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Title: All Aboard!
Author: Diana Williams
Characters and/or pairings: ACD!Holmes/Watson, Richieverse!Homes/Watson, BBC!Sherlock/John, BBC!Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: Semi-Explicit
Warnings, kinks & contents: Not enough porn (do I need to warn for that), Allusions to Dead Canon Major Characters
Prompt: All Aboard!
Summary: The slash train is leaving the station!
Notes: I didn't get as much written as I wanted, so I plan to flesh this out before I post it to Ao3. Consider this the vignette version.
There are also probably errors that I didn't fix yet!
And now the edited story is on Ao3!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
All Aboard!
An Erotic Travelogue crossing Four Compartments and Times!
Compartment One: Engineering a Honeymoon
My dear friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes, had been working non-stop for months on a series of cases, both for private clients and with Scotland Yard, when he unexpectedly collapsed at the end of a chase. Alarmed, I bundled him into a hansom cab and took him home where I could examine him more properly. I was relieved to discern that it was nothing more than exhaustion, brought on by too much work and not enough sleep or food, and not made any better by the beastly weather we’d been experiencing over the past month. However, I worried that in his weakened state, he might develop one of those debilitating coughs he was prone to, so I prescribed an extended rest. Holmes submitted with his usual ill grace, and I braced myself for a few weeks of bad-temper. I feared that he would resort to his usual bad habits of morphine or cocaine, which would not help his weakened condition. I contemplated taking him to a warmer clime for a week or so, and cast about in my mind for a way to bring this about without overtaxing our finances.
To my great surprise, I returned from a visit to my club on the afternoon of the third day of Holmes’s enforced rest to find him throwing a familiar looking bag into a waiting cab. Another bag, one that I recognized as my own, sat on the curb next to his feet. Holmes greeted me with more cheer than I had seen in many days, pushing me into the cab and jumping in beside me as he instructed the driver to take us “to Paddington Station, my good man, and be quick about it!”
“What the devil is going on?” I demanded of Holmes, prepared to be difficult if Holmes was about to drag us off on another case.
To my surprise, Holmes leaned forward a kissed me, a brief and nearly chaste salute, before he sat back. “A holiday trip abroad, Watson. First class train passages from London to Venice.”
“Nice!” I echoed. Visions of sunshine and warm water briefly danced before my eyes before I protested, “Holmes, how can we possibly – “
“A gift from our latest client, Lady Augusta,” he replied.
He had no time to say more for we had arrived at Paddington Station and had to dash for our train. We just barely made it onboard our train before it pulled out of the station, and we collapsed into the seats of our first class compartment still gasping for breath.
Once he had caught his breath, Holmes continued his explanation. “Lady Augusta sent the tickets round this morning, shortly after you left for your club. Now that her intended husband has been proven a bigamist and thief, she no longer has need of them.”
“Ah, her wedding trip?”
“The arrangements are already made and paid for.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket, handing it to me. A smile danced over his lips briefly before disappearing as he shrugged. “However, she finds herself disinclined to travel at the moment, and begged us to make use of them.”
I scanned the brief note enclosed with a bundle of tickets and receipts, seeing that it was as he had said. Return tickets from London to Paris, and then from Paris to Venice via the Orient Express, then a suite at an elegant hotel for two weeks. It was an incredibly generous gift; I should have protested, but the chance to get Holmes to a warmer climate for a few weeks was too tempting. Also, I couldn’t help remembering our previous interrupted trip abroad, our plans to continue south to Italy that had been so terribly interrupted four years earlier.
Holmes must have read something of this on my face for a sympathetic look crossed his face. “My dear Watson!” He quickly stood up and secured the door and drew the blinds, then sat down on the seat next to me. He took my face between his hands and bestowed one of his rare kisses on me again, this one lingering and full of promise, before he drew back. This time his smile was wicked, and my heart began to race in response. “I do believe that you are owed a honeymoon trip, my dear John,” he added, referring to our newly-changed relationship. “Beginning now.”
Saying that, he slid to the floor before me and his dexterous fingers made quick work of my flies, drawing forth my member before I had a chance to draw breath in protest. And then any thought of stopping him flew out of my head along with any coherent thought as Holmes proceeded to lavish his considerable attention upon my person. His mouth was hot and heavenly, and his hands as skilled at playing my body as they were with his violin. In a shockingly short time, I was spilling my essence into his mouth while I bit my own hand to silence my cries of completion.
