Seven-Year Itch (Holmes/Watson, BBC)

[makokitten.livejournal.com]

Title: Seven-Year Itch
Author: makokitten
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 3,975
Prompt: seven-year itch, via alba17

AO3 or below:

    “I took a job,” Mary says, and she says it casually, just as they’re doing the washing up, the soapsuds working their way under her fingernails, in between the folds of skin on her knuckles.  A little while ago the dish soap started cracking her hands—both of their hands—so she bought the kind that’s gentle on skin, and now their hands have been softened by the humdrum regularity of a peaceful life.  Even on their more exciting days, there are dishes to wash.

        This was not one of their more exciting days.  Or, at least, John thought it wasn’t.  Hadn’t been.  Except now Mary is telling him that she took a job and she’s saying it in the same tone she’d use if she had picked up tomatoes at the store this afternoon.  It’s not like that at all.

    (Mary has a job.) (At his practice.) (Not like that at all, either.)

        “Well,” John says, “you’re not going through with it.”

        Mary says nothing.  She looks down at her plate in her hands as if she’s forgotten it’s there, and sets it aside, picking up a fork, scrubbing at the tines with vigor, and without comment.  Behind them, still sitting in her high chair, Violet burbles happily, swirling around what remains of her mashed peas, oblivious to the growing unease in the room.

        It doesn’t take John long.  He’s no Sherlock Holmes, but he isn’t slow, either.  “You’ve already done it.”

        “Last night, I said I was going out with the girls—”

        “Oh, Christ.”

        Mary had gone out with the girls.  John stayed in, playing alphabet blocks with Violet, spelling words like “Mum” and “Dad” and “eat” and “bee,” rocking her when she needed to be rocked, changing her nappy when it needed changing.  He put her to bed when it seemed like she was winding down, lulled her with more rocking and strategic cooing noises, and then settled on the sofa downstairs, listening alternately to the news and to the crackle of static on the baby monitor, until Mary texted to say she’d be out later than expected.  That’s when he decided to put himself to bed.

        John Watson thinks he should have been able to smell the acrid stench of blood and gunpowder on her, but all he recalls noticing as she climbed under the sheets next to him was the soft scent of Clair-de-la-Lune.

        “I’m telling you because I love you,” Mary says.  “Because I don’t want any secrets between us, and I know you don’t either.”

        “You kill—”  John glances back at Violet, who’s still keeping herself entertained, and lowers his voice.  Their little daughter, with her big eyes and easy smile, doesn’t know these words, and he hopes she won’t have to for a very long time.  “Mary, you murdered someone.  We agreed, you were through with this—”

        “I haven’t taken a job in seven years,” says Mary, now furiously working at the inside of the salad bowl.  “You understand restlessness, John.  You’ve felt it.”

        “It isn’t the same thing!” John shouts, and the dish in his hand, which he’s been cleaning for the past two minutes, clatters to the bottom of the sink, disappearing into the cloudy water.

    Violet looks over at them, then, blue eyes wide, and Mary notices for the first time—or the third, but now it’s convenient—the mess with the peas.  “Vi, sweetheart, no,” she says, and she abandons the salad bowl to John’s care and runs over to their daughter, admonishing her with a mix of disappointment and gentleness that must come naturally to mothers.

    John stares down at his own pruney hands for a full minute, turns off the tap, and leaves the kitchen to make a call.

---

    Of all of the ways John envisioned returning to Baker Street, it was not with a car seat in one hand and a knapsack of baby things in the other.  Violet seems happy enough to go on a trip, and she squeals expectantly as they wait in front of the door: “Sher! Sher!”

        “Yes,” John says wearily, looking down at her little smile, her kicking feet, this little bundle of energy strapped into the car seat.  “You’re going to get to see Sherlock.  Maybe more often than you’ve ever wanted to.”

        “Sher!”

        “Might get sick of him, you never know.”

        Violet giggles in response, and John wishes he could share her enthusiasm.  In truth he’s feeling a little lost, watered down, standing at the door of his best friend’s flat with a fifteen-month-old in tow.  The two facets of his life mix about as well as oil and water.  When John—and sometimes Mary—run around playing sleuth, they hire a sitter to watch over Violet.  And when John—and Mary—are home with their daughter, Sherlock only visits sometimes.  Not often.  And 221B Baker Street is no place for children.

