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Title: Icarus Clipped
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock & John/Sherlock/Maria(Mary)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Post-TRF, Sherlock came back for John before he finished destroying Moriarty's web. They are working on that together.
A/N: Written forimpulsereader's prompt: pockets. I promise that there are pockets in there and there is racy stuff, but it's almost half-way through! Not beta-ed and insufficiently whittled down. That takes me more than a day to accomplish, even with the best intentions. Apologies in advance.
Icarus Clipped
The surface of the water rippled where it had closed over his head. Fluid heat pressed against his eyelids, into his ears, sealing out the world, magnifying the sound of his heartbeat, providing a brief respite. His muscles relaxed further, even the ones in his face, especially the ones in his face which suppressed one emotion to mimic another, showing nothing he didn’t want shown. John held his breath. He wished the silent warmth, the soothing buoyancy could last longer, but he did need air. He tilted his head further back and emerged.
“Like that,” Sherlock said.
John wiped fragrant water from his face. “What?” he mumbled, considering going under again.
“Your hair slicked back like that. It’s a very different look for you,” Sherlock continued. John opened his eyes, ran his hand over the top of his head. “You need a new persona for Sao Paolo as the partner who manages the finances and security for our restoration business.” Light glinted off the blade of the straight razor with which Sherlock was gesturing. “You keep all those gems and priceless antiques safe.” Sherlock smiled and turned back to the basin. “And me, of course.”
Won’t have to pretend about the last bit. In the mirror, John watched the razor slide up to Sherlock’s jaw line. “What’s in Sao Paulo?” he asked, muscles already tightening.
“The Brazilian branch of Huysman’s company. He’s invited me to a reception his firm is hosting for the Biennial art exhibit and he’s offered me a tour of the extraction facility.” John noted the smooth curve of Sherlock’s back, not a trace of tension to be seen. “While we’re being wined and dined and shown about, we can gather information regarding the flow of funds to Moriarty’s core enterprises,” Sherlock added, rinsing lather off the steel.
“When?” The splash of the water echoed off the tile as John rose from the bath and reached for a towel.
The blade eased through the last of the soap on Sherlock’s face. He met John’s gaze in the glass as he lifted the edge away from his skin. “Flight’s tomorrow evening.” Sherlock turned his face, positioned the razor beneath his sideburn. “My roots need retouching.”
John’s eyes flicked to the fair curls covering Sherlock’s neck, downwards to the pyjama bottoms hanging low on Sherlock’s hips and back to Sherlock’s reflection. “It’s easier if I do it,” John said, raising a leg to the rim of the bath. Sherlock set the blade on the counter and nodded before his image disappeared from the mirror. He bent to rinse his face and John’s hand reached out, one finger hooking under the drawstring of the pyjamas. “I’m to appear a little more sinister than the slightly dodgy pharmaceutical exec of the past few months, I take it.” His knuckle slid along the smooth skin to one hip and back.
Sherlock pivoted, patting a hand towel over his face. John’s finger skimmed round Sherlock’s waist with the movement. “You get to let a bit more of your dangerous side show,” Sherlock replied, picking up the razor to dry it. He snapped the blade into the mother-of-pearl handle and smiled. John dipped another finger below the waistband and gripped the cloth. “A single man this time, with something of a roving eye for the ladies.” John’s fingers gripped harder. “We don’t want Huysman to think he doesn’t stand a chance with me before he’s shown us what we want to see.”
John’s other hand tugged on the end of the drawstring bow and the pyjama trousers gave way to gravity. “Will we need to tint those?” John asked with a quick look down.
Sherlock met John’s eyes as he looked back up. “I think mere hope will be sufficient for Mr Huysman,” Sherlock said and John nodded. He was familiar with its power, glad he didn’t have to live off it any more.
****
From the series of balcony doors which curved around one side of the large reception room, the skyline of Sao Paolo glittered like the gems Huysman sold. Genially circulating with Sherlock by his side, Huysman had introduced Sherlock to a dozen guests before he stopped near a potted palm. “So what has been your most challenging commission?” he asked, checking the door to make sure no one new had arrived. A waiter paused in his circuit to relieve Huysman of his empty champagne glass and supply a full one in its stead. Sherlock shook his head slightly over his half-empty glass when the waiter looked his way and the man moved quietly on.
Delicate patterns shimmered across the palm fronds. Huysman turned. “Crystal,” Sherlock murmured. Near an open balcony door across the room, John was arranging a beaded shawl over a woman’s bare shoulders. It hadn’t taken the play of light to draw Sherlock’s notice; he had been following the silent conversation between John and his diminutive companion from vantages around the room.
“It was a wedding waistcoat,” Sherlock replied to Huysman's interrupted question. He took a sip of his champagne, watched Huysman lean slightly forward to hear the rest. Feminine laughter filled a lull in the music, tinkling, delighted, offering. Sherlock flicked another look at John, brought his attention back to his conversation with the diamond merchant.
“I’ve made the travel arrangements for tomorrow afternoon,” Huysman said quietly. “Will your partner be joining us?” he asked, gesturing with his glass towards John. Sherlock glanced once more in John’s direction. “Your associate has a keen eye,” Huysman continued. “Maria Morstan is a highly successful jewellery designer and a shrewd businesswoman. Everyone wants to own a Melisande original. She can command any price.” Huysman smiled. “And she uses mostly diamonds.”
“Modern?” Sherlock asked, his lip curling slightly as he pronounced the word.
Huysman sighed in reply. “A good client though,” he said, turning back to Sherlock, his eyes lingering a moment on the jade intaglio ring on Sherlock’s small finger. Sherlock tapped it against the side of his champagne flute. The crystal rang. Huysman’s eyes rose to Sherlock’s face. “And the waistcoat?”
“White velvet, lightly tufted, a diamond securing the corner of each tuft, tiny, but with superlative fire. The buttons held larger diamonds.” The fingers of Sherlock’s free hand spread apart. “The groom had been a portly man…"
****
John watched Huysman’s eyes return to Sherlock. He reached for Maria’s half-full glass. “May I?” he said. His smile was suggestive as he tilted his empty flute back and forth.
Maria lifted her champagne glass to John’s lips and John drank, his fingers resting lightly over hers as he drained it.
“Will you still be here, if I go refill them?” John asked.
“We’ll have to see,” Maria smiled.
***
“Ah, Jay, there you are,” Sherlock said when John stopped next to him, two full champagne flutes in hand.
“Mr Huysman was just saying that we could join him for a tour of the site tomorrow. Do you think you’ll be free to accompany us?” Sherlock said with a slight tilt of his head towards the other side of the room.
John noted, out of the corner of his eye, Huysman cataloguing his attire, not missing the contemporary cut nor the worth of the platinum and carbonado cufflinks Sherlock had chosen for John to wear. “Business before pleasure, Johannes. Always,” John said. He turned to Huysman, his gaze steady for an instant before he nodded his farewell.
“Your partner has different tastes than you,” Huysman commented as John headed back towards Maria.
“I attend to the aesthetics; Jay handles the practicalities,” Sherlock said. “You can understand.”
Huysman took a long drink of champagne and moved a little closer.
****
John entered the sitting area of their suite from his bedroom barefoot and wearing only navy silk pyjama bottoms, his hair still damp. Sherlock’s eyes flashed over the top of his laptop for an instant before he resumed typing. “I may have underestimated your acting ability,” he said. His typing picked up speed.
“I learned from a master,” John replied, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder and peering at the computer balanced on Sherlock’s knees. He felt Sherlock’s muscles tighten.
“Oh, I think you were utilising skills you’d honed long before you met me,” Sherlock said, his index finger tapping rhythmically as he scrolled through his search results.
John ran his hands along Sherlock’s shoulders and partway down his arms. “You told me not to be obvious about my possessiveness,” John said.
“Well done,” Sherlock responded, finger tapping more rapidly.
“You can’t be scanning them that quickly.” John reached down and snatched the laptop away.
Sherlock swivelled, feet landing on the floor, arms stretching out towards the machine John was setting on a side table.
“Anyone going to die if you don’t keep typing?” John asked.
Sherlock’s brows drew together. “No,” he huffed and flung himself back around on the sofa, pulling his dressing gown about him.
“Fell for that once,” John said, moving to the front of the couch. “Pushed me right into Sarah’s arms.”
“Sofa,” Sherlock corrected.
“Arms and sofas are not mutually exclusive,” John observed.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “This Morstan person was practically eating out of your hand,” he grumbled.
“I may have fed her an hors d’oeurve or two,” John chuckled. “It’s quite an effective technique.” He stopped laughing. “Huysman looked like he was going to start gnawing on you any moment.”
One side of Sherlock’s lips quirked. “I’m not sure if that’s because I was speaking of precious stones or if he likes my voice,” Sherlock said.
“Or the shape of your mouth,” John suggested, leaning down, one arm on the back of the sofa. “It could have been the combination. Try it on me.” John saw Sherlock’s lips twitch as the idea took hold. Sherlock twisted around to lie on his back, stretched out his legs a bit, focussed somewhere past John’s shoulder.
