“What is all this about?” John grumbled, taking the pen and clipboard that Greg handed over. There was a single piece of lined paper attached to it. He glanced around at Sherlock (standing, aloof) Donovan (seated, scowling) and Anderson (slouching, worried).
They were crowded into Greg’s office at the yard. Greg had sent a vague message about needing John to come in, immediately, and John had needed to do some grovelling to get his regular babysitter to watch Rosie. He hadn’t known that Sherlock had been called in as well.
Things had been strained between them ever since that debacle with Eurus. John had tried to put in the effort, but it seemed that Sherlock got colder and more distant with every passing day. Even cases didn’t seem to get him going anymore, leaving John to wonder what might…
“It’s that stuff, isn’t it?” Anderson said, clearly anxious. “That lemon-smelling stuff. I knew it was lethal, I just knew it!”
“It wasn’t lethal,” Donovan said, rolling her eyes. “You’re still alive.”
John thought back to the incident a month prior. At the end of a long case he, Sherlock, Greg, Donovan and Anderson had all ended up in an industrial warehouse. There was a gunfight, and one of the bullets hit a canister full of some unknown new compound, spraying all of them.
His favorite jacket still smelled like lemon toilet cleaner even now but as none of them had gotten sick, he’d eventually put it out of his mind.
“It wasn’t lethal,” Greg confirmed. “But still dangerous. Long-term it can cause damage internally, but we have the antidote ready.”
Relieved, John noted the reduction in tension, but then Sherlock spoke for the first time.
“If we were merely here to receive the antidote, then what are the pen and paper for?”
Greg again appeared very uncomfortable.
“Well… Turns out this stuff can be passed along…”
“Passed along?”
“Yeah. Um… Through contact. Bodily fluids.” Greg was obviously trying to remain professional but struggling with embarrassment.
“What?”
“He means sex, Anderson,” Sherlock said with a long suffering sigh. “We might have infected people through having sex.”
“Yes, um, that,” Greg agreed, beet red. He rallied, “So I just need you all to write down the names and contact information of anyone you had…er…contact with, in the past month. It’ll remain confidential, but we need to tell them to come get the antidote.”
“Fantastic,” Donovan groaned, but she did immediately start writing.
John swallowed, feeling foolish, though he had no real reason to. He decided to brazen it out.
“Well mine’s easy,” he said, handing the clipboard back to Greg. “Been a slow month.”
Greg smiled awkwardly.
The DI wrote something on his own clipboard, and John wondered if he could go. Anderson handed in a blank sheet and Donovan was looking something up on her phone, and Sherlock…
Sherlock was writing.
Sherlock was writing quite a lot.
John tried not to stare as the man reached the halfway point, but then he kept going and it was like John couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Um, Sherlock,” Greg spoke up. “We don’t need info on everyone you talked to or anything-”
“Just those I had sex with, yes I know,” he drawled.
“Uh… Ok then.” Greg caught John’s eye, eyebrows raised. John felt like he’d been punched in the gut, though he told himself he had no right to feel that way.
Donovan turned in her paper then looked with shrewd interest at Sherlock, going as far as to peek over his shoulder.
“Blonde from Bradford?” She asked. “What’s her name?”
“I didn’t ask,” Sherlock said, not looking up, but then he paused and wrote something else.
“Blonde MAN from Bradford,” Sally read aloud. “Still not that helpful you know.”
“I’ll find him on the security cameras.”
John watched Donovan scan the rest of the paper as Sherlock kept writing. He didn’t seem at all concerned at her interest, but he did pause after he turned the paper over to write on the back and Greg produced an audible gasp.
“Problem?”
Greg shook his head frantically.
A minute later and it seemed Sherlock was finished. He turned in his clipboard to Greg, who scanned it with what looked like a great effort at composure.
“I’ll need your help tracking some of these down,” he said after a moment, and Sherlock merely nodded.
Greg led them all to another room marked ‘Clinic’, and one by one they went in to get a shot of the antidote. While Sherlock was inside out of earshot, Anderson said,
“Always knew he was gay.”
