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We're all capable of mistakes, but I do not care to enlighten you on the mistakes we may or may not have made.
- Al Gore
It was only six-ten in the morning when John was woken by the door buzzer followed by a loud, insistent banging on their door. He sat straight up at the noise, dislodging Sherlock from his shoulder. He looked down to see if Sherlock had any intention of moving any further, but either he wasn’t aware of the sounds or John’s movement, or he was really good at faking it so that John would have to be the one to drag himself out of their very warm blankets to go deal with it.
John stumbled to the sitting room in his pyjamas. Whoever was out there was still banging as John undid the bolt.
“Open up, you two! Please!”
John opened the door to find Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade looking either very hungover or possibly still drunk at their step.
“Oh, Christ, about time,” Lestrade mumbled as he followed John who staggered back into 221B.
“It’s six in the morning. What the hell-“
“Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asked, with about the same manners as the object of his query; eyes searching the sitting room.
“In bed. Where I was a minute ago. What do you need?”
Lestrade quirked an eyebrow at John’s wording, but then figured that John had simply meant that he was asleep as well, not necessarily that he was in the same bed as Sherlock, certainly.
He dropped into a chair. “Help with a case, of course,” he muttered through his fingers.
“You couldn’t call? Text?” John went over and budged up the heat. His dressing gown was in Sherlock’s room, but he felt that if he went in to get it, the DI might start working it out. He actually wasn’t particularly averse to Greg knowing, but he suspected he and Sherlock should talk about it first. They hadn’t so far found any need to broadcast that what most people had assumed for ages was finally right, but that was due more to the fact that it was just none of their damn business than any shame, at least on John’s part.
“When you turn on the news you’ll see why we’d like to keep any electronic ‘paper trail’ to a minimum. I’ve been on this case since about six o’clock last night. We’ve worked through the night and we still have nothing. The only people working this situation harder than me and my people are the bloody gutter press. ”
“Sounds like I better drag Sherlock’s arse out of bed. You don’t look like you have the energy to go through this twice.” John grabbed the remote and turned on the morning news as he passed.
John went into Sherlock’s room, shutting the door behind him. It was anyone’s guess what Sherlock would say or do with John in the bedroom with him, so best that there be whatever privacy could be found until he could impress upon Sherlock the need for a little early morning decorum.
John stood at Sherlock’s side of the bed. When John had gone out, Sherlock had pulled John’s pillow around and was now curled around it. John was a little loath to wake Sherlock. His sleep patterns had improved since the two of them had started sleeping together, but they still weren’t anything like regular.
John perched next to Sherlock’s shoulder and pushed Sherlock’s fringe back off his face. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock mumbled incoherently and shoved his face further into the edge of John’s pillow.
Somewhat worried that Sherlock was on his way to suffocating himself as well as certain that losing his prop would wake Sherlock up, John grabbed the edge of the pillow and yanked.
“WHAT?! Hey!” Sherlock hollered as he made a weak grab for the pillow on John’s lap. There was a few seconds pause as Sherlock took stock of the situation and then, “Why are you sitting there instead of lying here?” Sherlock poked at the mattress between him and John.
“Because Lestrade is in the sitting room with a case.”
“Tellimtafuckoff,” Sherlock mumbled and took the pillow out of John’s hand and turned his back, curling around the pillow. He lifted his head and frowned at the pillow and turned back to John. “Then get back in bed.”
John patted him gently on the shoulder. “You want to tell him to fuck off, do it yourself. I’m putting on tea.” He left the door open as he went back into the sitting room.
As he crossed back to the kitchen John noticed that Lestrade had taken the remote and was watching as each of the stations he flipped between covered what appeared to be a very noteworthy burglary. “He’s coming,” he told Lestrade, even though he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. He began rinsing out the teakettle. “So what’s the big deal about this case?” he called out, hoping Sherlock was listening in and would drag himself out of his room to hear the details.
“Someone stole over sixteen million pounds worth of jewelry from that obnoxious arse from that stupid television program’s house. I mean, really, who even owns sixteen million pounds worth of jewelry?”
