“Just because you’re home for a bit, and can get back into all your equipment again, doesn’t mean you have to blow shit up for the whole forty-eight hours!” John complained, when yet another beaker exuded a toxic-smelling cloud into the room.
“I can think of no better pastime.” Sherlock countered, only half paying John’s protests any mind.
“I’m sure you can’t.” John tutted, throwing a cloth at Sherlock, in a hint to wipe whatever mysterious substance that was spilled on the table.
If anyone’s fingers were going to be eaten by a corrosive substance, better it be those belonging to the mad scientist, not his unwitting Igor… John blinked. When had he become the Igor to Sherlock’s Dr. Frankenstein? No. That was not who he was. Besides, he didn’t even help Sherlock when it came to his crazy chemistry lab. Surely that counted for something?
“John, pass me that pipette, would you?” Sherlock commanded, and John automatically obeyed. Damn it! That didn’t count. Plenty of things pipettes could be used for, anyway. Not just mad scientist-ing.
Even if John couldn’t think of any of those uses at the present moment.
“There’s nothing at rehab that gets my heart rate up.” Sherlock declared suddenly, apropos absolutely nothing. Apparently, he’d finished playing Einstein for now. He looked at John expectantly.
John struggled, grasping for an appropriate response. “Um. Good?” he offered.
“You lived for two months, here, in London, with nothing to raise your heart rate, John. How ‘good’ was that?” Sherlock asked, impatient with how slow John was on the uptake.
“Ok, point taken.” John admitted. “But you’re attending therapy. You’re not supposed to get overexcited.”
“I’d be happy if I got excited at all,” Sherlock complained. “Do you know what happens to a person’s nervous system if it isn’t stimulated, John?”
“You’re exaggerating. You’re not being deprived, you’re not being tortured… the centre is perfectly pleasant. Just enjoy having some time to relax!”
“I can’t.” Sherlock insisted, and – oh yes – he was definitely pouting now. “The only time I feel anything approaching normal is when you come to visit, and that’s only for an hour each day, and sometimes you’re late, and…”
“Hey, shh, shh.” John offered, stepping in to help Sherlock with a hug. The other man stiffened automatically, almost as though he was about to shove John away – he really wasn’t the tactile sort – then carefully relaxed somewhat into the embrace.
After a moment, Sherlock spoke again. “This is… pleasant, I admit. But it is hardly directly helpful, is it?”
“Well, what would you rather I do?” John queried, loosening his grip.
Sherlock shrugged, removing himself from John’s vicinity and striding over to the couch. John took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself – don’t take it personally – then made his way fully into the kitchen.
Best get those windows open, let that smoke out. What was there for dinner? Oh, yes, the chicken, John remembered. Put that in a stir fry, or roast it, if Sherlock’s stomach doesn’t feel up to anything elaborate. No need to get it ready just yet. That pile of laundry, however –
“John!” Sherlock shouted, causing the other man to jump.
He masked his reaction, however, before sticking his head into the living room.
“Problem?” he asked, neutrally.
“I have a secret for you.” Sherlock said, conspiracy dripping off every word – the ennui of two minutes ago seemingly completely forgotten.
John didn’t like the sound of Sherlock, one fortnight into his rehab program, having a ‘secret’ to share with him, but if his partner wanted to tell him something, so be it.
“What’s that, then?” he moderated his voice carefully.
Sherlock didn’t reply, but grinned manically, and patted the cushion next to him in brisk invitation.
John smiled wanly as he strolled across to the place indicated. As soon as he sat, he was engulfed, Sherlock wrapping impossibly-long arms and legs around him.
“You have a terrible poker face, John.” Sherlock criticised, nuzzling at his neck. “I can practically smell your fear. Don’t worry so much. It’s not a worrying secret. Do you know what my secret is?”
John wriggled to get into a more comfortable position, but Sherlock didn’t give him that leeway.
“Do you know my secret?” Sherlock whispered again, urgently.
“Ugh, no – no, I don’t Sherlock. That’s the thing about secrets. People don’t tend to know them until they’re told.” John explained, now attempting to accept the awkward pose he was being held in.