I collapsed weakly against the corner of my seat, trying to regain my senses, barely aware that Holmes was tidying me back into my trousers and rising to his feet. This brought my attention to his own need, and I reached for him. He stilled my questing hands, however, turning to unlock the door and open the blind as he uttered the words, “The conductor is coming.”
Then he turned back to me, bending over to murmur in my ear as he extracted the tickets from my unresisting hands. “I prefer to wait for my turn tonight, and to make use of that salve tucked into your case.”
I felt a stirring of renewed interest in my loins and turned towards the window to hide the sudden flush of my face.
I could hardly wait.
Compartment Two: Shadows in the Sleeping Car
The door to the train compartment assigned to one Dr. Watson clicked open under my skillful application of the lock pick, and I slipped into the darkness inside before once more securing the door. I didn’t dare risk a light but I hardly needed one. John Watson’s habits were intimately familiar to me from many years of joint lodging, even though it had been nearly three years since I had seen him last, and I was easily able to navigate around his belongings and settle into the seat by the window. I drew the blinds – at this point, it would be foolish to allow those hunting me to scent my location. It was beyond foolish to be here at all, but when I had caught sight of John Watson - by purest chance - in the train station, I could no more resist attempting this meeting than I could stop drawing in breath. He looked – old.
Well, of course he was – we both were! Three years older than our last trip aboard this train, although heading in the other direction, away from London instead of towards it now. He had been newly married, on his wedding trip, and I had been escaping from my enemies. And now his Mary was gone, taken in childbirth nearly a year earlier, and it was nearly time for me to return from my empty grave.
But first, before I made my appearance back in London, I had to determine where I stood in relation to John Watson. I had already determined, before his marriage, that the loss of his companionship at Baker Street was intolerable – I would sooner remain in exile abroad than endure that again.
My dark thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable sound of his footsteps in the corridor outside. As I had noted in my observations earlier, his limp had returned, his step slower and heavier than I had ever known it. His key turns in the lock, the door opens, and I have a moment to observe him silhouetted against the light of the corridor behind him before he shuts the door and locks it behind him. He took another step forward, reaching into his pocket, and I barely had a moment to draw breath before the muzzle of a gun is pressed against my forehead. I was impressed; he hasn’t lost his sharp instincts during the intervening years.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” he growls.
I have missed that growl. (I have heard it often enough, usually following his discovery of whatever experiment I had performed on Gladstone.) I only realize a moment later, when I heard his sudden in-drawn breath, that I said that out loud.
He turned away, lighting a match and then the gas lamp above the sink. While he did this, I tried to prepare myself for what would happen next.
(79% probability that he will punch me in the face again, his hand tightening into a fist just before he strikes my cheek (and a 9% possibility that he will decide to break my nose instead). I could lean my head to the right approximately 45 degrees and avoid it, but Watson deserves his revenge.)
(18% possibility that he will turn around, unlock the door, and go back down the corridor to the dining car. 95% possibility that if he does, he will get drunk and punch me if I follow him, 5% that he will ignore me and I will never see him again once we get off this train. )
(3% possibility that he will level the gun again and put a bullet in my heart, followed by one to his own head. 1% possibility that I could be quick enough to knock the gun away, discharging it into the wall and striking the occupant of the next compartment, possibly fatally. John Watson dangling at the end of a rope, a reality instead of a madman’s trick…)
I shook my head quickly, trying to banish increasingly dismal possibilities, and was thus unprepared as Watson turned back to me, grasped my face between his hands, and kissed my lips.
Then he punched me.
“You bloody idiot,” he growled. “I began to think that you were never coming back.”
I realized, as I lay on the small floor of the compartment, massaging my aching jaw while watching him systematically remove his coat and waistcoat and toss them on the chair, that I had once again miscalculated Watson.
He paused midway through unbuttoning his shirt and quirked an eyebrow at me, and I found myself laughing despite my aching jaw (and the suspicion that I had at least one loose tooth). And then I began shedding my borrowed uniform as quickly as I could.
John Watson isn’t the only one with a few surprises up his sleeves.
Compartment Three: Dining on Danger
The first thing that John Watson realizesis that his arms and ankles are tied and his head aches from where someone hit him.
The second thing that he realizes is that Sherlock is lying just a few inches away from him and that, thank Christ!, he is starting to moan as he recovers consciousness.