John looked back to see the telly, where they were broadcasting from the outside of a large amount of crime scene tape. When they mentioned the victim’s name John scowled. He’d heard of the guy. And his wife. They were both pretty famous and those who knew about such things said they were both amazing actors, but John had never heard a good thing about either of them as people. He briefly considered making Lestrade a bet about whether Sherlock had even heard of either of them, but dismissed it. Sherlock had huge holes in his knowledge of pop culture, but John was pretty sure he was listening not only to him and Greg, but also to the news broadcast, which would be enough for him to at least fake it though the conversation.
He entertained trying to word the bet in such a way, in front of Sherlock, to put use Sherlock’s idea that John should have agreed to spy on him for Mycroft. Sherlock would have controlled the information, of course, but they could have split the fee, and theoretically, Mycroft would have been none the wiser. He wondered if the two of them had enough subtlety between them to take Lestrade for a few pounds that way.
Then he remembered that, really, as it went, Lestrade was a friend of Sherlock’s and his. He probably shouldn’t orchestrate crap like this on the one other guy who kept him sane by helping to keep Sherlock busy.
John had just finished filling the kettle and had set it to boil when he heard Sherlock dragging himself out of his room.
“Is someone dead?” he asked Lestrade abruptly.
“Uh… good morning to you too.” Greg answered grumpily.
John realized there was every chance that with the two of them both in a mood, the potentially ensuing argument could literally wake the neighbors. He listened for a chance to jump in and head off any potential fireworks.
“Is. Someone. Dead?” Sherlock repeated slowly.
“No, not this time. It’s a burglary of a shittonne of jewels and we have absolutely no forensic evidence. No prints, no odd hairs, no point of entry...”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly interested in the lack of evidence. “You have no evidence or that idiot Anderson couldn’t find any evidence?”
Lestrade sighed a very, very put-upon sigh. “God help me, that’s what I’m hoping you could tell us.”
Deciding they were both too tired to contemplate killing each other, John went back to scaring up breakfast for the three of them.
“I need a shower,” Sherlock mumbled. “And tea. Clothes probably…” he announced before turning and walking away.
“Probably?” Lestrade asked John as Sherlock trundled up the stairs.
“Don’t ask unless you really want to know,” John told him as he took out some fruit from the fridge and began peeling an orange. He knew if he stuck food in front of Sherlock in the morning he’d eat it without much comment. It was the one time of day John could sneak in some vitamins without Sherlock either wrinkling his nose or giving John some obscure lecture on the symptoms of scurvy in nineteenth century naval personnel. “Want some toast and fruit?” he called to Lestrade.
“Sure. I don’t suppose you have – “
“John!”
They both stopped. Sherlock was at the top of the stairs, leaning around the corner in his dressing gown. “John, I think I tore a stitch out of my shoulder.”
John put the orange on the workbench and came around to where he could see Sherlock. “What-“ the look on Sherlock’s face kept him from finishing his thought. What stitches? He knew for a fact that Sherlock didn’t have a stitch in him. Apparently he wasn’t the only one thinking of something sneaky that morning. He wondered what in hell Sherlock could possibly be up to and debated how far he wanted to wade into it before he knew. “What could you possibly have done to manage that?” he recovered. “Get the first aid kit out, I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Stitches?” Lestrade asked as John washed the orange juice and pith off his hands.
“He managed to harpoon himself,” John improvised, thinking of the last time Sherlock might have possibly needed stitches that John knew about. It was more than three weeks ago, now, and the actual cut had been shallow and scabbed over before Sherlock had even gotten home, but there was no reason for Lestrade to know that.
John went upstairs and joined Sherlock in the bathroom. As soon as he shut the door behind him, before he could even ask what Sherlock was up to, Sherlock lunged at him, backing him into the wall and kissing him.
John wondered if there was something wrong with him when his first thought was, ‘at least he did me the courtesy of brushing his teeth first’. But then he had his second thought. “Sherlock-“ Sherlock kissed him again, pressing his whole body against John who was now flush with the wall. “Sherlock! Lestrade is downstairs in our sitting room!” he whispered. He wished he’d managed to sound harsher than he did. As it was, he sounded more intrigued than abashed.