“All right,” Sherlock said, as though accepting a dare. “By the globe in my grandfather’s study, there was a small silk carpet,” he began. “I considered it mine.”
John lifted Sherlock’s legs and sat down, arranging the feet across his lap. “Of course you did,” John said, picturing a young Sherlock kneeling on it as he spun the globe and traced the whirl of continents with an imperious finger. “Could it fly?” John asked.
Sherlock tapped his lips with an index finger, then reached back to arrange a cushion more comfortably behind his shoulders. “It was meant to be sat or lain upon, its pile dense and soft, its centre the colour of a summer sky.”
“In England or Brazil?” John interrupted.
Sherlock raised a finger for silence, his eyes dropping to the floor as though seeing the carpet before him. The tip of his finger began to move back and forth along his upper lip. John followed the motion, extended one arm along the back of the couch, curled a hand around one of Sherlock’s feet. “Its border was thick with flowering vines, each leaf veined with threads of gold or silver, the petals of each flower and bud fashioned from gemstones.”
John leaned sideways to touch Sherlock’s hair and knew how soft the carpet was. “Diamonds?” he asked and Sherlock looked up and John knew what shade of blue.
“A few,” Sherlock answered, pressing his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes, “and some rubies and sapphires, but mostly semiprecious stones, amethysts and garnets, opals and lapis lazuli and others from across the world. I could identify them all, and where they were mined, even the rare ones.” John, too, closed his eyes and let Sherlock’s sable voice move amidst the images of glittering foliage. “And there were butterflies and bees as bejewelled as the flowers upon which they fed, small and perfect.” Sherlock pushed his legs out over the arm of the sofa as his hand mimed their flight from flower to flower.
John opened his eyes as the foot slipped from his grasp and watched Sherlock’s fingers, imagining pale wings amidst the petals. Sliding closer beneath the raised legs, John closed his hand around Sherlock’s wrist. He pressed his lips to the pulse there, felt the thrum of the bees among the leaves.
“You know, that works,” John murmured, holding the hand to his chest and shifting to reach Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock stretched amidst the vines and didn’t say anything more.
*****
“What’s this?” Sherlock asked the next morning, pointing to the business card John had left on his laptop.
John looked out from the doorway and noted Sherlock’s location. “It’s Maria’s address. She’s invited us to dinner at her studio tomorrow evening. Assuming we make it back from the trip with Huysman alive,” John replied from inside the bedroom. “She wanted us to come tonight, but I said we were otherwise engaged.”
“I rather doubt she wants anyone but you to call, John,” Sherlock responded, his finger still raised accusingly at the cream-coloured trapazoid. “Very arty,” he grumbled, his nose wrinkling as though the card had been steeped in noxious fluids.
“Well, you’d be wrong, then,” John said, buttoning the cuffs of his light blue shirt. “She was quite taken with you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the way she said she would like to model your hands. Seems she does sculpture in precious metals as well as jewellery. Seems she quite admired your ‘proportions’.”
Sherlock had lowered his arm and narrowed his eyes at John as he listened. “You’re saying something that you’re not quite saying, John. What is it?”
John sat down and pulled on one of the black leather boots Sherlock had insisted they buy. Sherlock watched the soft leather move as John’s foot found its place in it. The heel was high. John stood and looked at Sherlock. The boots made John taller. “You really do like these boots on me, don’t you?” he said, taking a step closer.
“Don’t distract me,” Sherlock replied, stepping back. “What was said?”
John smiled. “You know how you see things as clear as the sun at midday that other people don’t see at all?” Sherlock tilted his head. “Well, with enough experience certain conversations can be like that. I heard what she was saying, although a transcript of our conversation wouldn’t have made it totally clear to someone reading it. It was more in the tone and the body language and the way her eyes moved over you.”
John walked towards the sofa and picked up his jacket. “Look, I know my dating history while you’ve known me might not lead you to believe I have any expertise in this area, but I assure you that the lady was inviting us both over to see her etchings and all that that entails.” John slipped on the jacket and looked around for his mobile. “Well, at least she wanted to give the impression that that was what she was doing.”
“On the contrary, John. I’ve always been aware that you are skilled in this area and that you exercise this skill with hardly any effort and often for no good reason,” Sherlock said. “It’s why I let you interview many of our female witnesses and if I lose sight of you for any length of time, some woman has usually propositioned you in the interim.”
“I meant what I said about having had enough experimentation of that nature in my life already, and I know that what Maria seems to be suggesting wouldn’t usually interest you, but with her being such a good client of Huysman’s establishment, I thought she might be a valuable source of information.” John patted his pockets and seemed satisfied that everything was in its place. “So I told her that I wasn’t sure you’d be available, but that I’d see what I could do. I let her think I was keen enough myself to try to talk you into joining us. She appeared pleased with that.”
“You gave her hope,” Sherlock said.
“I figured you’d want to at least consider talking to her privately,” John said.
“And you’re sure her interest is…of that nature,” Sherlock asked.
“Of course, it could be some sort of trap.” John slipped a long knife into his boot, which interestingly had a loop for it.
“Well, that would be all the more reason to accept her invitation and learn why,” Sherlock said, “but otherwise you’re sure…”
“Not one-hundred per cent, and I have to admit that I’ve never been straight out invited to a threesome before, they always just sort of happened spontaneously, as it were, but…” John adjusted his trouser leg over one boot and looked up at Sherlock. “What?”
“Happened spontaneously?” Sherlock repeated.
“Yeah, you know, crowded quarters, drinking, reduced inhibitions…”
Sherlock’s mobile beeped. Sherlock checked the screen. “Huysman’s downstairs.”
***
Huysman filled the short ride to his office by pointing out landmarks and extolling the cultural life of Sao Paulo. John murmured polite responses while Sherlock appeared to be reading his e-mail on his mobile. The helicopter journey from the office building to the private airport was spent in a similar fashion. John admired the view with sincerity and assumed Sherlock was committing it all to memory since he had put his phone away. He was dividing his time between watching the pilot and glancing out of the aircraft for several seconds each time Huysman pointed something out on the ground.
When the small plane landed on a tiny airstrip by a river, an all-terrain vehicle was waiting for them. Sherlock looked convincingly appalled by the muddy ground they had to traverse between the two and John kept up the polite sounds when pauses in Huysman’s conversation warranted them. John duly noted that the employees on the ground were armed.
****
“Sludge,” John muttered to himself as he followed Sherlock and Huysman around the facility that extracted the carbonado from the sediment of the sluggish river on which it sat. Fragments of Huysman and Sherlock’s conversation reached him over the hum of machinery and the sound of their footsteps on the cement floors and metal walkways. He caught the word “diamantiferous” and a whole sentence about the industrial uses of carbonado for drilling and grinding and later one about rising prices. It was all as far away from the darkly gleaming jewels with which he had become familiar as John could imagine, although when he heard the phrase “diamond sands”, he thought it would make a good title, if what they were doing now could ever be written about publicly. He shrugged and mumbled, “Someday,” to himself and strode faster to keep Sherlock in sight.
Tea with Teo da Costa, the manager of the facility, in his office, was marginally quieter. In the manner of a man with far more important things on his mind deigning to be civil, Sherlock asked Mr da Costa a few questions about the challenges of his job and in the manner of a man taking only a polite interest in the cautiously-phrased answers, actually took careful note of every word. John remarked on several photos of the manager at sea holding up fish nearly as large as he was and Mr da Costa answered much more effusively. Mr Huysman excused himself and while John peered at details of the photos Mr da Costa was expounding upon, Sherlock slipped a flash drive into and back out of da Costa’s computer and was standing by the office door looking impatient by the time Huysman returned from the lavatory. As farewells began Sherlock watched the payroll manager log off his computer, stepped into the main office and startled him by asking how many employees there were working at the plant. The man looked all the way up Sherlock’s well-tailored clothing to his authoritative expression and logged back in to get the precise answer. Sherlock watched his fingers and nodded curtly when the man looked up again with his reply. Sherlock turned around as John, Huysman and Teo emerged from his office and extended his hand.
Teo took it with a warmth that had not been evident over tea. “I would be delighted if you and Jay could join me for some deep sea fishing on Sunday. Jay tells me you, too, have a great love of the sea.”
Sherlock avoided catching John’s eye. “My interest tends to revolve around coral and pearls and the occasional sunken ship, but if our schedule permits, we would both be delighted to accept your gracious invitation.”
Teo released Sherlock’s hand and patted John on his back. “Jay has my card and Karl could bring you in the helo. He works all the time; he needs a day in the sun and sea spray.”
Da Costa smiled broadly at Huysman, who turned to look at Sherlock. John could see him picturing Sherlock in swimming trunks, although it was still a bit cool for that. “If Johannes and Jay are free, I am more than happy to put my resources at their disposal.”
“Not just your resources, Karl. We want your company,” Teo insisted and switched his gaze to John. “I hope I will hear from you,” he said and gave John’s back another pat.