The third thing he realizes is that the ground under them is moving.
That knowledge is enough to make him finish coming alert. He manages to roll onto his belly and then shift onto his knees, getting his head up enough to look around. There’s a bar in front of him, fully stocked with drinks and glasses and, yes! a little knife for slicing those fruit bits for drinks. He stays still for a moment, long enough to determine that they are alone for the moment, then begins working his way towards the shelf with the knife. Fortunately, whoever tied him up tied his hands in front, and he is able to slice open the ropes with only a few minor nicks. He cuts the rope away from his feet, then frees Sherlock who is coming around slower than he would like.
“Sherlock?” he murmurs, keeping his voice low in case the bad guys are lurking somewhere nearby.
“John.” Sherlock blinks his eyes open fully, and John is relieved to see the spark in those eyes that says that he is firing on most all of his cylinders.
“Where are we?” John asked.
“The Northern Belle,” Sherlock says crisply. He glanced around, taking in the angle of the light through the far window, then tilted his head and listened to the sound of the rails. “Destination Trossachs National Park – no doubt they intended to dispose of us there.”
“Brilliant,” John murmured.
Sherlock shrugged. “We were taken in Preston, the Northern Belle has a planned excursion to Loch Lomond on this date. In addition, Woodley has a cousin who has a parish near there; no doubt he has agreed to marry Woodley to Ms. Smith, despite her objections.”
John blew out a relieved breath. “Then you believe she’s still alive?”
“Of course. They would hardly go to all this trouble if she were dead.” Sherlock grimaced as he sat up and gingerly felt the back of his head. “We are intended to be leverage for them to secure her agreement to the marriage.”
“I still don’t understand why they’re doing this.” John located an ice bucket and some clean cloths, fashioning a compress for each of them. “I mean, yeah, they want the money she’s won, but what’s to stop her from divorcing Woodley afterward? “
“They’re hoping she won’t want to risk scandal, not with the next Olympics coming up and Violet Smith a favorite for gold. The loss of endorsements could be enormous; they are betting that she’ll agree to a quiet divorce with a big settlement.”
“So – what do we do now?” John asked. “Do we go looking for them or wait here?”
“We wait,” Sherlock said. “Too many places to stash her on a train this size, but they’ll have to come back here to get us. They won’t be expecting us to be waiting for them.”
John grinned, feeling his blood start surging at the thought of the fight to come. “So we got, what, an hour to kill?”
“Yes.” Sherlock loved to see that look in John’s eyes, the look that said “danger” and “fight or flight” (And he knew which John would choose.) Sherlock reached out and pulled John close, snogging him thoroughly.
John participated willingly, only pulling back after a moment to say, “Is this really appropriate, considering?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock said promptly, reeling John back in for another kiss and deftly undoing the front of his trousers. “Definitely not good. And probably dangerous.”
“Oh, good,” John said, grinning as he pushed up Sherlock’s shirt and pinched an exposed nipple. Sherlock gasped and renewed his attack on John’s trousers, pushing them down to his knees followed by his own. John wrapped an arm around him, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss that also brought their cocks into alignment. Both men groaned, then began moving in concerted unison – as always. John could feel the white-hot intensity begin to build in his balls and tightened his hold on Sherlock as he rocked up into him harder. Sherlock groaned and came, followed a moment later by John.
They lay together for a few long moments, gasping for breath and enjoying the after-glow for a few minutes. Finally, with a sigh, John shifted enough to reach the damp cloths. They cleaned up as best they could and straightened their clothes, then took their places and waited for Woodley and Carruthers to turn up with their stolen cyclist.
There would be time for more later, back home at Baker Street.
Compartment Four: A Little Red (Caboose)
Greg Lestrade slammed the door of the black car and stomped across the empty train station platform, swung himself up the stairs of the train car, and glared at the man sitting inside.
“The next time that you have your people abduct me off the streets – in the middle of a case! – would you at least have them give me a cuppa and a sarnie? Christ, I was looking forward to take-away and a beer in front of bad telly, not one of your interrogations!”
Mycroft Holmes blinked at him. “I apologize, Detective Inspector. I am afraid I don’t have a ‘sarnie’, but there is a rather nice consommé prepared.” He turned and gestured towards the table behind him. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Lestrade gaped at the table behind the older Holmes brother, laid with a crisp white tablecloth and sparkling with crystal and silver. “I – “ There was a delicious aroma in the air and he turned his head, following the scent like a hound after a fox. “Is that steak?”