Sherlock’s hand slid between them, gently cupping John’s balls and half-hard cock through his pyjamas. “Then we should be quick. Shouldn’t keep a guest waiting,” Sherlock whispered right into John’s ear.
“You’re serious?” John asked, but his only half-resolved morning erection that he’d been ignoring since getting pulled rather unceremoniously out of bed, was clearly on board with Sherlock’s idea.
Sherlock’s eyebrows bounced up and down and John couldn’t help but giggle. “You better be damn quiet.” Sherlock had had a few moments where he’d given in to his feelings and become more than a bit noisy. Normally John enjoyed knowing that Sherlock was into whatever they were doing, but… Jesus, Lestrade was sitting in their flat watching news coverage of a theft he couldn’t solve, waiting for Sherlock to come and do his job for him.
“He thinks you’re putting stitches back in my shoulder. That should cover any noise I make. You on the other hand…” Sherlock had pulled the neckline of John’s t-shirt out of the way and was speaking between light nips to John’s collarbone.
“Turn on the damn shower,” John said hoping it would be enough. He knew he could be quiet when necessary; he still wasn’t sure about Sherlock.
Sherlock wrenched on the water, apparently turning it on as hot as it would go, because in a few seconds the room started filling with steam.
Both knew there was no time for finesse or leisure. “Strip,” John said quietly as he shoved his own pyjamas far enough out of the way.
The room now warmed by the steam, Sherlock hung up his dressing gown and then pulled his pyjamas off and kicked them into the corner where they’d probably remain behind the door until John got annoyed enough to throw them down the stairs at his flatmate-turned-partner.
Sherlock was already hard and had clearly gotten used to having John around to help him deal with the inconvenience of a morning erection in the past few weeks. He pressed John into the wall again, adjusting his own stance so that his erection aligned with John’s. The steam was making everything, including their skin, slick and warm. Sherlock pushed John’s hands up against the wall. “Let me?”
John wasn’t entirely sure what Sherlock was thinking, but clearly they needed to investigate this exhibitionist side of his. John had yet to see him this aggressive when it came it sex. He’d also have to, when he had a quiet moment, need to ponder why he was getting at least as turned on as his partner.
Sherlock shifted again, just enough to let him take his weight off his hands. He took both John’s hands in his and tugged just enough to get John to relax enough to let Sherlock position him.
Sherlock put John’s hands against the wall, a good foot away from his hips on either side. John realized he should have been surprised that Sherlock knew that John couldn’t keep his damaged arm above his head for more than a minute before he started losing circulation in that hand and had taken that into account… but this was Sherlock, so of course he’d noticed.
John stood in the pose Sherlock put him in, waiting to see what Sherlock’s latest forays into the steamier side of the internet had led to this time.
Sherlock shifted again, finding a position that was comfortable for him.
“You’re developing a kink for sex standing up,” John observed. “Or sex in the loo. Or both.”
“You’re talking too much,” Sherlock said, sealing his lips over John’s as he took both his cock and John’s in one of his hands and began stroking them both.
“Oh-okay. No-no more talking,” John stammered as Sherlock re-angled his hand to give them both a little more friction.
Sherlock didn’t answer as he pressed his hips closer to John’s, keeping his hand trapped between them, as he stroked and twisted and squeezed.
John tilted his head to look down between them. He could see the wider, flatter tip of his cock held tight to the bright purple tip of Sherlock’s, both disappearing and reappearing as Sherlock worked.
“Holy fuck,” He whispered as he looked away before it was over any faster than it had to be. Sherlock grinned a little when he heard the hollow thunk of John’s head hitting the wall as John attempted to concentrate on the ceiling in an effort to calm himself. “God, you being aggressive is so much more of a turn on than I thought it would be,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear.
“Did you think of it very much?” Sherlock whispered back, never faltering in his rhythm.
