedly. A secret military base, Jesus Christ. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ They've worked out the details in the car. Sherlock stays right behind John, trying to maintain a somewhat professional demeanour without overdoing it; after all, it's a relatively standard job, supposedly, even if the base in question doesn't typically lend itself to control visits. He glances at John, as he handles the introductions, time ticking away at Mycroft's access clearance. There's something rather... uh. Well. John's quite obviously naturally at home in this environment, with his... posture and his attitude and his...

Hm.

Focusing on the officer who's currently busy leading them away from the entrance, towards the main area of the overground complex (which in itself is quite large but no doubt minuscule compared to what lies beneath - iceberg metaphor suddenly very, very apt), Sherlock takes in the subtle hints of stubble as well as the lines of his face (up late last night, work-related, ambitious, young for his position, fast climber). He looks around without actively turning his head, gaze gliding back and forth, noting the careful anonymity of the building as they enter, the way everything looks very unremarkable. Military, distinctively, but normal, almost painfully so. They set the course for the elevators in the large entrance hall, the officer proclaiming that the science labs are down on the second level.

At least the labs they're given access to.

Sherlock glances at John. Resists the urge to touch his arm, the small of his back, though he'd really... rather like to. He really does look very... very.

Yes. ]

36.

[acuriousincident]

[He's turned the case off in his mind for now, waiting for Terence Ingram to get them more data from within Rosehaven. They're stumped, right now - though they managed to analyze not just the sample to identify the remains of the compounds hidden within it (courtesy of Mycroft extending their clearance for two hours), he's nowhere closer to tracking down the origins of it. He's put out a feeler sellers and importers of the most intriguing ingredient - traces of something distinctively herbal in nature. Root hair, most probably, stemming from a very rare plant - the Red-crested Lion's Bane, also known as Red Sleep. Relatively unknown, botanically, and consequently not very well-described.

Ten minutes ago, he created a false account, logged onto the deep web and asked how to buy the plant in question on a few relevant fora.

Seemed to be no better way, really.

Right now, he's sitting by the dining table, studying a soil sample from the beach. He's paused himself, basically, waiting for the next lead. He's taking notes from time to time, scribbling down his findings. All the while, he's conscious of John sitting in the arm chair some feet away, reading the newspaper. Now and again, there's the familiar sound of pages turning, paper rustling. Quiet. ]

[docwithablog]

[ They ended up staying at Rosehaven for two hours, their clearance extended thanks but no thanks to Mycroft, after which they were escorted out, encountering absolutely no problems whatsoever, by Second Lieutenant Taylor, bumping only briefly into Ingram on their way -- and the man betrayed nothing, not even a glimpse of interest, very impressive acting skills, though really he's most likely just concerned for his son still. Since their return to the Beach Lodge, Sherlock's messed around at the computer, his own for once, and then gone about analyzing sand as if they're caseless, as if there never were a case to begin with. It's a proper interlude, then, a stalemate. Until Sherlock magics some new move into being that probably isn't possible and most definitely not legal, because that's how they work, apparently. John smiles, turns to the next page, pausing over an article about local politics. Very low-arousal.

Something that's not quite as low-arousal is the thought of Sherlock at that military base, doing what he was told to do, first and then, turning out in fact to be very, very bad, because that's how Sherlock simply is sometimes, when he doesn't think or, more likely, when he doesn't think to care. John had altogether implicitly but undoubtedly not unnoticed, promised the man to deal with it later and later is, in this context, now. Since they don't have anything better to do, obviously. Than teaching Sherlock Holmes a lesson.

He clears his throat, shifts a bit restlessly in his chair. It's a good chair, though. Very nice. The local's paper passable, but it would be better with some coffee -- Which, naturally, someone ought to make him, because they owe him that much, don't they?

It's a start. ] Sherlock? [ Keeping his voice neutral, John turns his head slightly, looking over at Sherlock at the dining table. He's making notes, huge hand, comparatively small pen, scribble, scribble. ]

Make me some coffee.

37.

[docwithablog]

I can hereby conclude that Brenda Tregennis is presumed very lonely and I've been encouraged to intercept her in her Saturday morning rabbit walk three times already.

[acuriousincident]

Lonely? I presume she's lost the woman she used to live with - her mother-in-law. Lots of pictures, heirlooms.