“I know secrets before they’re told.” Sherlock pointed out. “I would’ve known this secret, if you’d had it instead of me.”
“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt you would’ve,” John gasped, all his efforts to find comfort failing miserably. “Seriously, Sherlock, can you – my leg’s caught here, and – ”
“Because I’m a freak?” Sherlock continued, not acknowledging John’s complaint. He did release the other man, however, and John breathed a sigh of relief, stretching his limbs until his joints clicked back into place.
“Cheers,” he muttered, then turned his attention back to Sherlock’s ‘secret’. “Stop saying you’re a freak. You’re not. You’re wonderful.” He argued, placing a kiss on Sherlock’s distracted mouth. “What is it, then? This big, fascinating thing that I’m too dim to know without having it spelled out for me?”
Sherlock met his gaze fleetingly, returned to middle distance, then came back to John. A huge grin overwhelmed his features and he leaned in close, whispering: “I don’t have any of my meds with me.”
(Additional Author's Note: The next parts should be posted over the next few hours/days - they're not written yet, only sketched out. Hopefully I get a few of my WIPs done this weekend, though; that'd be lovely, wouldn't it? GTFO, real life!)
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed joyfully, almost tearing the newspaper in half with surprise and delight when the front door stealthily swung open to allow a single, solitary consulting detective into the flat.
For his part, the consulting detective stood very near the doorway, looking just slightly lost.
John leapt to give him a hug. “Oh, you big idiot… I told you I’d come and pick you up, didn’t I?” he said affectionately, eagerly covering the other man with kisses.
“Yes, well.” Sherlock said stiffly. “Here I am.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d been so unresponsive, so John didn’t take offense. Sherlock had just had quite a week, after all.
“Come on, let’s sit you down,” John offered, leading Sherlock towards the couch.
Sherlock sat as if dreaming, his arms automatically wrapping around John when the blonde man sat in his lap.
“I missed you, you know.” John said, hugging Sherlock back and kissing him intermittently.
“You saw me yesterday.” Sherlock countered, not quite reciprocating, but making little movements as though he was about to.
“Normally, I get to see you almost all day, every day, Sherlock.” John mentioned, grinding suggestively in the other man’s lap. “Plus most nights, so I’ve actually been quite deprived of your company this week.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened in realisation, and he let out a simple “Oh,” before moving his hands lower to cup John’s backside and shift him forward in his lap. John moaned appreciatively at the change of position, the increased contact, and the sudden expression of interest from the other man.
“I’ve missed having you in my bed,” John admitted, hoping that Sherlock would take the hint for the change of venue.
“Technically, it’s my bed.” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, then returning to delicately nipping at his neck.
“Ugh – any bed. Whatever bed.” John replied, unable to care too much about the semantics. “Can we just go to – ”
“We’ve not had sexual relations on this couch for quite some time, do you know that, John?” Sherlock murmured, his voice a deadly sin in John’s ear.
“No? Really? How long? I don’t care, Sherlock, I just want to get more – ” Just then, he was upended, lifted off the lap and dumped unceremoniously on his back on the couch, “ – comfortable.” John finished, now looking up at Sherlock as the infuriating man loomed above him.
“Better?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, a smug grin spread over his face.
“Hm.” John answered, attempting to find his way into Sherlock’s trousers.
Typical bastard was dressed to the nines, and this belt was not your conventional, bar-and-prong system. Of course it wasn’t. There was some sort of clasp hidden somewhere, which was making the whole damn thing impossible – John, on the other hand, was still only attired in his pyjamas, an ensemble that (fortunately? unfortunately?) made it very easy for Sherlock to slip a hand in, also, if he wished, to pull the trousers down just that little bit and expose John’s most sensitive area.
Turned out, Sherlock did wish. Who would’ve thought?
Certainly not John, for he was rendered temporarily incapable of thought, while Sherlock proceeded to pay him quite a deal of attention indeed.
“Oh, fuck, Sherlock! Fuck!” John writhed and arched and flexed as he came, then decided that lying very, very still for at least the next nine hundred years would be a good idea.
He brought himself back quickly when Sherlock wordlessly climbed off him a moment later.