John could feel his impending orgasm begin to build. “On more than one occasion, sure,” he admitted hoping that the conversation would forestall the inevitable.
“I’ll have to surprise you more often,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, biting gently on the lobe when he finished his sentence.
That was all John needed. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulders and buried his gasps into his chest.
He was just about to tell Sherlock to stop – that he was hitting that point of oversensitivity after orgasm – when he felt Sherlock stiffen and come on their bellies.
They both laughed as John sagged against the wall and Sherlock collapsed against John.
“Lestrade is downstairs,” Sherlock reminded John.
“Dammit.” It was all John could think to say at the moment. He grabbed a flannel and cleaned off his chest and belly. “Shower,” he told Sherlock who was leaning on the door watching him. “So I can go next.”
They both knew that on any other day they would have just climbed into the hot water together. They both sighed which caused them to laugh again.
John fixed his pyjamas so that he’d be decent enough for a dash into his bedroom where he could pull on denims and shirt while Sherlock cleaned up and he made the three of them breakfast. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm as he was climbing into the tub and kissed him quickly. “Come eat once you’re dressed,” he said letting Sherlock get under the spray while he snuck out of the loo and into his room.
~*~*~*~*~
The look on Lestrade’s face when John cam back downstairs told him instantly that they hadn’t been nearly as quiet as they needed to be.
“Are you mental?”
John rolled his eyes and made his way back into the kitchen without making eye contact with Greg. “I’ve lived with him for coming up on two years, been arrested for him once and with him twice – once in America and once in France - and followed him across the city – hell, the planet - chasing murders, thieves and gun-runners. And the fact that I’m sleeping with him is what causes you to ask me if I’m mental?” he asked as he pulled down the tea mugs.
Lestrade pulled himself out of his chair and moved to lean on the wall near the kitchen, tired eyes surveying the chemistry lab on the kitchen table, trying to figure out what it was all used for. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… “ He stopped and scrubbed his eyes. “I couldn’t care less if you shagged every third guy on my force,” he clarified. “It’s just that… it’s Sherlock.” He wasn’t sure if that was making it any better. “Relationships and whatever… isn’t all that supposed to be only for us peons? I thought he was… above all that.”
John grinned at him from where he was rinsing out the teapot and filling it with the tea and boiled water. “He used to think so too.”
Lestrade decided at that point that the conversation was going to quickly turn to details he didn’t ever need to know. He shook his head, smiling at John, “Well, cheers to you both. Whatever keeps him out of my hair when I don’t need him harassing me.”
Just then Sherlock came down the stairs, his dressing gown wrapped tightly around him as he made his way into his bedroom. “You always need me. Your people are pathetically out of their depth when it comes to more than petty burglary, and sometimes even that,” he said as he made his way in to get dressed. He emerged a few minutes later in a dark blue shirt, black pants and black jacket; feet bare.
Deciding that a change of subject was in order Greg accepted the cup of tea John offered him and said, “Hang on, the two of you have been arrested twice?”
“Once in New York, once in Nice,” Sherlock put in from where he was now poking at his laptop on the couch.
“Sherlock seems to think he can talk to any and all police officers the way he talks to you and Anderson and Donovan. Not all of them are inclined to cut him slack on that front just because he was right about the case.”
Sherlock huffed. At first Lestrade thought it was a reaction to whatever he was looking on the computer, but then he said, “You were able to get the charges dropped both times; I don’t see why we need to talk about it.”
“Because, Sherlock,” John came into the sitting room and put a plate with two pieces of toast and the peeled orange on the coffee table next to Sherlock. “It’s a hell of a lot better than the conversation you walked in on. And eat that,” John said sternly.
Greg was sure they would have to explain, but apparently John knew Sherlock better than he did, because Sherlock just ‘humphed’ and went back to the computer. Lestrade noticed, however, that Sherlock did grab one of the pieces of toast and began chewing on it as he looked through the available information on the burglary.
“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of toast. “It was the guy who installed the security system! Next time you wake me up, at least have a case that’s challenging!”
With that Lestrade realized that as far as he was concerned, absolutely nothing had changed.