A smug smile briefly touched Mycroft’s lips. “Kobe filet, with asperagus tips.” He gestured towards the vacant seat again. “Please, join me.”
Giving in to the inevitable, Lestrade sighed and sat down. He looked down at an array of cutlery that exceeded the entire contents of his silverware drawer and extracted something that might be a soup spoon (apparently wrong; he could feel Mycroft’s wince from across the table). The soup was delicious, the bread he used to sop up the lingering bits was crusty and delicious, and whatever Mycroft had poured in his glass wasn’t too sweet as he washed down the crumbs.
His bowl was whisked away, replaced by a plate of chilled oysters; he had never been interested enough in them to pay the stiff restaurant prices but what the hell, he figured that Mycroft owed him. A peek over at Mycroft showed him the trick to eating them – and they were okay, although he still wouldn’t splash out for them on his own. Another glass of wine washed away the remaining taste.
He perked up considerably as a beautiful steak was set before him, accompanied by a couple of sticks of something green and not cooked nearly long enough as they still crunched. But the steak was perfection, and the red wine that had appeared along with it was the best he’d ever tasted. He was certain that he was making inappropriate noises but, quite frankly, he didn’t care. Mycroft Holmes had had him abducted again, and if he had wanted a more scintillating dinner partner, he could have had his people abduct someone in his usual social circle.
Although…Mycroft didn’t look like he was disappointed with his company. In fact, he was watching Lestrade with the same sort of fascination that his brother had for murdered bodies. In fact…
Lestrade looked down at his plate, then at the room around him. For the first time, he realized that he was inside a train’s dining car – and it was moving.
“Are we moving?” he asked Mycroft. He blamed the wine and the 20 hours straight that he’d been working for the stupidity of the question, and the fact that it had taken him an hour to notice.
Mycroft looked down into the glass he was holding. “We are in a train, Inspector.”
“Where are we going?”
Mycroft swirled the contents of his glass with the vague gesture of his hand. “Oh, around.”
“Around.” Lestrade blinked and sat back in his chair. (He was not slouching. He was…relaxing.) “You – what? – hired an entire train to drive you around while you eat dinner?” He leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin on it. “Dare I ask what you do when you feel like a curry?”
“You can ask…” Mycroft began.
“But if you told me, you’d have to kill me?” Lestrade definitely did not smirk – only Holmeses smirked. His mouth was just… sort of smiling. On its own. He finished the last of the wine in his glass and licked his lips, chasing the taste.
And…Mycroft Holmes focused his eyes on Lestrade’s lips like he’d just been given a glimpse of the Promised Land. And shifted slightly in his chair.
A light-bulb went off over Lestrade’s head and yeah, he was slow, but he wasn’t a Holmes and it had been a long, long day – and he wasn’t even going to think about how long it had been since someone had looked at him like they were minutes away from playing hockey with his tongue. So it had taken him awhile to get there, but now he had a pretty good idea what page they were on.
He slouched back in his chair, tilted his head slightly, and looked over at Mycroft Holmes through his eyelashes. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said in as close to a purr as he could manage at his age, “are you trying to seduce me?”
Mycroft’s eyes darkened and he visibly swallowed. Carefully, he set down his glass, then lifted his chin and met Lestrade’s eyes across the table. “And if I said yes?”
Lestrade’s smile widened. “Then I’d have to ask if this train has a sleeping car as well.”
Mycroft drew in a deep breath, then stood and held out his hand. “Shall we find out?”
Lestrade let himself be pulled out of the chair and then took a step closer, into Mycroft’s personal space. “It better not be those single berths,” he warned. “At my age, there’s a lot to be said for comfort.”
Mycroft leaned down and captured Lestrade’s mouth, kissing him with a ruthless abandon that sent Lestrade’s blood downward. “By all means, Inspector. Let’s make sure that you are comfortable.”
Lestrade reeled Mycroft in for another kiss, to prove that the Holmes brothers weren’t the only ones with good ideas. “You’re not going to call me ‘Inspector’ in bed, are you? Because I don’t do kinky until at least the third date.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Later, as Lestrade carded his fingers through the ginger head of hair resting on his shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, he realized that he still didn’t know where this train was going but he didn’t particularly care.