The ride back to the airfield consisted mainly of jostling over dirt roads with Huysman pointing out geographical landmarks once more. It wasn’t until the flight back to Sao Paulo, that Huysman mentioned the Kogo Structure. Sherlock didn’t look up from the box of uncut carbonado through which he was sorting, but John noted the slight shift in the angle of his shoulders and asked for more details.
“The idea that the carbonado are from a large meteorite impact has gained some popular appeal recently,” Huysman said. “Cutting and polishing the stones for jewellery is still costly, but the extraterrestrial marketing angle has increased prices to the point where it’s become worthwhile to produce a regular supply of gems rather than only the rare curiosity.” The sound of Sherlock dropping another stone into his empty coffee cup interrupted Huysman’s train of thought as he turned to look. “How many did you say you needed again?”
John doubted Huysman had forgotten that Sherlock has said a dozen. “Twelve,” Sherlock replied, dropping another grey lump into his cup. “I’ve found eight that seem promising so far. How quickly can they be polished?”
For a few seconds, Huysman appeared mesmerised by Sherlock’s fingers sifting through the stones. “It depends on how much manpower I can devote to it.” Under lowered brows, Sherlock flicked a quick glance at Huysman. “Ms Morstan wants more than fifty,” he explained quickly. Sherlock didn’t raise his eyes again and Huysman turned back to John who lifted his eyebrows in interest. Huysman smiled at him. “She has a commission for a parure of white and black diamonds. The combination has become something of a vogue.”
Clouds were obscuring most of the moon when they walked across the small airfield to the waiting helicopter. By the time they landed atop Huysman’s office building a few drops of rain were falling and Huysman had persuaded Sherlock and John to attend the ballet with him two evenings hence. Addressing John, Huysman added, “I shall endeavour to have Ms Morstan join us.” John let himself smile just a little at that.
***
John closed the door and slid the chain bolt into place. Sherlock had already opened the closest laptop, his own as it happened, and was drumming his fingers on the table while it loaded.
“You got it?” John asked.
“We’ll see in a moment,” Sherlock replied. “Get yours started. I want to see what the paymaster’s password yields.”
John slipped his muddy shoes off and retrieved his laptop from the bedroom. He set the open computer down next to Sherlock and glanced at Sherlock’s screen to check the downloading progress. “You know about this Kogo Structure thing?” John asked, taking his jacket off and getting his mobile out of his pocket.
“I haven’t solved many crimes in the area,” Sherlock said. His computer chimed and he began clicking.
“Right. Irrelevant. Deleted.” John sat in front of his laptop, placing his phone next to it. “What shall I check?”
Sherlock leaned sideways, pushing John back against his chair and entered an address on John’s computer, hit enter, and shifted back to his own. A log-in prompt appeared on John’s laptop. “Password,” John said.
Sherlock leaned over again, fingers flashing over the keys before returning to his screen. The smell of his shampoo and his cologne lingered. Images of showering together flitted through John's mind as he watched the programme open. “What am I searching for?”
“The man told me they had 217 employees total, working in three shifts. See if there are more than that or if many are new. Look for bonuses or other payments that aren’t regular salary, overtime, advances, anything unusual. See if you have access to the accounts receivable and accounts payable as well. That may be on what I got. Maybe they keep double books,” Sherlock replied. “The carbonado may only be a source of wealth for the organisation or the facility may be a laundering point, too.”
“Wouldn’t a bank be better for that?” John asked, looking over the screen and finding the field with employee ID numbers in it. He scrolled to the lowest figure.
“Banking regulations might be more of a problem,” Sherlock replied.
John stood up. His spine crackled as he arched backwards. “I need food and tea, if I’m going to keep going. Want some?”
Sherlock hummed, without pausing in his scanning. John walked into the bedroom to call.
“Full dinner menu at two in the morning. That’s room service,” John murmured as he walked back through the sitting room to the bathroom. “I’m having a shower before they get here or I won’t be awake enough to eat.”
Light was edging past the draperies. An assortment of half-empty and empty plates and cups fanned out around the two computers. John was propping his head up on one hand and clicking slowly with the other when his hand stopped in mid-air. He drew in a breath. Sherlock looked to the side. “John?”
“Look,” John replied, nodding at the laptop screen. “Ybarra. Ferrucio Morstan de Ybarra.”
***
John stood by the half-open drapes and fastened his watch. The sun was already gone, the air between the buildings lavender. “How are we getting there?” he asked and twitched the drapes completely closed.
“I hired a car,” Sherlock called from the bathroom.
“You got the lay of the land from the helicopter ride yesterday?” John enquired. He typed “Kogo Structure” into his mobile.
“Yes and the car has a GPS,” Sherlock said, switching off the bathroom light and entering the sitting room.
“Never studied much geology,” John murmured as he read the entry about the theory of an asteroid collision up to a billion years ago.
“But this is the planet we live on, John. I’m shocked.”
“Let it go,” John said, glancing up from the screen. His eyes widened. Sherlock was lifting a long jacket off the arm of the sofa, his form outlined in black trousers and shirt and a plum-coloured silk waistcoat. The lining of the jacket flashed across John’s vision as Sherlock slipped his arms into it. It appeared to be the same fabric as the waistcoat. “This is what you’re wearing?”
“You said she liked my proportions. These accentuate them, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked, one side of his mouth quirking upwards.
John moved closer. “Is that velvet?” Sherlock held out an arm. John’s hand smoothed over the fabric. “She may ravish you as soon as you cross the threshold.”
“Would you let her, John?” Sherlock lowered his arm and pulled down his cuffs.
“That’s a good question. How are we going to play this?”
Sherlock took a pocket watch out of the jacket pocket and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. He began threading the gold chain through the buttonhole. John reached out to stroke down the side of the waistcoat. He let his hand settle at Sherlock’s hip, looked at its outline against the cloth. “I feel almost too clumsy to touch, afraid to cause disarray.”
“You are hardly clumsy. Precise touch is one of your areas,” Sherlock replied. His voice had gone low by the last word. John looked up into dark eyes and his grip tightened on Sherlock’s hip. “Could you do it, John, without rumpling anything on either of us?”
John’s eyes had shifted to Sherlock’s mouth as he spoke. He took a deep breath when Sherlock finished, gave a curt nod and released Sherlock’s hip. “Don’t move,” he said and slipped off his jacket, hung it on a chair and circled behind Sherlock. “Just the jacket,” he said, “or you’ll get too warm.” He lifted the lapels, eased the jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders, down his arms and hung it on another chair. Sherlock started to turn his head. “Don’t move,” John repeated, smoothing his palms down Sherlock’s back. “Not yet.” His hands parted, each curving around a hip. John stepped back. “They do accentuate your proportions,” he said softly. “As if any enhancement is needed.” His hands slid around to the front to the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. John rested his cheek against Sherlock’s back. “You can feel the effect you've had on me already, can’t you?”
“No rumpling,” Sherlock reminded, but his voice was breathy.
John smiled. “No rumpling,” he whispered, stepping around to the front. “The operation will be performed with surgical precision.” John stroked Sherlock’s cheek with a fingertip. “Wait,” he said and grabbed a footstool and stood on it. “There,” he said and tilted Sherlock’s chin up. “A different angle.” Sherlock smiled. “But no biting or we will give ourselves away,” John murmured and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock closed his eyes. John kissed those, too.
John had stepped down, Sherlock swayed. “Here,” John said and took his hand. “Lean against the table.” He pulled the chair with his jacket around in front of Sherlock and Sherlock steadied himself with a hand to either side on the table. “I won’t rumple a thing,” John reiterated and buttons were swiftly undone.
“Black silk,” John observed as he opened the final button keeping him from distended flesh. “Prepared for all scenarios, I see.” Sherlock only murmured and leaned further back against the table. John parted the silk with two fingers, curved them knowingly into the darkness, over the denuded skin of the abdomen. He took a deep breath and moved his fingers slowly up and down. “It’s a strange sensation,” John said.
“Solved the bleaching problem,” Sherlock replied. “You find it feminine.”
John extended the tip of his tongue through the small opening in the layers of fabric and Sherlock hummed. John chuckled. “Strong evidence to the contrary right there,” he said and looked up. Sherlock tilted his head forward and met John’s gaze. “I want you to keep this image in your mind this evening,” John said, drawing Sherlock’s erection carefully out. John lowered his eyes. “Keep watching. Just in case it gets to the point where you allow someone else to do this, I want you to see me,” John added, his breath warm and moist over the taut skin, “feel this.” John tilted his head, his lips still parted from speaking and leaned forward. He murmured when his lips touched and Sherlock drew in a breath, but didn’t close his eyes as John slowly pressed closer.
John held Sherlock steady, his fingers beneath the waistcoat, the heels of his palms pressed against the soft wool of Sherlock’s trousers. John breathed through his nose as he continued to swallow. Sherlock moaned softly. John looked up as he drew away. Sherlock was breathing through his mouth, eyes fixed on John. “Image imprinted?” John asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumb and index finger. Sherlock nodded. “Good,” John said and gently buttoned Sherlock away. Taking Sherlock’s hand, John placed a fervent kiss on the palm. “I wanted to use more than my mouth,” he said.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “So did I.”
