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

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 Huge, quiet and withdrawn, located a ten minute drive from Castle Hedingham and seeing only the presence, currently, of his kitchen staff, a maid and the new gardener who's touching up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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ John isn't a secret keeper by nature or he'd have been a better liar, yes, but he's got a very developed sense of public and private. Some things, certain types of laundry you air and others you don't -- and personal relationships and exactly how much they mean to you are on the latter list, not the former. Sholto knows that, too, they've lived the don't ask, don't tell policy together, after all. They're both used to not oversharing. To a degree where they hardly share anything at all, unless absolutely forced to.

Which is what Sholto's doing now, then. Forcing him. Well, he is still in some rather nostalgic way John's commander, he should probably do as he's told. Except -- this is Sherlock we're talking about, right. Sherlock is his. Even the great Major can't claim rights to him. John objects. He very much objects. ] I've been doing a constant running commentary on him since we met, Major, you can't maintain you don't know who he is. [ He reaches for his tea and takes a sip. The liquid has grown lukewarm, also thanks to the milk, so he grabs for the chance at taking a longer sip and thus not being able to elaborate. Sholto has received enough day-long e-mails about the woes and joys of living with Sherlock Holmes, before and after they became a couple. What more is he supposed to say, really?

Except everything that matters, supposedly.

Sholto watches him for a moment longer before reaching for his own tea, the heretic who takes it without milk, and sips it -- and there's a long moment where they're just mirroring each other, saying nothing, both of them waiting, though neither of them probably knows for what. There's no doubt a difference between who he is and who he is to you, Watson, Sholto says, using his last name as he's had a habit of since their early days. It makes John lower his cup somewhat and stare at him, both eyebrows raised.

The man always had to be so damn clever. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ John, naturally, starts out by brushing the man off because really, what else would you say to something like that? Knowing John (as Sholto obviously does), you wouldn't exactly expect the man to start waxing poetics on command, despite what his flowery writing might tell you. A moment passes, during which Sherlock tries not to ruin the rose bush, moving on to the next (bright pink Gertrude Jekyll roses) and looking at the flowers, trying to maintain a somewhat critical look. There's no one around to notice, granted, if he doesn't. There's John, who hardly ever notices anything (case in point) and Sholto's clearly occupied.

He glances sideways, up towards the two men. The way they carry the silence between them speaks volumes. In a way, they seem quite alike, him and John; quiet, firm, unyielding. Sholto, perhaps even more so.

There's a difference, says Sholto then and oh, oh, he's the smart one, isn't he. John has a type. He immediately regrets drawing that particular conclusion, as it makes his stomach drop and his chest feel terribly heavy. He breathes in. Breathes out. The smell of the roses suddenly seem overly sweet and he turns his head away, only just managing not to inhale the bee that zooms past his nose at the same time. He wrinkles his nose and listens in, more carefully now, wondering whether he should find a way to interrupt them. Suddenly, he's quite worried about what he'll hear (whether John might say... nothing, maybe say something that's somehow wrong, though how could he, it's not as if there's a handbook but -- ) and certainly, running at them screaming and waving his arms would certainly do the trick...

All the same, he stays exactly where he is. Of course he does. ]

[docwithablog]

Yeah, good. Very good. [ He shifts in his seat, tugs at one cuff of his shirt with the other hand, then reverses, left-right, right-left, there. Reaches for his tea again, but it's gone stone-cold in the meantime. He sighs. It's really not that he doesn't want to talk with Sholto about Sherlock or, God forbid, he's got nothing to say. It's because he fears that if he starts opening his mouth now, it's going to come pouring out in one big confusion, no beginning and no end and no meaning and you can't do Sherlock a bigger disservice than that. Sprouting a whole lot of nothing about him. Come on, he'd roast you, if he heard.

He thinks about the time they had anal sex. He thinks about the lengths Sherlock went to, to make it happen. He remembers the intensity of it, the feeling of complete devotion, both ways, that followed in the aftermath. Not that he's going to tell Sholto about that, would be just the tiniest bit inappropriate and Sherlock isn't around to break down that particular barrier, but he wants to put words to the feeling of it. He just doesn't -- know how. He doesn't exactly cover this in his blog, does he? Many sides of Sherlock, sure. Not that, though.

Private, again. Very private.

So he crosses his arms over his chest for a moment, looking straight ahead, the gardener moving past his vision like a blurry blurb in motion. Finally, he exhales, long and hard and looks back over at Sholto. ] I don't miss the army any longer. [ An eyebrow raise from the other side of the table. No, no, keep up with him here, Major, please. ] The deployments, the -- work, haven't missed it for months and months.

[ But the army's family, Sholto replies, making a hard curve tug at the corner of John's mouth. ]

I know. What does that tell you?

[acuriousincident]

[ He recognises John's body language quite well at this point (it's all in the John!file) with the tugging of the shirt cuff, the shifting, the crossing of his arms. He's not getting defensive but guarding himself, the way John only rarely does around Sherlock because there's seldom any need. They don't talk about these things, after all. Sherlock doesn't ask, John doesn't either.

But Sholto, apparently, does.

And John, in response... is talking.

What does that tell you?