38.

[docwithablog]

[ The Blue Anchor Inn is only a few streets from the waterfront and it's cheap, atmospheric, well-visited. In the background, football's running on the telly, though John's mostly ignoring it, nursing his third pint of the evening. He isn't feeling drunk yet and he'll probably have to return to the cottage soon, before any actual intoxication sets in, but for now he's sitting near the door, far away from any and all ventilation shafts and looking out at the other guests, men mostly, who've gathered here to relax and enjoy a Friday evening, away from their girlfriends and wives.

His mind keeps flashing to Sherlock's face, drenched in his cum. He's tried thinking about other parts of the session, parts that were logically much more degrading, like the coffee table sit, but his brain's hyper-focused on that bloody facial. Because it had been a clear (ab)use of power and he'd do nothing better than to repeat it over and over and over. Soiling him (and cleaning him up again afterwards, granted).

Even with the actual matter of rank between Sholto and him, the other man had never done anything remotely like this. It had been rough sometimes, oftentimes, but never so -- John can't even find the right word, might be the light intoxication talking, after all.

Never so, what, dirty? And this is coming from the man who thought he'd seen it all. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ The powder is burning a hole in his pocket, basically, but he keeps his hands off it and his mind focused on the pub as he steps inside, the difference between the night air and the smoky atmosphere immediate and striking. He scrunches up his nose and looks around, trying to spot John by any of the tables.

And notes that he's... sitting more or less by the door.

Well.

He looks at the other man for a moment, gaze softening a fraction. John's nursing a beer (not the first, it's a re-fill, third, going by the traces of foam on the side of the glass as well as the imprints of the glass on the table surface), looking... not exhausted, exactly, more... tired. Something that goes far beyond the PNS, nothing cured by neither sleep nor... well. Drink. Obviously. He thinks about last night. Remembers, vaguely, John putting him to bed and going to sleep, folded up against him. The absolute safety of it. Peace. Swallowing, he walks over to him, pausing in front of the table and clearing his throat. ]

39.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's still early in the morning and he's been up since five o'clock, getting things ready. The sitting room is cold, all windows and doors open to allow for maximal ventilation as he prepares the small sample from Brenda Tregennis' stash. According to the seller who contacted him over the dark web, its effects won't be deadly when smoked - more like a bad high, presumably, though he didn't go into details about it. He turns on the heat before looking over at John who's standing by the table on the other side. They won't be sitting down for this experiment. If need be, they'll have to be able to end it quickly. ]

So, John. In a few moments, we should feel the effects - take note of every little change in your mental state and go outside if necessary. [ He isn't expecting any wild dramatics here but then again, it's a volatile root indeed, from what he's read. Not enough information to be absolutely certain. ] This test should help us determine whether the gas causes some sort of mental instability - agitation, most likely, along with either depression or anxiety.

[ The small stash turns to ashes quickly, the smoke rising from it an odd, reddish hue. It smells sweet. ]

[docwithablog]

[ They've been up since early on, because Sherlock insists on this -- well, he calls it an experiment, John calls it an unethical chasing of a high that he could have in a million other ways that doesn't include smoking an unknown substance just to see what it might do to your system, Jesus Christ. However, when John made this observation, because in less emotionally charged contexts, he can indeed be very observant, Sherlock had told him to just go wait outside, then. The cock. Since he won't be doing that, here he is, standing at the other side of the table and watching Sherlock make smoke signals.

It's so bloody stupid. If Sherlock thought John was being a bit of an idiot yesterday with his worrying and his brooding, Sherlock's being a class A one now. Not that you'd really expect anything less from one of the world's most intelligent men, would you? His expression tightens.

The smell is nauseating. John flexes his fingers at his sides, feeling restless. He shifts from one foot to the other. ]

Lovely cocktail.

[ Of a mental state, he means. It's mostly a mutter. He swallows something, raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, crossing his arms over his chest instead of leaving them to hang. Restless, restless, restless. ]

41.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's seven in the morning and he closed the case three hours ago, just about. Since then, he's been spending most of his cognitive resources on a slow, gradual but very noticeable... advancement. In... well. In him, as it were. Currently, he's on his stomach on the sofa, stretched out and naked under his dressing gown, his arsehole feeling both overly sensitive and stretched, so... very... stretched.