****
The halogen lights in the corridor clicked off as Maria opened the door. The warmer illumination from her flat showed John’s smile clearly. Maria smiled back. “Fashionably late,” she observed and her voice was warmer than the light. He handed her a magnum of champagne wrapped in a silvery grey foil. “What are we celebrating?” she asked, cradling the bottle and tilting her cheek for John to kiss.
“We’ll have to see,” he said, echoing her coquetry at the reception. She moved back, unencumbered arm outstretched in a gesture of welcome. As John walked past her, Sherlock stepped into the cone of light from the doorway. John saw the easy sweep of Maria’s arm freeze for a moment.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. John turned his head to see her expression. Her artist’s eyes travelled down Sherlock all the way to his shoes and then back to his face again, before Maria turned to John. “You talked him into coming,” she said, the words shaped by a smile that went all the way to her eyes.
Sherlock stepped over the threshold. “Jay can be very persuasive when he wishes to be, Ms Morstan. Silver-tongued, some say.” Her gaze came back to Sherlock and she held up her elegantly-manicured hand to him. Sherlock lifted it higher with a gloved finger, bowing slightly to breathe a soft greeting in Portuguese over the back of her hand, flicking his eyes across the healed scars that sharp edges and molten metal had inflicted.
John didn’t know if Sherlock had uttered his sole store in the language or if he spoke it fluently, but his voice gave the words a texture that John could almost feel against his skin. He suspected that Maria felt it, too. John watched her watching Sherlock’s mouth, waiting for the touch that never came. Sherlock straightened slowly. “It was kind of you to invite us both,” he said and Maria’s gaze followed the full lips upwards.
“Oh,” she said and there was a hint of laughter bubbling up beneath the sound. “Oh, you are a performance artist.” Sherlock smiled and John wasn’t sure if it was part of his performance or whether Sherlock was genuinely pleased by the delight in her voice. Maria’s hand closed over his and drew him into the flat towards John. Sherlock gave the door a gentle shove with his foot as he passed and his smile grew wider.
John looked over Maria’s head and saw it. “He is something of magician, yes.”
***
“That’s interesting,” Sherlock said when they rounded the ell of the sitting room, champagne glasses in hand. He headed straight for the corner where the metal object stood, casting flickering shadows over the bare walls behind it. “Yours?” he asked, studying the sculpture from as many angles as its position permitted.
Maria clicked off the ceiling light, took John’s arm and brought him with her. “Yes,” she replied, pride clear in her voice. “I’ll be exhibiting it at the Biennial next week,” she said. “If you will be staying that long, I’d be honoured if you would attend as my guests.”
Sherlock nodded, his hand hovering over one of the three candles held by the piece. “Most people are surprised by how much heat one candle can produce,” he murmured. He tapped the strut supporting the candle. “Steel,” he said, leaning closer to examine the thinner piece of metal slowly rotating in the candle’s heat.
“Silver leaf,” Maria answered before Sherlock asked, “over a hollow aluminium wire frame.”
“The shadows look like wings,” John remarked. Maria turned to him, her smile brighter, the candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. “What do you call it?”
“Icarus Clipped.”
“When the candles burn low, the wings slide down the central wire and smother the last of the flame,” Sherlock said. “Titanium?”
“Yes,” Maria answered. She tightened her hold on John’s arm and pulled him with her, closer to Sherlock.
“The problem isn’t a heat source above, but the dwindling power source below. An ecological statement,” Sherlock said, tapping one of several grey and black stones embedded in an apparently random pattern across the steel. He rose on tiptoe to check the stalactite-like ornamentation at the top, then knelt to check the stalagmite-like design at the bottom. “Carbonado, gem grade at the top, industrial grade at the bottom,” he said. “I can’t tell in this light, possibly varying in grade as they rise or descend. Am I right?” He turned to Maria and she clenched John’s arm and nodded.
John knew the feeling. She had found the outside alluring, now she had had a glimpse of what was inside.
“The other stones are…” she began.
Sherlock held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, scraping a fingernail over one. “Pumice.” Maria nodded. Sherlock leaned to the side. “Obsidian…diamond, normal crystal lattice…” He ran his fingertips over two more stones. “Ammonoid and fern fossils.” He paused.
Maria inhaled. John squeezed her arm slightly. She glanced at him and he shook his head.
“Meteorite fragments,” Sherlock concluded, turning to them both. “Different types?”
John lessened the pressure on Maria’s arm. Maria nodded. “Asteroid, lunar and Martian.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “At what price is it listed or is it already reserved?”
“I don’t wish to sell it,” Maria explained.
“I see,” Sherlock said, turning again to the sculpture. “Why three candles?”
John felt Maria’s arm tense. “I like the number,” she replied.
“Why?” Sherlock persisted.
“It’s a strong one. I’ve always liked it.”
“A Christian reference?” Sherlock asked.
Maria shook her head. “No. It’s personal. Threes…and nines…I like them.”
Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Maria, then John. “I see,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t usually like modern designs, but this is interesting.”
***
The sound of reed flutes died away.
“I’ll choose the music,” Sherlock said into the silence, setting down his wine glass on the wooden arm of the sofa. “Where is your system?” He had concluded it would be near the kitchen since it was probably a centralised control for heating and cooling, security and other functions, but he waited for Maria to reply. She appeared to be half asleep against John’s side, her head resting on John’s arm, but as they had been all evening while the three of them ate and discussed art and music, economics and geology, her eyes were on Sherlock and followed him when he stood. John looked up, too, and raised an eyebrow. “No need to get up. Just point me in the right direction,” Sherlock said.
Maria leaned forward slowly, leaving the crook of John’s arm with apparent reluctance. “No, no,” she said, “it’s complicated. I’ll show you.” Sherlock saw John smile when no sharp retort was forthcoming.
From the large ottoman they had all been sharing, Maria dropped her stockinged feet to the floor. John rose and extended a hand. She took it and smiled into his eyes. “Shall I open another bottle of wine?” he asked, indicated one of two still unopened on a side table.
“That would be nice, yes,” she replied and looked around for Sherlock and smiled even more when she saw him waiting. “Come with me,” she said and led the way.
The panel Maria opened in the utility room off the kitchen was more complicated than Sherlock would have expected for even an extremely modern and well-secured home, but, of course, there were precious materials and art worth millions of pounds in the adjoining studio as well. The controls for everything computerised were in one place as he had anticipated. Acting slightly affronted by so much technology, Sherlock allowed Maria to explain how to access her music files and to adjust the sound balance, if he wished. “An extensive collection,” he murmured as he scrolled through, more slowly than necessary. Maria leaned in under his arm. She was shorter than John and fit there easily, warm against his chest and fragrant with something sweet, but not overpowering. It reminded him somewhat of honey. He selected several instrumental pieces and continued to scroll.
Maria looked up when he chose The Rite of Spring. “Now I would have thought that too modern for your tastes,” she said. “See how you surprise me?” Sherlock looked down and felt her rising on her toes.
John appeared at her side, his arm curving between her waist and Sherlock’s thigh and Maria laughed. “See how you both surprise me?” she said, leaning back against John. “Jay, if you hadn’t come just now, I think I was going to kiss him.” She turned her head against John’s shoulder to look up at him. “Do you think he would have let me?”
“That’s a mystery we might not be able to solve in one evening,” John said. “Did I tell you that he likes to be mysterious?” Maria shook her head and laughed.
It was that tinkling, offering laugh again, Sherlock noted, but he did not turn away. It was apparently less annoying when one was included in the offer.
“But if you would like to kiss me, I’ll let you,” John continued. “Would you?”
Maria tilted her head back and looked up at John. “If you like,” she said and slipped her arm half-way around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him against her. Sherlock found the pressure surprisingly pleasant. He'd had strategies planned to reach arousal should it be required of him during the evening, but it seemed they would not be necessary. He noticed the honey-coloured flecks in Maria’s brown eyes before she closed them and hints of red and gold in her dark hair as it clung to the fabric of their jackets, but most of all he noticed how her lips opened against John’s and how John’s arm reached around his back to steady him when all the data made him dizzy.
The New World Symphony was playing for the second time when Maria asked again for a kiss. She was naked between him and John on the large semi-circular sofa, her skin shining with the approach of her third orgasm and her fingers tucked into the pocket of Sherlock's waistcoat to keep him close. Her head was resting on one of John’s bare arms, his face hidden by her hair as he nuzzled at the curve of her neck from behind. The light in the room was low, but a streak of brighter illumination from the kitchen caught the thin chain of diamonds at her throat as John moved, very slowly against her.
“Jay,” she whispered. Sherlock looked up from the glimmer of the gems to her face. None of them had spoken for a long time. The word sounded out of place amidst the music and the laboured breathing. John’s reply was muffled against her skin. Sherlock didn’t think it had been a word. “I wish he would kiss me now,” she said and gasped as John moved the hand splayed low on her abdomen. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the broad fingers of the hand. John’s hand. He wished to kiss it and make John come with the press of his lips.