The End
Author: Diana Williams
Characters and/or pairings: ACD!Holmes/Watson, Richieverse!Homes/Watson, BBC!Sherlock/John, BBC!Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: Semi-Explicit
Warnings, kinks & contents: Not enough porn (do I need to warn for that), Allusions to Dead Canon Major Characters
Prompt: All Aboard!
Summary: The slash train is leaving the station!
Notes: I didn't get as much written as I wanted, so I plan to flesh this out before I post it to Ao3. Consider this the vignette version.
There are also probably errors that I didn't fix yet!
And now the edited story is on Ao3!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
All Aboard!
An Erotic Travelogue crossing Four Compartments and Times!
Compartment One: Engineering a Honeymoon
My dear friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes, had been working non-stop for months on a series of cases, both for private clients and with Scotland Yard, when he unexpectedly collapsed at the end of a chase. Alarmed, I bundled him into a hansom cab and took him home where I could examine him more properly. I was relieved to discern that it was nothing more than exhaustion, brought on by too much work and not enough sleep or food, and not made any better by the beastly weather we’d been experiencing over the past month. However, I worried that in his weakened state, he might develop one of those debilitating coughs he was prone to, so I prescribed an extended rest. Holmes submitted with his usual ill grace, and I braced myself for a few weeks of bad-temper. I feared that he would resort to his usual bad habits of morphine or cocaine, which would not help his weakened condition. I contemplated taking him to a warmer clime for a week or so, and cast about in my mind for a way to bring this about without overtaxing our finances.
To my great surprise, I returned from a visit to my club on the afternoon of the third day of Holmes’s enforced rest to find him throwing a familiar looking bag into a waiting cab. Another bag, one that I recognized as my own, sat on the curb next to his feet. Holmes greeted me with more cheer than I had seen in many days, pushing me into the cab and jumping in beside me as he instructed the driver to take us “to Paddington Station, my good man, and be quick about it!”
“What the devil is going on?” I demanded of Holmes, prepared to be difficult if Holmes was about to drag us off on another case.
To my surprise, Holmes leaned forward a kissed me, a brief and nearly chaste salute, before he sat back. “A holiday trip abroad, Watson. First class train passages from London to Venice.”
“Nice!” I echoed. Visions of sunshine and warm water briefly danced before my eyes before I protested, “Holmes, how can we possibly – “
“A gift from our latest client, Lady Augusta,” he replied.
He had no time to say more for we had arrived at Paddington Station and had to dash for our train. We just barely made it onboard our train before it pulled out of the station, and we collapsed into the seats of our first class compartment still gasping for breath.
Once he had caught his breath, Holmes continued his explanation. “Lady Augusta sent the tickets round this morning, shortly after you left for your club. Now that her intended husband has been proven a bigamist and thief, she no longer has need of them.”
“Ah, her wedding trip?”
“The arrangements are already made and paid for.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket, handing it to me. A smile danced over his lips briefly before disappearing as he shrugged. “However, she finds herself disinclined to travel at the moment, and begged us to make use of them.”
I scanned the brief note enclosed with a bundle of tickets and receipts, seeing that it was as he had said. Return tickets from London to Paris, and then from Paris to Venice via the Orient Express, then a suite at an elegant hotel for two weeks. It was an incredibly generous gift; I should have protested, but the chance to get Holmes to a warmer climate for a few weeks was too tempting. Also, I couldn’t help remembering our previous interrupted trip abroad, our plans to continue south to Italy that had been so terribly interrupted four years earlier.
Holmes must have read something of this on my face for a sympathetic look crossed his face. “My dear Watson!” He quickly stood up and secured the door and drew the blinds, then sat down on the seat next to me. He took my face between his hands and bestowed one of his rare kisses on me again, this one lingering and full of promise, before he drew back. This time his smile was wicked, and my heart began to race in response. “I do believe that you are owed a honeymoon trip, my dear John,” he added, referring to our newly-changed relationship. “Beginning now.”
Saying that, he slid to the floor before me and his dexterous fingers made quick work of my flies, drawing forth my member before I had a chance to draw breath in protest. And then any thought of stopping him flew out of my head along with any coherent thought as Holmes proceeded to lavish his considerable attention upon my person. His mouth was hot and heavenly, and his hands as skilled at playing my body as they were with his violin. In a shockingly short time, I was spilling my essence into his mouth while I bit my own hand to silence my cries of completion.