“Hardly a brilliant deduction,” snorted Sally. Greg scowled at them both.
“Didn’t know he was a bit of a slapper though,” Anderson continued, voice mean, and both Donovan and Greg looked like they were going to angrily retort.
John beat them to it.
“You shut your mouth!” He snarled, getting into the man’s personal space.
“It’s a free country and he can do what he likes, and if I hear a word of it has got out then so help me-”
“Alright alright!” Anderson cried, cowering away.
“John?”
“You’ll regret the day you met me!” John growled.
“John!”
The voice finally registered. Sherlock.
John flushed, suddenly embarrassed.
“Are we done?” He asked Greg, eyes down.
“Yes,” Greg confirmed, and John didn’t wait for more. He pushed his way out of the clinic, hurrying away down the hallway, trying to outrun his feelings of awkwardness and disappointment.
It was only when he got outside that he realized Sherlock had been right behind him.
“Look, I’m sorry for making a scene,” he mumbled, wishing a cab would magically turn up like it always did for his friend. “I just couldn’t let that stand.”
“Couldn’t let what stand?”
Sherlock sounded a bit bewildered, which was more emotion than John had heard from him for weeks.
“He called you a 'slapper’. You know, like, promiscuous.”
“Not really an unfair assessment, given the evidence,” said Sherlock. John risked a look at him. Now he looked…amused?
“It’s a derogatory term,” John insisted, and Sherlock nodded in apparent acceptance.
“So…it doesn’t bother you?” Sherlock asked.
“What? No!” John said. He didn’t add that he was bothered that his own name wasn’t on the list. “I don’t care how many people you sleep with.”
“Oh.”
Was that… Was Sherlock disappointed?
“You might want to learn their names from now on though,” John said, trying to lighten the mood. Thankfully, Sherlock chuckled.
“Never seemed very important. Not like we keep in touch or anything.”
“So none of them are…”
“No, John” Sherlock answered, and his face softened. “None of them, are.”
“Oh…well…”
John thought of all the things he could say. Be supportive of Sherlock’s right to see who he pleased, do as he liked. But instead what he said was,
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Good,” John repeated, falling into parade rest. “I’m glad none of them are anything special. I’m glad you don’t know their names.”
Sherlock was obviously nonplussed. John continued.
“I don’t care how long your list of names is. I only care about one thing.”
Amazed at his own daring, he took two steps closer to Sherlock - and took encouragement from the way the man’s breath hitched.
“I only care,” said John, “about whose name is going to be last on that list.”
Sherlock’s pupils blew abruptly wide.
“Have…have you got any suggestions?” Sherlock asked, barely seeming able to get the words out. John stepped closer again, head spinning but determined. He stretched up so he could whisper;
“Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Blonde, from London.”
All the warning John had was an anguished sort of keen from Sherlock, before he was being kissed like the world was ending. Sherlock had hold of his shoulder and jaw and John pulled him closer by the waist, tilting his head so he could give as good as he got.
After a moment he did his best to gentle the kiss, feeling Sherlock tremble against him. His lips were so soft, John knew he would happily go on kissing him forever if given the chance.
“Alright?”
Sherlock hummed, nuzzling into his neck. John was undone with relief.
Having Sherlock there where he belonged was worth everything. It was worth getting doused with mysterious chemicals and fraught police text messages and childcare and embarrassment and lists. Those were all irrelevant as long as he could have his detective in his arms at last.
As if reading his mind, Sherlock murmured,
“They didn’t mean anything, John.” John squeezed him in reassurance.
“I know, Sherlock. But…”
“But?” Sherlock leaned back, looking a bit anxious.
“But you must have learned a thing or two from them, hmm?”
Sherlock laughed in surprise, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I might have. Just showed you some, with that kiss… want to see some more?”
“God, yes,” sighed John.
Sherlock raised his hand and a cab of course appeared, whisking them off towards Baker Street, and the future.