“Hey – come on, wait a second, I’ll just – you may have to show me how that belt works, but I’ll – ” John protested ineffectually.
Sherlock barely spared him a glance. “I have experiments to run,” he announced, making his way to his lab. “And, apparently, I can’t be trusted with this equipment from Monday to Friday.” The dry irony in his voice was impossible to miss.
John lay back on the couch with a sigh, knowing it was a lost cause.
Might as well go have a shower, he rationalised, grimacing at his sticky self.
It wasn’t until he was drying himself off afterwards that it struck him – he didn’t remember feeling Sherlock’s erection at any point during their encounter.
Maybe it was the medication? John pondered, sitting down to finish his newspaper, two fresh cups of tea successfully brewed. It wouldn’t be the first time that impotence was a side effect of one drug or another.
Surely he actually was interested? John risked a peek over to where Sherlock was fully engrossed in…something.
An annoying voice in the back of John’s head insisted, Yes, but Sherlock is very good at pretending, isn’t he? He lies his way through all sorts!
But I can usually tell, John argued silently with the little voice. He can’t lie to me.
Oh? So what was that business with the drugs, then? He was completely upfront about that, was he? Or you were just able to know he was still sneaking cocaine when your back was turned? How often, when you were out of the flat, down the shops or at work, how often was he back here, shooting up? Sherlock, an ineffective liar… my arse.
“Sherlock.” John spoke up, earning a brief look from the other man. A raised eyebrow and a vague “Hm?” prompted him to continue.
“You…ah…did you…Did you want to go for a walk, later? It’s lovely weather, and I could do with the fresh air, to be honest. Feel like I’ve been cooped up all week.” John finished, lamely.
Sherlock spared him another curt once-over. “Perhaps.” he conceded. “Have you seen my sulphuric acid, by any chance?”
Title: Don’t You Want Me, Baby?
Warnings: Reference to drug use, emotional trauma, coarse language, sexxings.
Summary: After one lapse too many, John convinces Sherlock to go to rehab. But how does a super-genius detective cope when his mind is cooped up and deprived of exercise for days on end?
Author's Notes: I was reminded by someone that there's a general interest out there for me to write a sequel to "She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie..." When I looked through my WIP fics scattered about my computer, I realised: I've written it! This is what happens when writing people are not organised people *innocent look* Sooo.... here I am, posting my sequel exactly when I intended to! Totally!
I hope you enjoy it! Please R&R!
“They tell me you’re not playing nice in the art therapy sessions.” John mentioned casually to upside-down-Sherlock.
Actually, he wasn’t sure exactly how to quantify Sherlock’s position in relation to his own. The detective was lying sideways across the bed, on his back, hands clasped over his belly, hanging his head off the edge as though he was looking out the window of the dreary little room. But John knew he probably wasn’t. He probably had his eyes shut, in a sort of block-out-the-reality attempt.
“Did you really expect that I would?” Sherlock inquired, his voice barely above a murmur.
“Not really, no.” John admitted, fighting back the urge to sigh. “But you are actually cooperating with the pharmacological regime?”
“Yes, John.” Sherlock ground out, as though each individual syllable constituted a physical effort. “I’m taking their pills. As much good as it’ll do.”
Silence reigned for a moment.
“Come here, will you?” One slender hand gestured imperiously, elegantly.
“I am here, Sherlock.” John pointed out, with a small smile he knew the other man would hear in his voice.
“You know what I mean.” Sherlock rebutted.
“Oh, do I?” John replied contrarily, climbing on to the bed next to Sherlock anyway. “Get up here.”
“Ugh.” Sherlock grunted, and shifted himself more fully onto the bed. He tilted his hips towards John, curling in for a hug.
“Visiting hours are difficult.” Sherlock admitted quietly.
“Difficult?” John prompted, stroking the detective reassuringly.
“They always finish.” Sherlock’s voice was so low, John had to strain to hear it.
“I know…and it kills me every time.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead in consolation, and allowed himself to enjoy the soft curls brushing against his nose. “Still, better than no visiting hours at all.”