John raised his head from Maria’s shoulder and looked at Sherlock. He saw his flushed face. John followed Sherlock’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow as he moved the hand up to Maria’s breast. Sherlock’s eyes followed and he nodded infinitesimally before leaning down to cover two of John’s spread fingers and the nipple caught between them with his parted lips. When Sherlock stroked all three with the tip of his tongue, Maria’s free hand clutched at his hair and John groaned. Sherlock’s arm darted out to clasp John’s hips and a climax rippled through all three of them.
***
John had kissed Maria good-night on the sofa, draped her pashmina over her and brushed the damp hair back from her forehead. As these things went, he didn’t think he had disappointed her. He had no idea what Sherlock felt about the matter, but John suspected it was other than what he had expected.
The swoosh of the windscreen wipers had been the only sound as they drove to the hotel. They hadn’t spoken as they entered their suite and locked the door behind them. As the member of the pair who had not kept his trousers on, John was grateful that he’d maintained enough rationality to be certain that the activities of the evening could not result in any conceptions. He pulled his damp vest from his jacket pocket, stared at it for a bit and decided he was washing it out in the bathroom basin himself.
When he looked up, the furniture on the way to the bathroom was already littered with articles of Sherlock’s clothing. John followed and stood for a moment in the doorway.
“Art,” Sherlock said from the shower.
“What?” John said.
“The revenue. It’s not just being transferred through bank accounts or gems, set, cut or uncut. No, art is definitely another channel and one I had not thought of before. One piece can be worth millions and better yet, one unknown artist’s piece that has no reliable estimated value could be purchased as a reasonable speculation and who could challenge it? In fifty years time, it might prove the most brilliant investment of the century. I should have thought of it.”
John stepped closer to the bath. “Wait. You’re fine? After…” John waved his hand towards the door to the sitting room, “…and you’re admitting you didn’t think of something…and you’re still fine?”
Sherlock stuck his head out from behind the glass doors. “Get your clothes off, John. We’ve got a lot of research to do before meeting up with Huysman at the ballet and a shower will help clear your head.”
John dropped his vest in the basin, filled it and began shedding garments. “So going over to Maria’s, together, was a good idea.”
“Definitely. One of your best ones.” Sherlock’s head popped out of the shower again. “Will you get in here, John.” John stepped under the water and slid the glass door shut. “I did think I would be jealous, if matters became physical, but I felt quite differently about it. I rather like Maria and she clearly likes both of us. It’s not impossible that she was acting, but I was watching her very carefully, and I don’t think she was.” Sherlock squirted some shampoo onto John’s head and started lathering. “You will have to do something at the ballet, so that she only flirts with you though.”
“Are you washing my hair, Sherlock?” John asked, knowing he was stating the obvious.
“She’s rather pretty and she smells nice, but I don’t want you smelling like her, John. So do you think you can keep her occupied this evening?” Sherlock pushed John’s head directly under the spray to rinse, massaging the shampoo away.
“You have never liked a woman I’ve been intimate with. The closest you’ve come is tolerating Sarah. Sort of.” Sherlock spun John around and began soaping his back.
“We’ll pick Maria up tonight and take her home so that I have an excuse not to accept any invitations from Huysman,” Sherlock said. “That will work out well, I think. He’ll still have the fishing excursion to look forward to the following day, so he hopefully won’t be too insistent or suspicious.” Sherlock knelt down and began soaping between John’s legs. “How likely would he be to suspect that the three of us…” Sherlock turned John around and washed from his feet upwards.
“Not very likely. That’s more or less fantasy stuff,” John replied.
“Wouldn’t that be one man with two women? Or two other men, depending on their preferences.” Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked up at John. The water plastered Sherlock’s hair to his skull and ran down his face in an alarming facsimile of tears. “A man and woman would be about perfect for you, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re about perfect for me,” John said and tugged Sherlock’s arm to make him stand. “You know I’m going to need some sleep, if I’m to be any use to you tomorrow.”
Sherlock looked down at John, hands still smoothing back and forth along his shoulders. “I wanted to touch you while we were there, but I couldn’t without giving our ruse away.” John nodded. “It was interesting seeing you from an outside perspective, seeing someone else respond to you as I do, but…” Sherlock’s thumbs pressed into John’s back muscles, “…before I can concentrate on the research, I need to be inside you.” John’s eyes widened. “The desire is really quite insistent and will take too much effort to suppress.”
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock & John/Sherlock/Maria(Mary)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Post-TRF, Sherlock came back for John before he finished destroying Moriarty's web. They are working on that together.
A/N: Written for
impulsereader's prompt: pockets. I promise that there are pockets in there and there is racy stuff, but it's almost half-way through! Not beta-ed and insufficiently whittled down. That takes me more than a day to accomplish, even with the best intentions. Apologies in advance.The surface of the water rippled where it had closed over his head. Fluid heat pressed against his eyelids, into his ears, sealing out the world, magnifying the sound of his heartbeat, providing a brief respite. His muscles relaxed further, even the ones in his face, especially the ones in his face which suppressed one emotion to mimic another, showing nothing he didn’t want shown. John held his breath. He wished the silent warmth, the soothing buoyancy could last longer, but he did need air. He tilted his head further back and emerged.
“Like that,” Sherlock said.
John wiped fragrant water from his face. “What?” he mumbled, considering going under again.
“Your hair slicked back like that. It’s a very different look for you,” Sherlock continued. John opened his eyes, ran his hand over the top of his head. “You need a new persona for Sao Paolo as the partner who manages the finances and security for our restoration business.” Light glinted off the blade of the straight razor with which Sherlock was gesturing. “You keep all those gems and priceless antiques safe.” Sherlock smiled and turned back to the basin. “And me, of course.”
Won’t have to pretend about the last bit. In the mirror, John watched the razor slide up to Sherlock’s jaw line. “What’s in Sao Paulo?” he asked, muscles already tightening.
“The Brazilian branch of Huysman’s company. He’s invited me to a reception his firm is hosting for the Biennial art exhibit and he’s offered me a tour of the extraction facility.” John noted the smooth curve of Sherlock’s back, not a trace of tension to be seen. “While we’re being wined and dined and shown about, we can gather information regarding the flow of funds to Moriarty’s core enterprises,” Sherlock added, rinsing lather off the steel.
“When?” The splash of the water echoed off the tile as John rose from the bath and reached for a towel.
The blade eased through the last of the soap on Sherlock’s face. He met John’s gaze in the glass as he lifted the edge away from his skin. “Flight’s tomorrow evening.” Sherlock turned his face, positioned the razor beneath his sideburn. “My roots need retouching.”
John’s eyes flicked to the fair curls covering Sherlock’s neck, downwards to the pyjama bottoms hanging low on Sherlock’s hips and back to Sherlock’s reflection. “It’s easier if I do it,” John said, raising a leg to the rim of the bath. Sherlock set the blade on the counter and nodded before his image disappeared from the mirror. He bent to rinse his face and John’s hand reached out, one finger hooking under the drawstring of the pyjamas. “I’m to appear a little more sinister than the slightly dodgy pharmaceutical exec of the past few months, I take it.” His knuckle slid along the smooth skin to one hip and back.
Sherlock pivoted, patting a hand towel over his face. John’s finger skimmed round Sherlock’s waist with the movement. “You get to let a bit more of your dangerous side show,” Sherlock replied, picking up the razor to dry it. He snapped the blade into the mother-of-pearl handle and smiled. John dipped another finger below the waistband and gripped the cloth. “A single man this time, with something of a roving eye for the ladies.” John’s fingers gripped harder. “We don’t want Huysman to think he doesn’t stand a chance with me before he’s shown us what we want to see.”
John’s other hand tugged on the end of the drawstring bow and the pyjama trousers gave way to gravity. “Will we need to tint those?” John asked with a quick look down.
Sherlock met John’s eyes as he looked back up. “I think mere hope will be sufficient for Mr Huysman,” Sherlock said and John nodded. He was familiar with its power, glad he didn’t have to live off it any more.
****
From the series of balcony doors which curved around one side of the large reception room, the skyline of Sao Paolo glittered like the gems Huysman sold. Genially circulating with Sherlock by his side, Huysman had introduced Sherlock to a dozen guests before he stopped near a potted palm. “So what has been your most challenging commission?” he asked, checking the door to make sure no one new had arrived. A waiter paused in his circuit to relieve Huysman of his empty champagne glass and supply a full one in its stead. Sherlock shook his head slightly over his half-empty glass when the waiter looked his way and the man moved quietly on.
Delicate patterns shimmered across the palm fronds. Huysman turned. “Crystal,” Sherlock murmured. Near an open balcony door across the room, John was arranging a beaded shawl over a woman’s bare shoulders. It hadn’t taken the play of light to draw Sherlock’s notice; he had been following the silent conversation between John and his diminutive companion from vantages around the room.