He'd bought the set of plugs online, not exactly on a whim. After all, having looked into what gets him off and what doesn't quite thoroughly, he's known for a while that he wants to be... fucked. Yes. By John, mind you, and literally no one else. He's never tried it before, though he's fairly certain John has (Sherlock observes), but he's seen the size of John's cock, felt it in his throat and between his fingers. He also knows the size of his own arsehole. And those things could not be further from each other. Opposite ends of the scale. Consequently, he's been spending the night and now the better part of the morning trying to get his arse acclimatized and while it's certainly going, it's also becoming close to maddening.

He's on number five. Number five is big and every time he moves in a certain way, it... presses against his prostate. Meaning at this point his balls are heavy from stimulation and his cock seems permanently half-erect. Solving the case hadn't been too hard (... ha. ha ha.), what with number two being quite small, still, and unassuming. But this is... He groans. Buries his face in the cushion and tries not to undulate his hips against the sofa. ]

[docwithablog]

[ The past five hours have been hell. Every single minute since Sherlock sent him that picture of his butt plug collection... Has. Been. Hell. No matter what else Sherlock might think of him, normally he's on their cases with everything's he's got to give, but this one -- he can't even remember the name of the victim whose autopsy reports he's been reading quite thoroughly. It's all sort of a blur. Because all he'd have had to give on this particular case, knowing Sherlock was running around with a size two butt plug jammed up his arse, had been a very premature ejaculation, probably.

He's managed. He's managed to remain semi-professional during the remaining three hours of the case, whenever they weren't alone for him to stare dumbfounded at Sherlock's backside and he's managed not to come after that either, which is really quite the miracle, everything considered. Currently, he's at a constant half-mast. His balls are killing him.

And then he looks over at Sherlock on the sofa, lying on his stomach with his head buried in a pillow, groaning quite pitifully and John thinks, well, maybe he won't be the first to go. He remembers how it feels, having something stretch you open so much and the last couple of plugs in the line-up aren't exactly normal penis size, are they? They're meant as prep for, what do they call them, size queens, yes, very apt. If John thought Sholto's was a challenge, imagine what -- it mustn't -- his in -- Sherlock's...

He licks his lips, popping the teabag out of the cuppa he's been preparing, because Sherlock wants his dick in his arse and you have to reward good decision-making in this company and walks over to the sofa as well. Doesn't attempt to make the man move, just puts the cup down on the coffee table next to him, saying: ]

Here. [ Pause. ] Though, I guess you can't actually drink it without sitting up.

42.

[acuriousincident]

[ Oh. Oh, God, it's so... Christ! He pushes his forehead into the pillow and groans, loudly, as the thickest part of the fifth plug stretches him, for a second to such a grotesque degree that he can't think about anything but how open he feels. His hard-on flags a bit as the stretch pitches from crazy but oddly good into crazy and slightly painful before he finally pops it out. With a gasp, he drops it on the other side of the bed. He's washed off the other ones, just for the sake of some orderliness (in the midst of what feels like absolute chaos in his mind) but right now, he can't even envision getting off the bed to do so. Instead, he stares at the sixth plug.

Just. Stares at it.

His cock grows harder. Apparently, it really has no shame nor any regard whatsoever for his arse. The rim feels puffed up and tender to the touch as he fingers it lightly. Aside from the wetness of the lube, sticky still, there's nothing. No pain, no blood, no excessive tenderness. Okay then.

Lying down on his stomach, his cock trapped against the bed, he closes his eyes for a moment and simply breathes in. Out. In. Then, eyes still shut, he reaches out and grabs the lube from the bedside drawer and puts it next to the (giant) plug, waiting for John because he's going to need... help... with this. Well, technically he could just push it in, the same way as all the others, but for some reason he'd just rather not. He'll happily avoid over-analyzing any of it, thank you. Maybe some other time. He winces, shifting slightly.