NOW COMPLETE Bringing the total to 4.5 hours, here is the conclusion to:
Thank you so much to @randomwordsonpaperand@alifetimeaheadtoprovethat for your patience - I really enjoyed working with both of you and am super proud of the whole thing! We hope you all enjoy listening to this podfic
Looook, how amazing is this?? Artwork from @alifetimeaheadtoprovethat for the first chapter of my fic, ‘Consulting for Christmas’. Thank you so much, I love it! And artwork for part 2 and part 3 AND a podfic coming soon
Should be illegal: Sherlock in a velvet tux. They’re trying on suits for their wedding, and John pushed for trying the velvet in spite of Sherlock’s eye-rolling. The tux absorbs all light, making Sherlock’s skin glow the brighter. He fixes John with a challenging stare, all haughty disdain and thinly-veiled amusement.
“Hardly wedding-appropriate,” he drawls, turning slowly, and John feels hot, and reckless.
“We’re hardly wedding-appropriate,” he breathes, and Sherlock grins.
“True,” he agrees, turns to the salesman. “I’ll take it. But not for the wedding,” he adds, smile turning dark and sensuous as the velvet.
I have been blocked from all FB groups just now until Sunday - someone must have reported something I posted to FB. As I don’t post anything bad or against community guidelines, I’m thinking it was probably malicious. ALL my posts are gone - my fics and the lovely reader comments, my fic and podfic recs and links for other people, the artists I promote, my FTH posts to raise money for charity… It’s all gone, and I’m not going to lie - I’m gutted. Hours and hours of labor - gone. Are they pissed about my auction entries? Who knows, but now I can’t promote on FB until AFTER it is closed. There’s nothing I can do aside from ask for you to help - please reblog my links here on Tumblr so these nasty people don’t win
“Hmmm,” Sherlock agreed, noting the colour of the abdomen, the hairs prevalent on the thorax. “ Anthidium maculatum. Wood carder bee,” he added at John’s mildly exasperated look. “One of many species of solitary bees.”
“I thought bees live together in a hive?” John said, watching the little creature as it clambered up a stem.
“That’s a common misconception,” Sherlock said, rifling through a cabinet in his mind palace for the correct information. “In the UK, there are around two hundred and seventy species of bee, and two hundred and fifty of those species are solitary bees.”
“Huh,” John said, peering even closer. “So this little lady doesn’t have a family and friends to go back to?”
“Little gentleman,” Sherlock corrected. “And no, probably not. He might spend some time with a mate, if it suits him, but for much of his life he will be alone - flying from one flower to the next, foraging, and doing exactly as he wishes.”
“Sounds a bit lonely,” John said, and Sherlock snorted.
“No need to romanticise the bee, John. I assure you, he is quite content with his solitary life.”
“I’m not so sure,” John mused, and they both watched as the bee moved on to a different stem. “It’s all very well visiting all these places, seeing all these things. But with no-one to share them with? Not sure I’d like that.”
“Really? I would like it just fine,” Sherlock said, and this time it was John who snorted.
A bit peeved, Sherlock eyed him. “What?”
“You? You go mad when you don’t have someone to talk to - so mad that you start talking to inanimate objects. You love explaining about things you’ve seen, things you’ve learned. And you like having a place to come home to every night, with someone familiar there. We’re flatmates, remember - though I’m pretty sure you don’t need help with the rent. You are no more a solitary bee than I am.”
Sherlock stared at him.
John was still watching the bee, though his cheeks had gone a bit pink. “What’s it doing now?”
With some difficulty, Sherlock brought his attention back to the insect. “It’s collecting the tiny hairs from the stem of the plant. Wood carder bees use those to build their nests.”
“So… this one did find someone to go home to, after all,” John said slowly. He was watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye, and inexplicably, Sherlock blushed.
“I… I suppose he did,” he said, and made sure to keep his eyes fixed on the delicate fluffy body in front of him, that flew around against all laws of physics.
******************
The lovely @alifetimeaheadtoprovethat drew this little doodle for me, so I decided to write a little ficlet to go with it <3 This is our entry for the @sherlockchallenge this month (prompt: One).
Liking is nice, reblogging is better!