I collapsed weakly against the corner of my seat, trying to regain my senses, barely aware that Holmes was tidying me back into my trousers and rising to his feet. This brought my attention to his own need, and I reached for him. He stilled my questing hands, however, turning to unlock the door and open the blind as he uttered the words, “The conductor is coming.”
Then he turned back to me, bending over to murmur in my ear as he extracted the tickets from my unresisting hands. “I prefer to wait for my turn tonight, and to make use of that salve tucked into your case.”
I felt a stirring of renewed interest in my loins and turned towards the window to hide the sudden flush of my face.
I could hardly wait.
Compartment Two: Shadows in the Sleeping Car
The door to the train compartment assigned to one Dr. Watson clicked open under my skillful application of the lock pick, and I slipped into the darkness inside before once more securing the door. I didn’t dare risk a light but I hardly needed one. John Watson’s habits were intimately familiar to me from many years of joint lodging, even though it had been nearly three years since I had seen him last, and I was easily able to navigate around his belongings and settle into the seat by the window. I drew the blinds – at this point, it would be foolish to allow those hunting me to scent my location. It was beyond foolish to be here at all, but when I had caught sight of John Watson - by purest chance - in the train station, I could no more resist attempting this meeting than I could stop drawing in breath. He looked – old.
Well, of course he was – we both were! Three years older than our last trip aboard this train, although heading in the other direction, away from London instead of towards it now. He had been newly married, on his wedding trip, and I had been escaping from my enemies. And now his Mary was gone, taken in childbirth nearly a year earlier, and it was nearly time for me to return from my empty grave.
But first, before I made my appearance back in London, I had to determine where I stood in relation to John Watson. I had already determined, before his marriage, that the loss of his companionship at Baker Street was intolerable – I would sooner remain in exile abroad than endure that again.
My dark thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable sound of his footsteps in the corridor outside. As I had noted in my observations earlier, his limp had returned, his step slower and heavier than I had ever known it. His key turns in the lock, the door opens, and I have a moment to observe him silhouetted against the light of the corridor behind him before he shuts the door and locks it behind him. He took another step forward, reaching into his pocket, and I barely had a moment to draw breath before the muzzle of a gun is pressed against my forehead. I was impressed; he hasn’t lost his sharp instincts during the intervening years.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” he growls.
I have missed that growl. (I have heard it often enough, usually following his discovery of whatever experiment I had performed on Gladstone.) I only realize a moment later, when I heard his sudden in-drawn breath, that I said that out loud.
He turned away, lighting a match and then the gas lamp above the sink. While he did this, I tried to prepare myself for what would happen next.
(79% probability that he will punch me in the face again, his hand tightening into a fist just before he strikes my cheek (and a 9% possibility that he will decide to break my nose instead). I could lean my head to the right approximately 45 degrees and avoid it, but Watson deserves his revenge.)
(18% possibility that he will turn around, unlock the door, and go back down the corridor to the dining car. 95% possibility that if he does, he will get drunk and punch me if I follow him, 5% that he will ignore me and I will never see him again once we get off this train. )
(3% possibility that he will level the gun again and put a bullet in my heart, followed by one to his own head. 1% possibility that I could be quick enough to knock the gun away, discharging it into the wall and striking the occupant of the next compartment, possibly fatally. John Watson dangling at the end of a rope, a reality instead of a madman’s trick…)
I shook my head quickly, trying to banish increasingly dismal possibilities, and was thus unprepared as Watson turned back to me, grasped my face between his hands, and kissed my lips.
Then he punched me.
“You bloody idiot,” he growled. “I began to think that you were never coming back.”
I realized, as I lay on the small floor of the compartment, massaging my aching jaw while watching him systematically remove his coat and waistcoat and toss them on the chair, that I had once again miscalculated Watson.
He paused midway through unbuttoning his shirt and quirked an eyebrow at me, and I found myself laughing despite my aching jaw (and the suspicion that I had at least one loose tooth). And then I began shedding my borrowed uniform as quickly as I could.
John Watson isn’t the only one with a few surprises up his sleeves.
Compartment Three: Dining on Danger
The first thing that John Watson realizesis that his arms and ankles are tied and his head aches from where someone hit him.
The second thing that he realizes is that Sherlock is lying just a few inches away from him and that, thank Christ!, he is starting to moan as he recovers consciousness.
The third thing he realizes is that the ground under them is moving.