Maybe never. ]

[docwithablog]

[ While Sherlock's gone to the bedroom to do the Lord's work, undoubtedly, John's gone to the bathroom, intending to be proactive here and rid himself of everything that could and would get in the way of him planting his cock in the other man's arse within the next, what, half hour? Fifteen minutes? Time's a strange entity when it comes to sex of all kinds, but anal sex especially. He remembers. Standing naked, except for his boxers, in front of the mirror for a moment, he breathes in and out slowly, trying to ignore how bloody hard he still is, has been, all along. His boxers are tenting nicely and if there should be any doubt as to how much he wants this, then you only need look down. Not that Sherlock wouldn't deduce it from the sweat on his brow or the way his pupils are completely shot, but in this household, you really can't win those particular battles anyway. He's settled with that a long time ago.

Hearing Sherlock groan and move about on the bed in his bedroom, John finally pushes off the sink and steps through the door, leaving it open behind him, because there are important things and less important things right now. Yes. On the former list, the headline must be Sherlock, lying on the bed, a gigantuous butt plug on the bedspread next to his body. Lube. Oh, Jesus Christ. John stops half a meter from the bed, just looks at him. Takes him in, the long lines of his body, his buttocks spread -- open -- something else, open. There's a physical rush to his pelvis that's almost flooring. He exhales harshly, before crossing the distance the rest of the way, leaning in over the other man with an hand supporting him on the left of Sherlock's head and kissing his shoulder, his now very hard cock pressing against the curve of his buttock.

He turns his head, chin and cheek slipping over increasingly reddening skin. His voice is very close to Sherlock's ear like this. ]

Okay, just to be clear. You need my help with this?

43.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's ten o'clock in the morning when the timer rings, marking the end of his project. Sherlock shuffles about in the kitchen, his cup of tea half-drunk and currently abandoned on the table. All his beakers and chemistry equipment has been stocked in a box beneath the table, leaving the kitchen looking curiously neat. He's been methodical. One must be, with regards to the art of cooking.

Because naturally, he can cook. And bake.

Usually, it just isn't a priority.

Once he's taken the pastries out of the oven and put them aside to cool, he checks the pot on the stove, giving it a narrow-eyed glance before turning off the heat and plucking out the ramekins from within. Then, he checks the rest of the set-up. Toast is buttered, done. Tea and coffee ready to be poured, done. Sausages still hot, smell... quite nice, actually, he might need to make a plate for himself after all. Anyway, done. Freshly-pressed orange juice, also done. With a satisfied nod, he arranges it all on a tray - old, very unused, he had to dust it off and wash it - before adding the ramekins (oeufs en cocotte, his grandmother's recipe with added bacon, tomatoes and mushroom) and one of the freshly-made pastries (pain au raisin because he's been up since two). All in all, it looks exactly what it is - like an odd mix of French and British breakfast rituals. Picking up the tray, he heads for the bedroom, his bare feet shuffling slightly against the floor, the hints of a limp evident though it doesn't really bother him much.

He's calm, still. Inside and out. It shows in the quality of his voice - quiet, even and almost warm - when he enters the bedroom: ]

John. Wake up.

[docwithablog]

[ He's been half-awake for all of five minutes when Sherlock enters the bedroom, saying his name and telling him to wake up. He's been listening to him move about in the kitchen, thinking that he's working on something semi-scientific again, a new collection of blood spatters, possibly, the way he does when he needs to activate himself and just because John's completely knackered, doesn't mean Sherlock would be. The man's got another threshold for these things than most people. However, his voice doesn't sound at work and John has learned to distinguish these things by now. He doesn't sound like he's just got a case or he wants to enumerate his test results one by one, he sounds -- well, warmer, if going by his tone. Fonder. Jesus.

He didn't kill him, did he? Has he come back changed?

Groaning, he shakes his head, hair sort of a messy haystack on top of it, and sits up, pushing back against the headboard with one pillow lazily popped up against it for comfort. Only then does he actually look over at the other man, standing with a breakfast tray (wait, they have one of those?) full of actual -- food (what, he can cook??), some of it looking very fancy and decidedly non-British (???) and John's eyebrows go up, all the way to his hairline probably. His body feels spent still and sticky from sweat and other fluids and he should undoubtedly shower before eating anything, but it looks too delicious to be practical about. Yeah, Sherlock, too. So, in Sherlock's words from the previous day: ]

Could get used to this.

[ Anal sex in the morning, waking up to breakfast the following day. Definitely. ]

45.