Sherlock drops his shears. Blinking, he bends down, realising that they've tumbled all the way into the bloody bush, meaning that he'll have to stick his hand in there to get them. His unguarded, ungloved hand. Why isn't he wearing gloves, anyway? Wouldn't a gardener do that? Apparently, the one he's pretending to be is also slightly masochistic. Or stupid. Take your pick. Lips thinning, he thinks about John. Who doesn't miss the army because he doesn't miss having a family. It speaks volumes, doesn't it, for a man who's had to look for one continually throughout his life in lieu of the one he wasn't given to begin with? It means that Sherlock is...

He sticks his hand right into the bush and keeps listening, ignoring the way the thorns immediately catch on his fingers, knuckles, wrist. The shears have tumbled all the way to the ground and he has to bend down quite a lot to get them, sticking his bottom in the air and trying not to lose his balance. Going head-first into this botanical nightmare definitely isn't on his list of to-dos. ]

[docwithablog]

[ At the edge of his vision, the gardener's on his way into the rosebush and that's an alternative way of tending to a bed, isn't it? John frowns a bit in his direction, at the way his bum sticks out, until Sholto says what kind of family have you found yourself, then which is only another way of asking whether it measures up, can it handle the comparison? So John finds himself smiling, more genuinely now as he thinks about midnight runs with the other man, Sherlock, not Sholto -- they did other things at midnight, granted, working a case for days, no sleep, the comedown afterwards, sessions, Sherlock shifting between leading the investigation and submitting to John's orders. An adaptable one, he could say and cover most of it, but he isn't trying to hide anything from his former commander, he just wants to be -- precise about it. Accurate. Not an idiot, yes. ]

The kind that doesn't bore you with family dinners -- [ But still keeps you on your toes with an inflamed sibling rivalry, right, very inflamed. ] -- or takes you to the obstacle course in the middle of the night, if you've had a fight -- [ Pointed look in your direction, Sholto, Jesus Christ. ] -- but does drag you along for a complete, three-day adventure, expecting you to keep up and forgetting about you in a heartbeat, if you can't.

[ Sholto's hands are folded in his lap as he listens, a small frown on his face and he looks over at John after a moment with a look that says, so why do you keep up with him? John scoffs, looks towards the sitting room inside where the maid's now dusting the furniture. He knows it must sound completely bonkers, completely senseless, but it is what it is. (It's perfect). He leans forward, grabs a biscuit and sort of just -- balances it between his fingers, but doesn't eat it. It was mostly to do something. His voice warms, when he continues: ]

He raises my game, Sholto. [ Sounding completely genuine now, no sarcasm, no defensiveness. ] Not just with the crime solving, that's one thing, but with all the rest. Being an actual human being, being an actual person, he raises my game there as well.

[acuriousincident]

[ He's at the point when he ought to change... bush, or what have you, move on. He's trying to decide (whilst massaging his fingers a bit - those thorns are no laughing matter) whether to move closer or downwards, in the opposite direction. The beds near the terrace are large but prosperous, predominantly white and pink Alba roses (hardy, requires only little pruning and capable of surviving even very shady conditions). He could give them a look over, briefly, just a minute or two. Won't need much more.

He just.

John's right there and there's something almost ridiculously enticing about being right under his nose, unnoticed. That perpetually unobservant man. Quenching a half-smile, he heads for the Alba beds, only about twenty feet from the terrace and well within hearing distance. He hears John talking about family dinners (no, basically), about late night obstacle course running (... Sholto just changed categories from 'close acquaintance' to 'ex'), about... well, yes, he does forget, he's... his brain goes too fast for trifles, Christ, John, haven't you already --

He raises my game, he says and there's something so warm and... earnest about his voice that Sherlock actually pauses mid-pruning, his shears hovering uselessly inches from the stem. Being an actual person. He blinks. Tries to focus on his persona and fails, feeling suddenly very light and very heavy simultaneously. He thinks about John, following him from crime scene to crime scene. Stomaching his violin playing, even late at night. Cooking for him. Eating breakfast in bed with the most satisfied, the most well-spent look in his eyes and body.

Turning away, he cradles his shears and tries to regain his composure. ]

[docwithablog]

[ And do you make him a better person? Sholto nods at him, it's not a sarcastic remark, but it is a remark nonetheless. I see, it says, but what about him? Protective, isn't he? Sholto never changes. Once you're one of his charges, you remain that way till you die -- and probably well beyond, case in point, why they're sitting here, miles away from everything. Surrounded by only the man's trusted few. John included. John pops his biscuit into his mouth and chews on it, buying himself a few seconds to think it over. Does he make Sherlock a better person? Is that even possible? Should you really want to, those are the real questions here. He shakes his head, remembers coming all over Sherlock's face, remembers the way they can juggle their dynamics mostly with ease, mostly cost-free. Oh, and he remembers being inside of him. Vividly.

He'd like to think that sometimes, just sometimes Sherlock becomes a better person for him as well, whenever it's needed and, honestly, most of the time it's not. That's not what he says, though, because at the end of the day, even with just Sholto as an audience, that's simply too private, instead he raises an eyebrow far up below his hair line, going full-out innuendo on it and says: ]

Occasionally.

[ Sholto chuckles and looks over towards the gardener, John taking the chance of regaining composure, shoulders down, lips licked, cuffs rightened once more. Although D/s isn't all they have or all they do in bed, thinking about it, he gets a feeling that Sherlock probably couldn't find any clearer expression of how John has an impact on him, too.

It was never about proof anyway, it was about trust. ]