That knowledge is enough to make him finish coming alert. He manages to roll onto his belly and then shift onto his knees, getting his head up enough to look around. There’s a bar in front of him, fully stocked with drinks and glasses and, yes! a little knife for slicing those fruit bits for drinks. He stays still for a moment, long enough to determine that they are alone for the moment, then begins working his way towards the shelf with the knife. Fortunately, whoever tied him up tied his hands in front, and he is able to slice open the ropes with only a few minor nicks. He cuts the rope away from his feet, then frees Sherlock who is coming around slower than he would like.
“Sherlock?” he murmurs, keeping his voice low in case the bad guys are lurking somewhere nearby.
“John.” Sherlock blinks his eyes open fully, and John is relieved to see the spark in those eyes that says that he is firing on most all of his cylinders.
“Where are we?” John asked.
“The Northern Belle,” Sherlock says crisply. He glanced around, taking in the angle of the light through the far window, then tilted his head and listened to the sound of the rails. “Destination Trossachs National Park – no doubt they intended to dispose of us there.”
“Brilliant,” John murmured.
Sherlock shrugged. “We were taken in Preston, the Northern Belle has a planned excursion to Loch Lomond on this date. In addition, Woodley has a cousin who has a parish near there; no doubt he has agreed to marry Woodley to Ms. Smith, despite her objections.”
John blew out a relieved breath. “Then you believe she’s still alive?”
“Of course. They would hardly go to all this trouble if she were dead.” Sherlock grimaced as he sat up and gingerly felt the back of his head. “We are intended to be leverage for them to secure her agreement to the marriage.”
“I still don’t understand why they’re doing this.” John located an ice bucket and some clean cloths, fashioning a compress for each of them. “I mean, yeah, they want the money she’s won, but what’s to stop her from divorcing Woodley afterward? “
“They’re hoping she won’t want to risk scandal, not with the next Olympics coming up and Violet Smith a favorite for gold. The loss of endorsements could be enormous; they are betting that she’ll agree to a quiet divorce with a big settlement.”
“So – what do we do now?” John asked. “Do we go looking for them or wait here?”
“We wait,” Sherlock said. “Too many places to stash her on a train this size, but they’ll have to come back here to get us. They won’t be expecting us to be waiting for them.”
John grinned, feeling his blood start surging at the thought of the fight to come. “So we got, what, an hour to kill?”
“Yes.” Sherlock loved to see that look in John’s eyes, the look that said “danger” and “fight or flight” (And he knew which John would choose.) Sherlock reached out and pulled John close, snogging him thoroughly.
John participated willingly, only pulling back after a moment to say, “Is this really appropriate, considering?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock said promptly, reeling John back in for another kiss and deftly undoing the front of his trousers. “Definitely not good. And probably dangerous.”
“Oh, good,” John said, grinning as he pushed up Sherlock’s shirt and pinched an exposed nipple. Sherlock gasped and renewed his attack on John’s trousers, pushing them down to his knees followed by his own. John wrapped an arm around him, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss that also brought their cocks into alignment. Both men groaned, then began moving in concerted unison – as always. John could feel the white-hot intensity begin to build in his balls and tightened his hold on Sherlock as he rocked up into him harder. Sherlock groaned and came, followed a moment later by John.
They lay together for a few long moments, gasping for breath and enjoying the after-glow for a few minutes. Finally, with a sigh, John shifted enough to reach the damp cloths. They cleaned up as best they could and straightened their clothes, then took their places and waited for Woodley and Carruthers to turn up with their stolen cyclist.
There would be time for more later, back home at Baker Street.
Compartment Four: A Little Red (Caboose)
Greg Lestrade slammed the door of the black car and stomped across the empty train station platform, swung himself up the stairs of the train car, and glared at the man sitting inside.
“The next time that you have your people abduct me off the streets – in the middle of a case! – would you at least have them give me a cuppa and a sarnie? Christ, I was looking forward to take-away and a beer in front of bad telly, not one of your interrogations!”
Mycroft Holmes blinked at him. “I apologize, Detective Inspector. I am afraid I don’t have a ‘sarnie’, but there is a rather nice consommé prepared.” He turned and gestured towards the table behind him. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Lestrade gaped at the table behind the older Holmes brother, laid with a crisp white tablecloth and sparkling with crystal and silver. “I – “ There was a delicious aroma in the air and he turned his head, following the scent like a hound after a fox. “Is that steak?”