        John hadn’t given Sherlock much notice to clean the place up, but it’s late enough that he hopes to just tuck Violet in and put the night behind him.  They can worry about what she might or might not accidentally put in her mouth tomorrow.  They can both deal with eliminating 221B’s choking hazards then—or he can, alone, if Sherlock has a case.  Tonight, John would rather take two sleeping pills and fade into oblivion.  He doesn’t know what he might do if he doesn’t knock himself out.  He hopes Sherlock will respect that, but doesn’t count on it.

        The door opens, and there he is: tall and pale and striking as ever, icy blue eyes taking them in, mouth set in a line.  John hasn’t seen Sherlock Holmes in person in nearly three weeks, and the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth aren’t a greeting.  “Did you tell her where you were going?”

        “I didn’t say a word,” John says, “but she’ll know.  She’s not stupid.”  And then, answering the unanswered question, he adds, “She won’t come after us, Sherlock.  She knows better.”  His gun sinks low in his jacket pocket.

        Sherlock nods, grave.

        “It’s a bit chilly,” John prompts.

        “Yes.”

        “Sher!” Violet adds helpfully.

        “Oh, right.”   Sherlock steps aside to let them into the hall.  “Mrs. Hudson’s indulging in her evening soother,” he adds.  “She won’t make a nuisance of herself.”

        “Good, thanks,” says John, starting up the stairs.  “Listen, I know you probably don’t want Violet running around, so I’ll just set her up and—”

        He stops in his tracks.  A white plastic gate stretches across the top of the stairs, barring the way.  John blinks at it, unable to comprehend what it’s doing here even though it’s a common enough sight back home.  (He and Mary put up these gates when Violet started crawling.)  So he stops, and stares, Violet swinging in her car seat, the knapsack weighing him down.

    He doesn’t realize how close Sherlock is behind them until he hears, “Don’t babies need gates?” right in his ear.  Sherlock almost sounds sheepish.  “According to the Internet, babies have a tendency to crawl and walk and fall down stairs, so I thought there should be a gate, so she doesn’t do those things.”

    “That’s… good thinking,” John agrees, remembering himself and pushing open the gate, continuing through the hallway into the living room.  “Yeah, thanks.  Anyway, I was just going to—”

    He stops again.  221B is clean.

    John has never seen the flat like this.  The floors are clear of papers and files, the books on the shelves have been dusted, all of Sherlock’s knickknacks have been organized and put away in boxes.  Even the letter-opener stuck in the Cluedo board has vanished.  In fact, the Cluedo board has disappeared entirely.  Billy the skull, too, is conspicuously absent.  The pillows are fluffed, the floor vacuumed.  John can’t keep from gaping.  It hadn’t even been this clean after Sherlock died, four years ago, and Mrs. Hudson had the run of the place.

    “If Violet wishes to explore her new surroundings she should feel free,” says Sherlock, breezing past them.  “Perfectly safe.”

    John can’t bring himself to move.  This can’t be the same flat.  This can’t be the same Sherlock.  He’s clearly entered some strange parallel universe where Sherlock is a responsible adult.  “You… childproofed 221B.”

    “Yes.”

    Something doesn’t make sense.  “You managed all of this just since I phoned you?”

    “No.”

    He can’t think about what that means right now, and instead stoops to set the car seat down and unbuckle Violet, who’s squirming with eagerness to explore her new surroundings.  She instantly takes off for the sofa, toddling somewhat unsteadily on her two small feet, declaring, “Sher, hee!  Sher!”

    “You be careful,” John warns her, following a couple of paces behind.  She falls on her bottom but doesn’t seem to mind, pressing her hands against the floor and grinning.

    “Is she hungry?” Sherlock asks.  “I don’t know what she likes so I stocked three of each kind of soft food in the cupboard and of course there’s formula—I have the bottles—”

    “She already ate.”

        “Oh.”

        A quick glance into the kitchen tells John that Sherlock’s moved all of his lab equipment somewhere else, too.  Feeling that his stay here might not be such a trial after all, he gets down on his knees next to Violet and tells her, “We’re going to be staying with Sherlock for a couple of days, okay?”  Violet can’t fully understand, but she nods anyway, enthusiastic, maybe, to learn the wide new world of Sher, with all of the strange objects on shelves, out of her reach.  John wonders if she’ll be this happy about going to bed in a foreign place.  He’ll find that out soon enough.