“It was a wedding waistcoat,” Sherlock replied to Huysman's interrupted question. He took a sip of his champagne, watched Huysman lean slightly forward to hear the rest. Feminine laughter filled a lull in the music, tinkling, delighted, offering. Sherlock flicked another look at John, brought his attention back to his conversation with the diamond merchant.
“I’ve made the travel arrangements for tomorrow afternoon,” Huysman said quietly. “Will your partner be joining us?” he asked, gesturing with his glass towards John. Sherlock glanced once more in John’s direction. “Your associate has a keen eye,” Huysman continued. “Maria Morstan is a highly successful jewellery designer and a shrewd businesswoman. Everyone wants to own a Melisande original. She can command any price.” Huysman smiled. “And she uses mostly diamonds.”
“Modern?” Sherlock asked, his lip curling slightly as he pronounced the word.
Huysman sighed in reply. “A good client though,” he said, turning back to Sherlock, his eyes lingering a moment on the jade intaglio ring on Sherlock’s small finger. Sherlock tapped it against the side of his champagne flute. The crystal rang. Huysman’s eyes rose to Sherlock’s face. “And the waistcoat?”
“White velvet, lightly tufted, a diamond securing the corner of each tuft, tiny, but with superlative fire. The buttons held larger diamonds.” The fingers of Sherlock’s free hand spread apart. “The groom had been a portly man…"
****
John watched Huysman’s eyes return to Sherlock. He reached for Maria’s half-full glass. “May I?” he said. His smile was suggestive as he tilted his empty flute back and forth.
Maria lifted her champagne glass to John’s lips and John drank, his fingers resting lightly over hers as he drained it.
“Will you still be here, if I go refill them?” John asked.
“We’ll have to see,” Maria smiled.
***
“Ah, Jay, there you are,” Sherlock said when John stopped next to him, two full champagne flutes in hand.
“Mr Huysman was just saying that we could join him for a tour of the site tomorrow. Do you think you’ll be free to accompany us?” Sherlock said with a slight tilt of his head towards the other side of the room.
John noted, out of the corner of his eye, Huysman cataloguing his attire, not missing the contemporary cut nor the worth of the platinum and carbonado cufflinks Sherlock had chosen for John to wear. “Business before pleasure, Johannes. Always,” John said. He turned to Huysman, his gaze steady for an instant before he nodded his farewell.
“Your partner has different tastes than you,” Huysman commented as John headed back towards Maria.
“I attend to the aesthetics; Jay handles the practicalities,” Sherlock said. “You can understand.”
Huysman took a long drink of champagne and moved a little closer.
****
John entered the sitting area of their suite from his bedroom barefoot and wearing only navy silk pyjama bottoms, his hair still damp. Sherlock’s eyes flashed over the top of his laptop for an instant before he resumed typing. “I may have underestimated your acting ability,” he said. His typing picked up speed.
“I learned from a master,” John replied, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder and peering at the computer balanced on Sherlock’s knees. He felt Sherlock’s muscles tighten.
“Oh, I think you were utilising skills you’d honed long before you met me,” Sherlock said, his index finger tapping rhythmically as he scrolled through his search results.
John ran his hands along Sherlock’s shoulders and partway down his arms. “You told me not to be obvious about my possessiveness,” John said.
“Well done,” Sherlock responded, finger tapping more rapidly.
“You can’t be scanning them that quickly.” John reached down and snatched the laptop away.
Sherlock swivelled, feet landing on the floor, arms stretching out towards the machine John was setting on a side table.
“Anyone going to die if you don’t keep typing?” John asked.
Sherlock’s brows drew together. “No,” he huffed and flung himself back around on the sofa, pulling his dressing gown about him.
“Fell for that once,” John said, moving to the front of the couch. “Pushed me right into Sarah’s arms.”
“Sofa,” Sherlock corrected.
“Arms and sofas are not mutually exclusive,” John observed.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “This Morstan person was practically eating out of your hand,” he grumbled.
“I may have fed her an hors d’oeurve or two,” John chuckled. “It’s quite an effective technique.” He stopped laughing. “Huysman looked like he was going to start gnawing on you any moment.”
One side of Sherlock’s lips quirked. “I’m not sure if that’s because I was speaking of precious stones or if he likes my voice,” Sherlock said.
“Or the shape of your mouth,” John suggested, leaning down, one arm on the back of the sofa. “It could have been the combination. Try it on me.” John saw Sherlock’s lips twitch as the idea took hold. Sherlock twisted around to lie on his back, stretched out his legs a bit, focussed somewhere past John’s shoulder.
“All right,” Sherlock said, as though accepting a dare. “By the globe in my grandfather’s study, there was a small silk carpet,” he began. “I considered it mine.”
John lifted Sherlock’s legs and sat down, arranging the feet across his lap. “Of course you did,” John said, picturing a young Sherlock kneeling on it as he spun the globe and traced the whirl of continents with an imperious finger. “Could it fly?” John asked.
Sherlock tapped his lips with an index finger, then reached back to arrange a cushion more comfortably behind his shoulders. “It was meant to be sat or lain upon, its pile dense and soft, its centre the colour of a summer sky.”
“In England or Brazil?” John interrupted.
Sherlock raised a finger for silence, his eyes dropping to the floor as though seeing the carpet before him. The tip of his finger began to move back and forth along his upper lip. John followed the motion, extended one arm along the back of the couch, curled a hand around one of Sherlock’s feet. “Its border was thick with flowering vines, each leaf veined with threads of gold or silver, the petals of each flower and bud fashioned from gemstones.”
John leaned sideways to touch Sherlock’s hair and knew how soft the carpet was. “Diamonds?” he asked and Sherlock looked up and John knew what shade of blue.
“A few,” Sherlock answered, pressing his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes, “and some rubies and sapphires, but mostly semiprecious stones, amethysts and garnets, opals and lapis lazuli and others from across the world. I could identify them all, and where they were mined, even the rare ones.” John, too, closed his eyes and let Sherlock’s sable voice move amidst the images of glittering foliage. “And there were butterflies and bees as bejewelled as the flowers upon which they fed, small and perfect.” Sherlock pushed his legs out over the arm of the sofa as his hand mimed their flight from flower to flower.
John opened his eyes as the foot slipped from his grasp and watched Sherlock’s fingers, imagining pale wings amidst the petals. Sliding closer beneath the raised legs, John closed his hand around Sherlock’s wrist. He pressed his lips to the pulse there, felt the thrum of the bees among the leaves.
“You know, that works,” John murmured, holding the hand to his chest and shifting to reach Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock stretched amidst the vines and didn’t say anything more.
*****
“What’s this?” Sherlock asked the next morning, pointing to the business card John had left on his laptop.
John looked out from the doorway and noted Sherlock’s location. “It’s Maria’s address. She’s invited us to dinner at her studio tomorrow evening. Assuming we make it back from the trip with Huysman alive,” John replied from inside the bedroom. “She wanted us to come tonight, but I said we were otherwise engaged.”
“I rather doubt she wants anyone but you to call, John,” Sherlock responded, his finger still raised accusingly at the cream-coloured trapazoid. “Very arty,” he grumbled, his nose wrinkling as though the card had been steeped in noxious fluids.
“Well, you’d be wrong, then,” John said, buttoning the cuffs of his light blue shirt. “She was quite taken with you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the way she said she would like to model your hands. Seems she does sculpture in precious metals as well as jewellery. Seems she quite admired your ‘proportions’.”
Sherlock had lowered his arm and narrowed his eyes at John as he listened. “You’re saying something that you’re not quite saying, John. What is it?”
John sat down and pulled on one of the black leather boots Sherlock had insisted they buy. Sherlock watched the soft leather move as John’s foot found its place in it. The heel was high. John stood and looked at Sherlock. The boots made John taller. “You really do like these boots on me, don’t you?” he said, taking a step closer.
“Don’t distract me,” Sherlock replied, stepping back. “What was said?”
John smiled. “You know how you see things as clear as the sun at midday that other people don’t see at all?” Sherlock tilted his head. “Well, with enough experience certain conversations can be like that. I heard what she was saying, although a transcript of our conversation wouldn’t have made it totally clear to someone reading it. It was more in the tone and the body language and the way her eyes moved over you.”
John walked towards the sofa and picked up his jacket. “Look, I know my dating history while you’ve known me might not lead you to believe I have any expertise in this area, but I assure you that the lady was inviting us both over to see her etchings and all that that entails.” John slipped on the jacket and looked around for his mobile. “Well, at least she wanted to give the impression that that was what she was doing.”
“On the contrary, John. I’ve always been aware that you are skilled in this area and that you exercise this skill with hardly any effort and often for no good reason,” Sherlock said. “It’s why I let you interview many of our female witnesses and if I lose sight of you for any length of time, some woman has usually propositioned you in the interim.”