PLEASE READ THIS AMAZING FICLET BY @ohlooktheresabee AND “AAAWWWW” WITH ME
“What is all this about?” John grumbled, taking the pen and clipboard that Greg handed over. There was a single piece of lined paper attached to it. He glanced around at Sherlock (standing, aloof) Donovan (seated, scowling) and Anderson (slouching, worried).
They were crowded into Greg’s office at the yard. Greg had sent a vague message about needing John to come in, immediately, and John had needed to do some grovelling to get his regular babysitter to watch Rosie. He hadn’t known that Sherlock had been called in as well.
Things had been strained between them ever since that debacle with Eurus. John had tried to put in the effort, but it seemed that Sherlock got colder and more distant with every passing day. Even cases didn’t seem to get him going anymore, leaving John to wonder what might…
“It’s that stuff, isn’t it?” Anderson said, clearly anxious. “That lemon-smelling stuff. I knew it was lethal, I just knew it!”
“It wasn’t lethal,” Donovan said, rolling her eyes. “You’re still alive.”
John thought back to the incident a month prior. At the end of a long case he, Sherlock, Greg, Donovan and Anderson had all ended up in an industrial warehouse. There was a gunfight, and one of the bullets hit a canister full of some unknown new compound, spraying all of them.
His favorite jacket still smelled like lemon toilet cleaner even now but as none of them had gotten sick, he’d eventually put it out of his mind.
“It wasn’t lethal,” Greg confirmed. “But still dangerous. Long-term it can cause damage internally, but we have the antidote ready.”
Relieved, John noted the reduction in tension, but then Sherlock spoke for the first time.
“If we were merely here to receive the antidote, then what are the pen and paper for?”
Greg again appeared very uncomfortable.
“Well… Turns out this stuff can be passed along…”
“Passed along?”
“Yeah. Um… Through contact. Bodily fluids.” Greg was obviously trying to remain professional but struggling with embarrassment.
“What?”
“He means sex, Anderson,” Sherlock said with a long suffering sigh. “We might have infected people through having sex.”
“Yes, um, that,” Greg agreed, beet red. He rallied, “So I just need you all to write down the names and contact information of anyone you had…er…contact with, in the past month. It’ll remain confidential, but we need to tell them to come get the antidote.”
“Fantastic,” Donovan groaned, but she did immediately start writing.
John swallowed, feeling foolish, though he had no real reason to. He decided to brazen it out.
“Well mine’s easy,” he said, handing the clipboard back to Greg. “Been a slow month.”
Greg smiled awkwardly.
The DI wrote something on his own clipboard, and John wondered if he could go. Anderson handed in a blank sheet and Donovan was looking something up on her phone, and Sherlock…
Sherlock was writing.
Sherlock was writing quite a lot.
John tried not to stare as the man reached the halfway point, but then he kept going and it was like John couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Um, Sherlock,” Greg spoke up. “We don’t need info on everyone you talked to or anything-”
“Just those I had sex with, yes I know,” he drawled.
“Uh… Ok then.” Greg caught John’s eye, eyebrows raised. John felt like he’d been punched in the gut, though he told himself he had no right to feel that way.
Donovan turned in her paper then looked with shrewd interest at Sherlock, going as far as to peek over his shoulder.
“Blonde from Bradford?” She asked. “What’s her name?”
“I didn’t ask,” Sherlock said, not looking up, but then he paused and wrote something else.
“Blonde MAN from Bradford,” Sally read aloud. “Still not that helpful you know.”
“I’ll find him on the security cameras.”
John watched Donovan scan the rest of the paper as Sherlock kept writing. He didn’t seem at all concerned at her interest, but he did pause after he turned the paper over to write on the back and Greg produced an audible gasp.
“Problem?”
Greg shook his head frantically.
A minute later and it seemed Sherlock was finished. He turned in his clipboard to Greg, who scanned it with what looked like a great effort at composure.
“I’ll need your help tracking some of these down,” he said after a moment, and Sherlock merely nodded.