        “There’s a crib upstairs,” Sherlock says, as if reading his mind.  “In your old room.  I had one put there.  Bed’s made.”

        “Appreciate it.”

        “What else does she…”  And Sherlock falters here, at a loss.  “Babies, what else do they do?  I don’t remember much from my childhood, superfluous, deleted it, but—oh no, toys, I should have—”

        “She has her own toys, Sherlock.  Watch her for a second.”

        “What?”

        “Keep your eyes on her, I’m just over here.  I’m getting a toy for her.”

        “What if she leaves?”

        “She’s not going anywhere.  You put up a gate.  See there, she’s coming towards you.”

        John takes off his jacket and then rummages around in the knapsack until he finds Dehy Bear, which is about as close as Violet can get to “teddy bear.”  The poor thing’s matted brown fur reveals many nights’ survival of being chewed and drooled on.  John almost expects Sherlock to ask what significance such a ratty toy could have, but he stays quiet.

    It’s clear soon enough, anyway.  When John hands the teddy to Violet, she squeaks, “Dehy!” and forgets about whatever she wanted from Sherlock, who stands in front of her, still as a statue and utterly terrified of what he might have to do to entertain her.  As soon as it becomes clear that she’s satisfied with Dehy Bear, he relaxes.

        “She’s a very healthy baby,” he remarks.  “Pink cheeks, thick hair, high energy level—all positive indicators.”

        “Yes,” John says, squaring his shoulders.  “We’ve—I’ve done alright by her.”

        “Keen, I expect.”

        “Very keen.”

        Sherlock is silent for a moment, and then he says, “With proper guidance, she’ll take up some dangerous but reasonable hobby like mountaineering or hang gliding.”

        “And not shoot people for the fun of it, yeah.  Thanks.”

        “I didn’t mean—”

        “It’s fine, Sherlock.”

        Sherlock watches him.  There’s honestly more green in his eyes than John remembers, although that might just be the lighting.  “No, it isn’t,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t volunteer anything more.

---

    Violet asks for her mum before bed, and it’s then that she screws up her face and almost cries, but she’s too tired to dwell much on Mary’s conspicuous absence and falls asleep with her chubby arms wrapped around Dehy Bear, as if the toy can make up for it.  John touches her little blonde head, then sets up the baby monitor before joining Sherlock in the living room.

        “I knew exactly who the murderer was the moment I entered the crime scene this morning,” he says without prompting, sitting on the sofa with his knees far apart.  “Lestrade’s team had no idea, of course.  I’ll be forestalling the investigation for as long as I can.”

        John doesn’t sit down.  He just sets the monitor on the coffee table and stands there, kneading his forehead.  “You might have offered me tea before we started on this.”

        “Sorry.  Tea?”

        “No.”

        Grasping for a subject, Sherlock asks, “How long do you plan on staying?”

        “I don’t know.  How long have you had the flat set up for us?”

        “Two months.”

        John stops kneading his forehead.

        “Seven-year itch,” Sherlock explains.  “You and Mary haven’t been married for seven years, not yet, but she’s wedded herself to this mundane lifestyle as much as she has to you, and she’s been at it for longer.”  He inclines his head.  “Only logical to assume that it would begin grating on her, especially when there’s a child—Violet—to expedite the feeling of being trapped.  For you, stepping out with me to solve mysteries is enough.  For her—”

        He doesn’t want to hear it.  The thought makes him sick.  “The police have no idea, you said.”

        “Molly correctly hypothesized that the murder was the work of a professional.  Shouldn’t be too difficult to convince them of the assassin leaving the country for parts unknown.”  Sherlock clasps his hands together.  “Lestrade would accept anything if I were able to identify who hired Mary—she may not even know, I’m not about to ask.  That is where I am choosing to concentrate my efforts.”

        “You knew since this morning, and you didn’t phone me.”

        Sherlock’s voice is low, but soft.  “I didn’t know if you’d want to hear it.”