One silver eye slit open to deliver a glare. “I’d rather not tolerate the ridiculous system at all.” Sherlock grumbled, but leant in to John’s kiss good-naturedly. “And, yes, I’m aware that it’s Saturday tomorrow, so I can come home for a couple of days. Please do not patronise me by telling me what day of the week it is.”
John chuckled, and drew Sherlock closer to him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sherlock, as expected, was far less of a fan of the rehab program than John was, but that didn’t mean he was the only one suffering as a result of the program’s stipulations.
John had never thought he would use the word ‘vast’ to describe 221B, but frankly, without his whirlwind of a flatmate, that’s what the place was.
John kept finding himself wide awake at inopportune hours of the night, simply because there wasn’t a violin being played downstairs, or a beaker shattering, or frantic pacing as Sherlock thought something out.
And his bed was cold now, even when he indulged and put the electric blanket on.
Mycroft had appeared the very same day that Sherlock had checked in to rehab; but the schedule of the all-powerful must be demanding, for Mycroft did not arrive until some hours after John returned from dropping Sherlock off.
Congenial as always, Mycroft sat and waited patiently while John pottered around getting tea sorted.
Only when John settled opposite him, did Mycroft raise his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Yes, I know rehab probably won’t have an effect, since it didn’t work before, but you can’t blame me for wanting to try, can you?” John responded to the unspoken question.
“He’s actually in a rehabilitation centre?” Mycroft asked.
“Well, he was, about…four hours ago. Signed in, got a room and everything. I helped him to unpack – or, unpacked for him, really. And packed for him at this end, too, come to think of it. Bastard.” John shook his head at Sherlock’s sway over him. “But you know all this anyway.” John looked at Mycroft in confusion. “What do you need me to tell you for?”
Mycroft’s mouth twisted oddly. “Contrary to the fantastical stories my brother likes to tell, I am not informed of all aspects of his life. Believe me, there would be greater assistance from myself or my department if only Sherlock would allow it. But he does make caring such a chore.”
Mycroft straightened his teacup on the saucer before admitting, “I only knew that the two of you left the flat at six thirty a.m. today; too early for your usual working hours, Doctor, and rather late if you were conducting an investigation. I know how Sherlock… likes to make the most of his days. Further, I was perturbed by the information that the two of you were accompanied by a single suitcase, and that you then returned to the flat alone: no Sherlock, no suitcase. This – ”
“You honestly have no idea where he is?” John interrupted.
Mycroft inclined his head. “I don’t doubt that I can find out – ”
“No.” John said stubbornly.
“Excuse me?” Mycroft’s tone was mild, but John was all-too-familiar with that particular steely gaze, that determined set to both jaw and shoulders.
“You don’t frighten me, Mycroft. And we both know that Sherlock had a tough couple of weeks ahead of him. Since the only thing you’re good at is interfering, I don’t see how that will be of any benefit to him whatsoever.”
“But – ” Mycroft began, snapping his mouth shut when Mummy’s voice, unsummoned, echoed through his mind. “‘Butt’ is what sheep and goats do, darling, it has no place in civil conversation.”
He collected himself. “Thank you for your opinion, Doctor, however I assure you that – ”
“Not interested, Mycroft.” John interrupted, waving a hand as though to physically knock Mycroft’s words out of the air. “Oh, so not interested. There’s nothing you can do to make me tell you. After all, we don’t want Sherlock’s rehab being interrupted by any distressing news about his partner, now, do we?” John’s smile was terrible; it looked as though butter wouldn’t even contemplate melting in his mouth. It was an expression that Mycroft could never pull off convincingly – he despised the man for it.
Mycroft worked his jaw for another few seconds, then discretely (so that John could see, of course), checked his watch. “Oh, my.” He said, standing.
“Such a shame you have to leave,” John remarked, accompanying Mycroft to the door. “Feel free to drop by anytime.”
Mycroft was silent as he shrugged into his coat, but before he descended the stairs, he turned back to John. “I do care for him greatly, you know.” he assured the unassuming man serenely standing guard at the door.
“I know.” John said simply, with a short nod. “And I’m sure he knows as well.”