“I meant what I said about having had enough experimentation of that nature in my life already, and I know that what Maria seems to be suggesting wouldn’t usually interest you, but with her being such a good client of Huysman’s establishment, I thought she might be a valuable source of information.” John patted his pockets and seemed satisfied that everything was in its place. “So I told her that I wasn’t sure you’d be available, but that I’d see what I could do. I let her think I was keen enough myself to try to talk you into joining us. She appeared pleased with that.”
“You gave her hope,” Sherlock said.
“I figured you’d want to at least consider talking to her privately,” John said.
“And you’re sure her interest is…of that nature,” Sherlock asked.
“Of course, it could be some sort of trap.” John slipped a long knife into his boot, which interestingly had a loop for it.
“Well, that would be all the more reason to accept her invitation and learn why,” Sherlock said, “but otherwise you’re sure…”
“Not one-hundred per cent, and I have to admit that I’ve never been straight out invited to a threesome before, they always just sort of happened spontaneously, as it were, but…” John adjusted his trouser leg over one boot and looked up at Sherlock. “What?”
“Happened spontaneously?” Sherlock repeated.
“Yeah, you know, crowded quarters, drinking, reduced inhibitions…”
Sherlock’s mobile beeped. Sherlock checked the screen. “Huysman’s downstairs.”
***
Huysman filled the short ride to his office by pointing out landmarks and extolling the cultural life of Sao Paulo. John murmured polite responses while Sherlock appeared to be reading his e-mail on his mobile. The helicopter journey from the office building to the private airport was spent in a similar fashion. John admired the view with sincerity and assumed Sherlock was committing it all to memory since he had put his phone away. He was dividing his time between watching the pilot and glancing out of the aircraft for several seconds each time Huysman pointed something out on the ground.
When the small plane landed on a tiny airstrip by a river, an all-terrain vehicle was waiting for them. Sherlock looked convincingly appalled by the muddy ground they had to traverse between the two and John kept up the polite sounds when pauses in Huysman’s conversation warranted them. John duly noted that the employees on the ground were armed.
****
“Sludge,” John muttered to himself as he followed Sherlock and Huysman around the facility that extracted the carbonado from the sediment of the sluggish river on which it sat. Fragments of Huysman and Sherlock’s conversation reached him over the hum of machinery and the sound of their footsteps on the cement floors and metal walkways. He caught the word “diamantiferous” and a whole sentence about the industrial uses of carbonado for drilling and grinding and later one about rising prices. It was all as far away from the darkly gleaming jewels with which he had become familiar as John could imagine, although when he heard the phrase “diamond sands”, he thought it would make a good title, if what they were doing now could ever be written about publicly. He shrugged and mumbled, “Someday,” to himself and strode faster to keep Sherlock in sight.
Tea with Teo da Costa, the manager of the facility, in his office, was marginally quieter. In the manner of a man with far more important things on his mind deigning to be civil, Sherlock asked Mr da Costa a few questions about the challenges of his job and in the manner of a man taking only a polite interest in the cautiously-phrased answers, actually took careful note of every word. John remarked on several photos of the manager at sea holding up fish nearly as large as he was and Mr da Costa answered much more effusively. Mr Huysman excused himself and while John peered at details of the photos Mr da Costa was expounding upon, Sherlock slipped a flash drive into and back out of da Costa’s computer and was standing by the office door looking impatient by the time Huysman returned from the lavatory. As farewells began Sherlock watched the payroll manager log off his computer, stepped into the main office and startled him by asking how many employees there were working at the plant. The man looked all the way up Sherlock’s well-tailored clothing to his authoritative expression and logged back in to get the precise answer. Sherlock watched his fingers and nodded curtly when the man looked up again with his reply. Sherlock turned around as John, Huysman and Teo emerged from his office and extended his hand.
Teo took it with a warmth that had not been evident over tea. “I would be delighted if you and Jay could join me for some deep sea fishing on Sunday. Jay tells me you, too, have a great love of the sea.”
Sherlock avoided catching John’s eye. “My interest tends to revolve around coral and pearls and the occasional sunken ship, but if our schedule permits, we would both be delighted to accept your gracious invitation.”
Teo released Sherlock’s hand and patted John on his back. “Jay has my card and Karl could bring you in the helo. He works all the time; he needs a day in the sun and sea spray.”
Da Costa smiled broadly at Huysman, who turned to look at Sherlock. John could see him picturing Sherlock in swimming trunks, although it was still a bit cool for that. “If Johannes and Jay are free, I am more than happy to put my resources at their disposal.”
“Not just your resources, Karl. We want your company,” Teo insisted and switched his gaze to John. “I hope I will hear from you,” he said and gave John’s back another pat.
The ride back to the airfield consisted mainly of jostling over dirt roads with Huysman pointing out geographical landmarks once more. It wasn’t until the flight back to Sao Paulo, that Huysman mentioned the Kogo Structure. Sherlock didn’t look up from the box of uncut carbonado through which he was sorting, but John noted the slight shift in the angle of his shoulders and asked for more details.
“The idea that the carbonado are from a large meteorite impact has gained some popular appeal recently,” Huysman said. “Cutting and polishing the stones for jewellery is still costly, but the extraterrestrial marketing angle has increased prices to the point where it’s become worthwhile to produce a regular supply of gems rather than only the rare curiosity.” The sound of Sherlock dropping another stone into his empty coffee cup interrupted Huysman’s train of thought as he turned to look. “How many did you say you needed again?”
John doubted Huysman had forgotten that Sherlock has said a dozen. “Twelve,” Sherlock replied, dropping another grey lump into his cup. “I’ve found eight that seem promising so far. How quickly can they be polished?”
For a few seconds, Huysman appeared mesmerised by Sherlock’s fingers sifting through the stones. “It depends on how much manpower I can devote to it.” Under lowered brows, Sherlock flicked a quick glance at Huysman. “Ms Morstan wants more than fifty,” he explained quickly. Sherlock didn’t raise his eyes again and Huysman turned back to John who lifted his eyebrows in interest. Huysman smiled at him. “She has a commission for a parure of white and black diamonds. The combination has become something of a vogue.”
Clouds were obscuring most of the moon when they walked across the small airfield to the waiting helicopter. By the time they landed atop Huysman’s office building a few drops of rain were falling and Huysman had persuaded Sherlock and John to attend the ballet with him two evenings hence. Addressing John, Huysman added, “I shall endeavour to have Ms Morstan join us.” John let himself smile just a little at that.
***
John closed the door and slid the chain bolt into place. Sherlock had already opened the closest laptop, his own as it happened, and was drumming his fingers on the table while it loaded.
“You got it?” John asked.
“We’ll see in a moment,” Sherlock replied. “Get yours started. I want to see what the paymaster’s password yields.”
John slipped his muddy shoes off and retrieved his laptop from the bedroom. He set the open computer down next to Sherlock and glanced at Sherlock’s screen to check the downloading progress. “You know about this Kogo Structure thing?” John asked, taking his jacket off and getting his mobile out of his pocket.
“I haven’t solved many crimes in the area,” Sherlock said. His computer chimed and he began clicking.
“Right. Irrelevant. Deleted.” John sat in front of his laptop, placing his phone next to it. “What shall I check?”
Sherlock leaned sideways, pushing John back against his chair and entered an address on John’s computer, hit enter, and shifted back to his own. A log-in prompt appeared on John’s laptop. “Password,” John said.
Sherlock leaned over again, fingers flashing over the keys before returning to his screen. The smell of his shampoo and his cologne lingered. Images of showering together flitted through John's mind as he watched the programme open. “What am I searching for?”
“The man told me they had 217 employees total, working in three shifts. See if there are more than that or if many are new. Look for bonuses or other payments that aren’t regular salary, overtime, advances, anything unusual. See if you have access to the accounts receivable and accounts payable as well. That may be on what I got. Maybe they keep double books,” Sherlock replied. “The carbonado may only be a source of wealth for the organisation or the facility may be a laundering point, too.”
“Wouldn’t a bank be better for that?” John asked, looking over the screen and finding the field with employee ID numbers in it. He scrolled to the lowest figure.
“Banking regulations might be more of a problem,” Sherlock replied.
John stood up. His spine crackled as he arched backwards. “I need food and tea, if I’m going to keep going. Want some?”
Sherlock hummed, without pausing in his scanning. John walked into the bedroom to call.
“Full dinner menu at two in the morning. That’s room service,” John murmured as he walked back through the sitting room to the bathroom. “I’m having a shower before they get here or I won’t be awake enough to eat.”
Light was edging past the draperies. An assortment of half-empty and empty plates and cups fanned out around the two computers. John was propping his head up on one hand and clicking slowly with the other when his hand stopped in mid-air. He drew in a breath. Sherlock looked to the side. “John?”
“Look,” John replied, nodding at the laptop screen. “Ybarra. Ferrucio Morstan de Ybarra.”
***
John stood by the half-open drapes and fastened his watch. The sun was already gone, the air between the buildings lavender. “How are we getting there?” he asked and twitched the drapes completely closed.
“I hired a car,” Sherlock called from the bathroom.