        John balls his hand into a fist, then releases it, finger by finger by finger.  He doesn’t know either.  He can’t imagine picking up the phone and hearing Sherlock’s voice telling him that Mary was a murderer.  Had murdered once more, rather.  Was a murderer again.  “You knew immediately, though.  That it was her.  No doubts.”

        “I am,” Sherlock says flatly, “more familiar with Mary Watson’s modus operandi than most people.”

        He says it as if he believes John has forgotten and needs reminding.

        And he might, at that.  So without stepping forward an inch, without moving a muscle, he says, “Let me see it.”

        Sherlock swallows.  “I’d rather not,” he says, his voice oddly high.

        “Sherlock.”  There’s no room for argument here.  They agree, now.  John agrees.  He needs reminding.

        Sighing heavily, as if John has asked him to do something annoying instead of something embarrassing, Sherlock begins to slowly unbutton his shirt.  No flare, no seduction intended.  Even if there had been, John wouldn’t have paid attention to it.  He’s too focused on moving his feet, his legs, one at a time, so they bring him forward to the sofa.  So he can sit down next to Sherlock, and remember.

        On Sherlock’s chest, just a hair beneath where his right lung lurks behind his ribcage, sits a small pucker of flesh, pinker and smaller than the one on John’s shoulder.  Hard to believe something as small as a bullet can wreak so much havoc on the human body.  John closes his eyes and seeks it out with his fingertips, that round, rough patch of scarred skin, reassuring himself that it’s real, that his wife put that there.  He inhales, and when he exhales, Sherlock does too.  John looks up.  Sherlock’s eyes, almost stormy grey now, are open, and, for some reason, terrified.

        When John told Mary that the problems of her future were his privilege, he didn’t see anything like this coming—that she would go and do to someone else what she almost did to Sherlock.  Maybe he should have.  Maybe he was being naïve.

        Beneath his hand, Sherlock’s blood rushes through his veins, as it will continue to for a very long time (decades, at least, if John has anything to say about it).  Sherlock is so warm.  And John thinks, Well, she broke it first, so he might as well say what he wants.

        “I’d like to do something very stupid to you,” he murmurs.

        “Hopefully nothing that will make me your wife’s next target,” Sherlock replies without hesitation.  He plays it as a joke.  John knows it’s only half a joke.

        John’s hand travels up Sherlock’s chest, through the sparse hair there, and curls around his shoulder.  With Sherlock oddly cowed, shrinking, and John’s spinal column straight as a rod, they seem almost the same height.  “She knows I’ll kill her if she hurts you again,” John says, as if that’s a conversation every normal couple has had at least once during the course of their marriage.  “She wouldn’t dare.”

        “Oh,” Sherlock says.  His breath is warm against John’s lips.  “That’s…”

        “So I have your permission?”

        “… incredible,” Sherlock finishes, entranced by something on John’s face—his expression, or maybe his proximity.  His eyes flicker from John’s eyes to his mouth, again and again.  His eyelashes are so long.

        John takes that as a yes, and kisses him.

        Sherlock kisses him back with enthusiasm he can’t control or contain, his hands finding John’s waist, pulling John in, closer than close, until they’re pressed up against each other so hard that the buttons of John’s shirt dig into Sherlock’s bare skin hard enough to leave marks.  With John furious and Sherlock overeager, their mouths mesh together clumsily, messily.  Even so, John feels Sherlock bend, shudder, melt in ways that he would have thought utterly impossible for Sherlock Holmes to do if he weren’t there to experience them himself.  He loses his edge, his anger, his focus, just for a second, bewildered by those reactions, and then it hits him.

        “My God,” he says.  “You’ve been waiting how long for me to do that?”

        “Years,” Sherlock rumbles, breathless, too disarmed to be anything but honest, and John reads a cocktail of emotions in his face: joy nervousness apprehension fear arousal.  “Did I do it wrong?”

        “No,” John assures him, and he reaches forward to smooth Sherlock’s hair, calm him down, and then he grabs a handful of curls and pulls.  A gasp flutters from between Sherlock’s lips.  His reward.  He presses his mouth to Sherlock’s earlobe, sucks on it, and releases it with a smacking sound.  “But don’t get ahead of yourself.”