[docwithablog]

[ Sholto's famly mansion (on his mother's side, his father's side originates from Scotland) is a bit like himself. Huge, quiet and withdrawn, located a ten minute drive from Castle Hedingham and seeing only the presence, currently, of his kitchen staff, a maid and the new gardener who's touching up the rose beds around the northern wing's terrace -- of course, along with John and Sholto himself sitting on it, enjoying high tea like they were royalty. Which they practically are, around here.

They're enjoying the midday sun together, the clock striking one inside the sitting room, the old grandfather clock announcing the time noisily through the open terrace doors. They haven't said much the past many hours, that's just how it goes between them. They'd live in the past otherwise, wouldn't they -- and none of them are too keen on what that implies, everything considered. They uphold what's worth holding up. That's it. The rest is what it was and it's gone now.

Taking another slice of cake and pouring tea out for the both of them, splashing milk into John's cup, but not his own, Sholto eventually looks over at him with the kind of look you can't rightly ignore, so John makes a hmm sound and turns his head, giving him a look back.

What, it says. Sholto raises his chin, all that pride that he's still got in him, and comments: You've been here four days already and you haven't mentioned him with a word. Ah, John thinks, it's about Sherlock, then. He should've known he'd come bite him in the arse. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ So.

It had taken him approximately ten seconds to access John's e-mail account and even less to read over James Sholto's message. He'd spent the night at 221B, building a small home for the frog and trying to decide whether to leave John to his little adventure (though, knowing him it wouldn't amount to much of anything with regards to Sholto's little mystery, obviously not a case of paranoia) or to... Well.

Do this, apparently.

He's been here for three days, working undercover as a gardener, having read up upon the subject enough on the train to talk himself into a temporary position. Currently, he's wearing a blond wig beneath a cap as well as a fake nose to change up his profile. He's had several talks with the maid (who is, apparently, single and looking) and the chef as well as the housekeeper, an elderly man who'd had no misgivings whatsoever about hiring him. This far out in the countryside, people aren't too afraid, it seems. Even though someone's clearly tried to do in the master of the house, several times over.

As he trims the (large, very large, not unlike his mother's) rose bushes near the terrace, he keeps his breathing quiet and his body language unremarkable. John's right there after all and he's just heard the beginnings of a conversation that might very well be about him. John hasn't mentioned him, huh? Well, why would he. It's obvious they have enough other things to talk about, him and Sholto. He cuts a rose too far up the stem and the head tumbles off, onto the ground. Taking a deep breath, he picks it up and puts it in the bucket. Moves on, slowly, forcing himself to concentrate. ]

46.

[docwithablog]

[ Sholto gave him a lift to Braintree which sports the closest, consistently working train station in the area. There's a direct line that'll take him to Liverpool Street Station and he's already changed his ticket to an earlier departure time, seeing as someone has ensured that Sholto no longer needs to feel in danger in his own bloody household and it sure wasn't John. The police had come knocking on the front door of the mansion pretty early in the morning, both John and Sholto receiving them in pyjamas and dressing gowns, John listening in absolute disbelief as they'd presented the evidence to arrest the kitchen help, all of it apparently coming from a good samaritan who wished to remain entirely anonymous (hah).

Sherlock's getting it once he's back at 221B. Oh, he's getting it.

Boarding the train, Greateranglia towards London, surprisingly full carriages, considering how far out into the countryside they are, he eventually slips into an empty seat opposite a guy with an unfortunate shade of blonde hair, fishing out his phone and sending off a text to Sherlock that simply reads: In approximately an hour and a half we're going to need a serious talk, got it? ]

[acuriousincident]

[ So, he may or may not have arranged for a seat on the same train as John, headed back to London. May have. The case has been solved (he could have done that from the sofa, honestly), James Sholto is once more as safe as he can be, what with so many people despising him for God's knows what reason - in Sherlock's mind, if you go to war, you know what you sign up for, don't you? Shouldn't you be... more or less prepared to die in a fire or some such, for the sake of your country? He wouldn't know - he did try to sign up, back in the day, but for some reason they didn't approve of his cocaine habit.

He's currently looking out of the window when John - wonders of all - happens to seat himself right opposite him, most of the carriages full of people. This part, though, he hasn't arranged; to be frank, he may have hoped he could make it back to London unseen. The past days he's stuck to his job - his real one and his make-believe - gathering enough evidence to have the maid arrested on charges of attempted homicide. All the while, John's words have resonated within him. Sentiment. It's all been a bit distracting.