A smug smile briefly touched Mycroft’s lips. “Kobe filet, with asperagus tips.” He gestured towards the vacant seat again. “Please, join me.”
Giving in to the inevitable, Lestrade sighed and sat down. He looked down at an array of cutlery that exceeded the entire contents of his silverware drawer and extracted something that might be a soup spoon (apparently wrong; he could feel Mycroft’s wince from across the table). The soup was delicious, the bread he used to sop up the lingering bits was crusty and delicious, and whatever Mycroft had poured in his glass wasn’t too sweet as he washed down the crumbs.
His bowl was whisked away, replaced by a plate of chilled oysters; he had never been interested enough in them to pay the stiff restaurant prices but what the hell, he figured that Mycroft owed him. A peek over at Mycroft showed him the trick to eating them – and they were okay, although he still wouldn’t splash out for them on his own. Another glass of wine washed away the remaining taste.
He perked up considerably as a beautiful steak was set before him, accompanied by a couple of sticks of something green and not cooked nearly long enough as they still crunched. But the steak was perfection, and the red wine that had appeared along with it was the best he’d ever tasted. He was certain that he was making inappropriate noises but, quite frankly, he didn’t care. Mycroft Holmes had had him abducted again, and if he had wanted a more scintillating dinner partner, he could have had his people abduct someone in his usual social circle.
Although…Mycroft didn’t look like he was disappointed with his company. In fact, he was watching Lestrade with the same sort of fascination that his brother had for murdered bodies. In fact…
Lestrade looked down at his plate, then at the room around him. For the first time, he realized that he was inside a train’s dining car – and it was moving.
“Are we moving?” he asked Mycroft. He blamed the wine and the 20 hours straight that he’d been working for the stupidity of the question, and the fact that it had taken him an hour to notice.
Mycroft looked down into the glass he was holding. “We are in a train, Inspector.”
“Where are we going?”
Mycroft swirled the contents of his glass with the vague gesture of his hand. “Oh, around.”
“Around.” Lestrade blinked and sat back in his chair. (He was not slouching. He was…relaxing.) “You – what? – hired an entire train to drive you around while you eat dinner?” He leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin on it. “Dare I ask what you do when you feel like a curry?”
“You can ask…” Mycroft began.
“But if you told me, you’d have to kill me?” Lestrade definitely did not smirk – only Holmeses smirked. His mouth was just… sort of smiling. On its own. He finished the last of the wine in his glass and licked his lips, chasing the taste.
And…Mycroft Holmes focused his eyes on Lestrade’s lips like he’d just been given a glimpse of the Promised Land. And shifted slightly in his chair.
A light-bulb went off over Lestrade’s head and yeah, he was slow, but he wasn’t a Holmes and it had been a long, long day – and he wasn’t even going to think about how long it had been since someone had looked at him like they were minutes away from playing hockey with his tongue. So it had taken him awhile to get there, but now he had a pretty good idea what page they were on.
He slouched back in his chair, tilted his head slightly, and looked over at Mycroft Holmes through his eyelashes. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said in as close to a purr as he could manage at his age, “are you trying to seduce me?”
Mycroft’s eyes darkened and he visibly swallowed. Carefully, he set down his glass, then lifted his chin and met Lestrade’s eyes across the table. “And if I said yes?”
Lestrade’s smile widened. “Then I’d have to ask if this train has a sleeping car as well.”
Mycroft drew in a deep breath, then stood and held out his hand. “Shall we find out?”
Lestrade let himself be pulled out of the chair and then took a step closer, into Mycroft’s personal space. “It better not be those single berths,” he warned. “At my age, there’s a lot to be said for comfort.”
Mycroft leaned down and captured Lestrade’s mouth, kissing him with a ruthless abandon that sent Lestrade’s blood downward. “By all means, Inspector. Let’s make sure that you are comfortable.”
Lestrade reeled Mycroft in for another kiss, to prove that the Holmes brothers weren’t the only ones with good ideas. “You’re not going to call me ‘Inspector’ in bed, are you? Because I don’t do kinky until at least the third date.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Later, as Lestrade carded his fingers through the ginger head of hair resting on his shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, he realized that he still didn’t know where this train was going but he didn’t particularly care.
The End
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Date: 2014-02-25 09:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-02-25 11:39 am (UTC)