Greg led them all to another room marked ‘Clinic’, and one by one they went in to get a shot of the antidote. While Sherlock was inside out of earshot, Anderson said,
“Always knew he was gay.”
“Hardly a brilliant deduction,” snorted Sally. Greg scowled at them both.
“Didn’t know he was a bit of a slapper though,” Anderson continued, voice mean, and both Donovan and Greg looked like they were going to angrily retort.
John beat them to it.
“You shut your mouth!” He snarled, getting into the man’s personal space.
“It’s a free country and he can do what he likes, and if I hear a word of it has got out then so help me-”
“Alright alright!” Anderson cried, cowering away.
“John?”
“You’ll regret the day you met me!” John growled.
“John!”
The voice finally registered. Sherlock.
John flushed, suddenly embarrassed.
“Are we done?” He asked Greg, eyes down.
“Yes,” Greg confirmed, and John didn’t wait for more. He pushed his way out of the clinic, hurrying away down the hallway, trying to outrun his feelings of awkwardness and disappointment.
It was only when he got outside that he realized Sherlock had been right behind him.
“Look, I’m sorry for making a scene,” he mumbled, wishing a cab would magically turn up like it always did for his friend. “I just couldn’t let that stand.”
“Couldn’t let what stand?”
Sherlock sounded a bit bewildered, which was more emotion than John had heard from him for weeks.
“He called you a 'slapper’. You know, like, promiscuous.”
“Not really an unfair assessment, given the evidence,” said Sherlock. John risked a look at him. Now he looked…amused?
“It’s a derogatory term,” John insisted, and Sherlock nodded in apparent acceptance.
“So…it doesn’t bother you?” Sherlock asked.
“What? No!” John said. He didn’t add that he was bothered that his own name wasn’t on the list. “I don’t care how many people you sleep with.”
“Oh.”
Was that… Was Sherlock disappointed?
“You might want to learn their names from now on though,” John said, trying to lighten the mood. Thankfully, Sherlock chuckled.
“Never seemed very important. Not like we keep in touch or anything.”
“So none of them are…”
“No, John” Sherlock answered, and his face softened. “None of them, are.”
“Oh…well…”
John thought of all the things he could say. Be supportive of Sherlock’s right to see who he pleased, do as he liked. But instead what he said was,
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Good,” John repeated, falling into parade rest. “I’m glad none of them are anything special. I’m glad you don’t know their names.”
Sherlock was obviously nonplussed. John continued.
“I don’t care how long your list of names is. I only care about one thing.”
Amazed at his own daring, he took two steps closer to Sherlock - and took encouragement from the way the man’s breath hitched.
“I only care,” said John, “about whose name is going to be last on that list.”
Sherlock’s pupils blew abruptly wide.
“Have…have you got any suggestions?” Sherlock asked, barely seeming able to get the words out. John stepped closer again, head spinning but determined. He stretched up so he could whisper;
“Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Blonde, from London.”
All the warning John had was an anguished sort of keen from Sherlock, before he was being kissed like the world was ending. Sherlock had hold of his shoulder and jaw and John pulled him closer by the waist, tilting his head so he could give as good as he got.
After a moment he did his best to gentle the kiss, feeling Sherlock tremble against him. His lips were so soft, John knew he would happily go on kissing him forever if given the chance.
“Alright?”
Sherlock hummed, nuzzling into his neck. John was undone with relief.
Having Sherlock there where he belonged was worth everything. It was worth getting doused with mysterious chemicals and fraught police text messages and childcare and embarrassment and lists. Those were all irrelevant as long as he could have his detective in his arms at last.
As if reading his mind, Sherlock murmured,
“They didn’t mean anything, John.” John squeezed him in reassurance.
“I know, Sherlock. But…”
“But?” Sherlock leaned back, looking a bit anxious.
“But you must have learned a thing or two from them, hmm?”
Sherlock laughed in surprise, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I might have. Just showed you some, with that kiss… want to see some more?”
“God, yes,” sighed John.
Sherlock raised his hand and a cab of course appeared, whisking them off towards Baker Street, and the future.