Keeping his head down and his face slightly turned aside, he could have no doubt made it all the way back without John noticing anything whatsoever but then, his phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out. Frowns at the message before typing in a response:

about? ]

47.

[docwithablog]

[ They got home around eleven in the morning and Sherlock proceeded to clean up the sitting room, with some minor distractions, all easily redirected, in six hours. Six hours of dedicated, rigorous labour, John just sitting around and reading his newspapers, writing an update to his blog, drinking coffee and later, eating take-away from the pizzeria they like. He's actually quite proud of him, should anyone be interested, not that anyone is, of course. Not even Sherlock himself, currently asleep in a sprawl on the sofa. One foot thrown over the armrest, one hand on the floor. Head turned away, as if he doesn't want John to look at him, but well -- he's not the one to decide that right now, is he? He just solved a case in secret. A case involving John's former partner. Sherlock won't be deciding anything for himself the next many hours.

With a slight groan, John gets to his feet and puts his newspapers neatly away, no reason to disturb the rather beautiful order that Sherlock's managed to create, crossing the sitting room floor on sock-clad feet and stopping next to the sofa, at the far-end of it, the end where Sherlock's resting his head. He's a mess of curls and dust-lined features. He really needs a shower, doesn't he? Last stop before they can begin thinking in rewards, John thinks.

He hasn't complained. He wouldn't. He knows, in this -- and maybe only in this, but so be it, John's right.

Thus, he leans in over the armchair, resting a hand on either side of Sherlock's head, staring right down at him while raising his voice a little, not in terms of volume, in terms of impact. A commanding voice. Quite impossible to argue with even for the most argumentative, insistent idiot on the planet, indeed. ]

Shower, Sherlock. [ He pushes himself off the sofa. Straightens up. ] Five minutes.

[acuriousincident]

[ He wakes up a bit abruptly, though not in any unpleasant way - rather, his system simply says, go. Activated, as it were, by John who draws away from the sofa just as Sherlock turns his head towards him, his entire body feeling wrecked, still. His head, even more so. It's been what, six hours worth of cleaning, sorting, putting things in order, throwing things out (surely the worst aspect of the entire thing) and John watching him all throughout, correcting him, telling him... how he wants it.

Just as he's doing now. Shower? He sniffs experimentally, smelling his own sweat, dust, labour. Even if he hadn't been inclined to do exactly as John says, he would have seen some sense in cleaning off. He rolls to his feet a bit awkwardly, limbs still sleep-ridden and ungainly, before looking over at John. He doesn't seem quite as angry anymore, though they obviously aren't done, either. Cringing, he nods, then says, voice rough: ]

You'd better not make me clean anything else in this flat, John, or I swear I'll burn it down.

[ Spoken with an edge born mostly from exhaustion, still. His mind can't quite comprehend what he's subjected it to today; so many things. So much... stuff. He blinks, padding slowly towards the bathroom. ]

50.

[docwithablog]

Are you at any point today going to get off the sofa?

[acuriousincident]

Doubt it.

51.

[docwithablog]

[ Whereas Lestrade had -- surprisingly happily agreed to help him out with the suit and the map, John couldn't ask him for help in regards to his use of Roland Kerr Further Education College, because the man naturally wouldn't understand why this particular spot is special. To them. And neither should he, mind you, because the moment he does, John is very much at risk of being arrested on murder charges, yes. Not good. A bit not good.

So, he had talked to the principal himself, explained that he worked with Sherlock Holmes, surely she'd heard of them (big fan of the doctor's blog, would you like to have coffee later) and since Sherlock had been involved in the terrible case that got a suspect killed here a year or so back, would she perhaps allow John to just -- snoop around for a couple of days? New evidence had surfaced and, well, he would only need the room in question, the rest of the college could go about their day as per usual. And since he agreed to a cup of coffee at some point, she had been very accommodating indeed and reserved the quarters for him Monday through Wednesday, please, do let her know if she could be of further assistance.

John had nodded and smiled and made arrangements with catering.