        A pant from Sherlock, and then more as John traces his tongue around the shell of Sherlock’s ear, plants a trail of nipping kisses down his jaw, his neck, and back up.  John wants to tell him, affectionately, how ridiculous his face is, but thinks that now might not be the time for endearments.  Now is the time to just do.  His lips find Sherlock’s lips again just as his hand finds the zip of Sherlock’s trousers.  The fabric—what’s waiting for him beneath it—is already warm to the touch.

        Words spill out of Sherlock’s mouth, almost too fast to be understood, something incomprehensible about the mechanics of erections and then “Johnareyougoingtoplease—”

        “I might,” John says, and there’s a part of him that desperately does want to, wants to touch Sherlock, skin to skin, just like that, and there’s another part wondering if Sherlock has lubricant handy (for an experiment?) and should he ruin the moment by asking, and yet another part reminding him that aside from some awkward fumbling around early on in his army career he has no experience with men whatsoever, and this could be a disaster of unmitigated proportions after which his best friend might never speak to him again.

    It’s that last thought that makes his heart skip a couple of sickening beats, but he looks down at Sherlock, whose face is flushed, whose lips are parted and slick, who’s lost to something that hasn’t even happened yet, and he knows he has to commit.  On his terms.  “Lean back, spread your legs.”

    “Yes,” Sherlock says, eager to keep this going at any cost.  When he opens his legs, John presses between them, not with his hands or his mouth but with his hips, and he moves until he can feel Sherlock’s erection pressing heavily against his groin.   He grinds their hips together until he’s just as aroused, too, his breath hot and wet against Sherlock’s neck, the space between them reduced to less than nothing.

    “You’re doing so well,” John says, eyes closed.  Hard to forget how much Sherlock enjoys praise, but he never thought he’d use that knowledge in this context.  It works out.  Sherlock’s hands greedily explore his back, pull the hem of his shirt out from where it’s tucked in and slip under his trousers to get a feel for the curve of his arse—and squeeze.  John bites down against the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder and then says, “Sherlock, Jesus.”

    “Hah,” says Sherlock, too lost in the sensation of John’s skin under his hands and the rest of John on top of him to muster a witty retort.  His hips press up against John’s, thrusting desperately, and then it’s one, two, three, and Sherlock’s entire body shudders, and he cries out—nothing coherent, a string of garbled, meaningless sounds—and then sags against the sofa.

    John kisses his neck reassuringly, gently, and feels Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.  He’s not finished himself, but he’s not about to make a big deal out of it.  He just keeps rocking his hips against Sherlock’s thigh, his fingers digging in wherever they can as the sensation builds.  He is surprised when Sherlock’s hands push him back, trying to put space between them and reach around to the front of his trousers, so he stops and pushes himself up.  Sherlock looks up at him, blue-green-gray eyes dewy with moisture, dark curls damp, stuck to his forehead, and just says, “Let me.”

    Somehow, without Sherlock having to say anything else, John knows exactly what he wants.  He nods, and then backs off, gets to his knees, and allows Sherlock’s long fingers to pull his trousers down to mid-thigh, exposing him.  The air in the room seems impossibly cold after all of that frictional heat.

    But the chill doesn’t last long.  Sherlock leans forward and then his mouth is on John’s skin.  Soft kisses, a couple of curious licks that send pleasure zinging up John’s spine, and then— “Okay, teeth,” John says through his own.  “Careful with the teeth—oh, much better.  Mm, Sherlock…”  And then he doesn’t have much to say at all.  Hips do the talking, and his hands: one on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other at the nape of his neck.  John tilts his head back, allows an “a-ah” sound to bubble up in his throat, and gives himself over.

    Sherlock doesn’t cough or splutter at the end, nor does he ask to brush his teeth immediately after.  He swallows everything he can, savoring the way John tastes, and then drops back to the sofa, landing with a soft thud.  John fixes his trousers before following suit, flopping down next to Sherlock, tingling all over, momentarily relaxed.  Sherlock turns onto his side, seeking him out, and presses their sticky foreheads together.

    It’s only after the warmth has ebbed from his body and the reality of their situation sinks back in that John asks, “Sherlock, what are we going to do?”

    “I don’t know,” Sherlock says with a yawn.

    “That’s not fair,” John tells him, both fond and worried.  He’s still wearing his wedding ring.  “You’re always the one with the answers.”

    At the other end of the baby monitor, Violet Watson mumbles something incoherent in her sleep.