Here he is, then. Waiting for Sherlock to make the trip from Baker Street, sitting at an intermittently set table, everything left as it had been back then, except for a white tablecloth thrown over the end table and dinnerware arranged with a sense of order, if not exactly aesthetics. Off to the side, foil trays with Chinese, shipped out on order once Sherlock said he was on his way. Big menu. Fortune cookies, too.

Guess away, you utter idiot. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ It had taken him an embarrassingly long, thirty seconds to realise the importance of the date but once he'd caught on, he'd done his best to catch up to John. For once, the man has left him behind in the dust and there's something quite exhilarating about it, about the surprise, the small mystery. The realisation. As he hurries through the empty halls of the Roland Kerr Further Education College, he checks his reflection very quickly in one of the windows, just to make sure. Just... yes.

He puffs up his hair for good measure, straightens his suit jacket (tailored, special occasions or family dinners when it can't be helped) and pauses outside the designated door, the only one it can possibly be. John hasn't told him but all cues (including marks on the floor from whichever activity's he's prepared) point in just this one direction and Sherlock certainly hasn't forgotten.

You risk your life to prove you're clever.

With a brief half-smile, he pushes open the door and steps inside, his coat hanging over one arm and his breathing just ever so slightly too quick. Then, he stops in the doorway and just... looks. Eyes wide and mouth working dumbly, fish-like. Oh, he thinks and it's not at all eloquent but oh. ]

52.

[docwithablog]

51°29′20″N 00°09′11″W

2200

7148

[acuriousincident]

All right.

53.

[docwithablog]

[ It has been a long way coming, this. Six weeks, that's what it's taken him to get the uniforms shipped out from QM in Fenham, not to mention the additional time it's taken him to talk William into letting him have full access (no surveillance) to the old Chelsea Barracks that have been under construction for the past five years and will never see combat training again. John has been here since twenty hundred hours, readying the various spaces he's chosen for them tonight. The showers, still functional with the right type of command, yeah, and the old captain's office. As well as the 200 outdoor track. They'll need that later.

All in all, John Watson has exhausted all his old debts and absolutely no one owes him any favours in the military any longer. At least he's used it all up for an excellent cause, right?

He's waiting in the captain's office now, two doors down from the showers which is very fortunate and also a very intentional pick. Being back in combat uniform is a strange, almost dizzying feeling, like slipping into an old friend -- except the friend got you shot and your system remembers that, vividly. The khaki camouflage blends in even with this room in its semi-lit state, his heavy boots all but glued to the floor, the way John is standing at ease, waiting for Sherlock to arrive. He's been given specifications, certainly, but the rest John fully intends the other man to figure out on his own. He's clever, he can manage.

On the desk next to him, another uniform lies waiting, neatly folded, boots (huge) on the floor in front of the old piece of furniture. Insignia and name tag lined up on the right side of the uniform. Next to them, two butt plugs, reasonably small.

Welcome to a life of service, Sherlock Holmes. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ When he received the text from John, he took the liberty of showering before leaving for the coordinates indicated in the text message. Changed his clothes, too, just... well, just. He doesn't know. It's a military base, it's John's domaine. As proven by their adventure in Cornwall, Rosehaven, military is second nature to him, still, invalidated or not. And he'd sounded quite natural, hadn't he, in the role of Sherlock's superior officer? Sherlock taps in the password on the small panel next to the door, having followed the paths that were lighted up in contrast to the rest of the area. In the darkness, the base feels huge all around him, like a small town in and of itself.

He steps inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him, the locks slipping back into place. Locking him in.

With John, who's waiting for him.

Casually, he walks down the hallways, going by the most logical conclusion - the captain's office, naturally, where else, where else - before pausing outside the door in question. For a moment, he wonders whether he ought to knock. Then, he looks down at himself. At his familiar coat (statement, said John, and whilst Sherlock had pretended not to get him, he knows how right he is), his shoes, his tight trousers. Military base or not, they have yet to transcend, haven't they? So he enters without knocking, without that show of respect, though one look at the room (John at ease, ohmygod those boots, those, oh and that's a uniform on the desk, his size if the name tag didn't give it away, insignia - Lieutenant-rank - and... butt plugs... ) makes all the blood in his body seemingly rush south, towards his crotch area.

He swallows. Closes the door behind him and turns towards John. When he speaks, his voice sounds thin, breathless: ]

Captain, is it?