“You got the lay of the land from the helicopter ride yesterday?” John enquired. He typed “Kogo Structure” into his mobile.
“Yes and the car has a GPS,” Sherlock said, switching off the bathroom light and entering the sitting room.
“Never studied much geology,” John murmured as he read the entry about the theory of an asteroid collision up to a billion years ago.
“But this is the planet we live on, John. I’m shocked.”
“Let it go,” John said, glancing up from the screen. His eyes widened. Sherlock was lifting a long jacket off the arm of the sofa, his form outlined in black trousers and shirt and a plum-coloured silk waistcoat. The lining of the jacket flashed across John’s vision as Sherlock slipped his arms into it. It appeared to be the same fabric as the waistcoat. “This is what you’re wearing?”
“You said she liked my proportions. These accentuate them, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked, one side of his mouth quirking upwards.
John moved closer. “Is that velvet?” Sherlock held out an arm. John’s hand smoothed over the fabric. “She may ravish you as soon as you cross the threshold.”
“Would you let her, John?” Sherlock lowered his arm and pulled down his cuffs.
“That’s a good question. How are we going to play this?”
Sherlock took a pocket watch out of the jacket pocket and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. He began threading the gold chain through the buttonhole. John reached out to stroke down the side of the waistcoat. He let his hand settle at Sherlock’s hip, looked at its outline against the cloth. “I feel almost too clumsy to touch, afraid to cause disarray.”
“You are hardly clumsy. Precise touch is one of your areas,” Sherlock replied. His voice had gone low by the last word. John looked up into dark eyes and his grip tightened on Sherlock’s hip. “Could you do it, John, without rumpling anything on either of us?”
John’s eyes had shifted to Sherlock’s mouth as he spoke. He took a deep breath when Sherlock finished, gave a curt nod and released Sherlock’s hip. “Don’t move,” he said and slipped off his jacket, hung it on a chair and circled behind Sherlock. “Just the jacket,” he said, “or you’ll get too warm.” He lifted the lapels, eased the jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders, down his arms and hung it on another chair. Sherlock started to turn his head. “Don’t move,” John repeated, smoothing his palms down Sherlock’s back. “Not yet.” His hands parted, each curving around a hip. John stepped back. “They do accentuate your proportions,” he said softly. “As if any enhancement is needed.” His hands slid around to the front to the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. John rested his cheek against Sherlock’s back. “You can feel the effect you've had on me already, can’t you?”
“No rumpling,” Sherlock reminded, but his voice was breathy.
John smiled. “No rumpling,” he whispered, stepping around to the front. “The operation will be performed with surgical precision.” John stroked Sherlock’s cheek with a fingertip. “Wait,” he said and grabbed a footstool and stood on it. “There,” he said and tilted Sherlock’s chin up. “A different angle.” Sherlock smiled. “But no biting or we will give ourselves away,” John murmured and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock closed his eyes. John kissed those, too.
John had stepped down, Sherlock swayed. “Here,” John said and took his hand. “Lean against the table.” He pulled the chair with his jacket around in front of Sherlock and Sherlock steadied himself with a hand to either side on the table. “I won’t rumple a thing,” John reiterated and buttons were swiftly undone.
“Black silk,” John observed as he opened the final button keeping him from distended flesh. “Prepared for all scenarios, I see.” Sherlock only murmured and leaned further back against the table. John parted the silk with two fingers, curved them knowingly into the darkness, over the denuded skin of the abdomen. He took a deep breath and moved his fingers slowly up and down. “It’s a strange sensation,” John said.
“Solved the bleaching problem,” Sherlock replied. “You find it feminine.”
John extended the tip of his tongue through the small opening in the layers of fabric and Sherlock hummed. John chuckled. “Strong evidence to the contrary right there,” he said and looked up. Sherlock tilted his head forward and met John’s gaze. “I want you to keep this image in your mind this evening,” John said, drawing Sherlock’s erection carefully out. John lowered his eyes. “Keep watching. Just in case it gets to the point where you allow someone else to do this, I want you to see me,” John added, his breath warm and moist over the taut skin, “feel this.” John tilted his head, his lips still parted from speaking and leaned forward. He murmured when his lips touched and Sherlock drew in a breath, but didn’t close his eyes as John slowly pressed closer.
John held Sherlock steady, his fingers beneath the waistcoat, the heels of his palms pressed against the soft wool of Sherlock’s trousers. John breathed through his nose as he continued to swallow. Sherlock moaned softly. John looked up as he drew away. Sherlock was breathing through his mouth, eyes fixed on John. “Image imprinted?” John asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumb and index finger. Sherlock nodded. “Good,” John said and gently buttoned Sherlock away. Taking Sherlock’s hand, John placed a fervent kiss on the palm. “I wanted to use more than my mouth,” he said.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “So did I.”
****
The halogen lights in the corridor clicked off as Maria opened the door. The warmer illumination from her flat showed John’s smile clearly. Maria smiled back. “Fashionably late,” she observed and her voice was warmer than the light. He handed her a magnum of champagne wrapped in a silvery grey foil. “What are we celebrating?” she asked, cradling the bottle and tilting her cheek for John to kiss.
“We’ll have to see,” he said, echoing her coquetry at the reception. She moved back, unencumbered arm outstretched in a gesture of welcome. As John walked past her, Sherlock stepped into the cone of light from the doorway. John saw the easy sweep of Maria’s arm freeze for a moment.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. John turned his head to see her expression. Her artist’s eyes travelled down Sherlock all the way to his shoes and then back to his face again, before Maria turned to John. “You talked him into coming,” she said, the words shaped by a smile that went all the way to her eyes.
Sherlock stepped over the threshold. “Jay can be very persuasive when he wishes to be, Ms Morstan. Silver-tongued, some say.” Her gaze came back to Sherlock and she held up her elegantly-manicured hand to him. Sherlock lifted it higher with a gloved finger, bowing slightly to breathe a soft greeting in Portuguese over the back of her hand, flicking his eyes across the healed scars that sharp edges and molten metal had inflicted.
John didn’t know if Sherlock had uttered his sole store in the language or if he spoke it fluently, but his voice gave the words a texture that John could almost feel against his skin. He suspected that Maria felt it, too. John watched her watching Sherlock’s mouth, waiting for the touch that never came. Sherlock straightened slowly. “It was kind of you to invite us both,” he said and Maria’s gaze followed the full lips upwards.
“Oh,” she said and there was a hint of laughter bubbling up beneath the sound. “Oh, you are a performance artist.” Sherlock smiled and John wasn’t sure if it was part of his performance or whether Sherlock was genuinely pleased by the delight in her voice. Maria’s hand closed over his and drew him into the flat towards John. Sherlock gave the door a gentle shove with his foot as he passed and his smile grew wider.
John looked over Maria’s head and saw it. “He is something of magician, yes.”
***
“That’s interesting,” Sherlock said when they rounded the ell of the sitting room, champagne glasses in hand. He headed straight for the corner where the metal object stood, casting flickering shadows over the bare walls behind it. “Yours?” he asked, studying the sculpture from as many angles as its position permitted.
Maria clicked off the ceiling light, took John’s arm and brought him with her. “Yes,” she replied, pride clear in her voice. “I’ll be exhibiting it at the Biennial next week,” she said. “If you will be staying that long, I’d be honoured if you would attend as my guests.”
Sherlock nodded, his hand hovering over one of the three candles held by the piece. “Most people are surprised by how much heat one candle can produce,” he murmured. He tapped the strut supporting the candle. “Steel,” he said, leaning closer to examine the thinner piece of metal slowly rotating in the candle’s heat.
“Silver leaf,” Maria answered before Sherlock asked, “over a hollow aluminium wire frame.”
“The shadows look like wings,” John remarked. Maria turned to him, her smile brighter, the candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. “What do you call it?”
“Icarus Clipped.”
“When the candles burn low, the wings slide down the central wire and smother the last of the flame,” Sherlock said. “Titanium?”
“Yes,” Maria answered. She tightened her hold on John’s arm and pulled him with her, closer to Sherlock.
“The problem isn’t a heat source above, but the dwindling power source below. An ecological statement,” Sherlock said, tapping one of several grey and black stones embedded in an apparently random pattern across the steel. He rose on tiptoe to check the stalactite-like ornamentation at the top, then knelt to check the stalagmite-like design at the bottom. “Carbonado, gem grade at the top, industrial grade at the bottom,” he said. “I can’t tell in this light, possibly varying in grade as they rise or descend. Am I right?” He turned to Maria and she clenched John’s arm and nodded.
John knew the feeling. She had found the outside alluring, now she had had a glimpse of what was inside.
“The other stones are…” she began.
Sherlock held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, scraping a fingernail over one. “Pumice.” Maria nodded. Sherlock leaned to the side. “Obsidian…diamond, normal crystal lattice…” He ran his fingertips over two more stones. “Ammonoid and fern fossils.” He paused.
Maria inhaled. John squeezed her arm slightly. She glanced at him and he shook his head.
“Meteorite fragments,” Sherlock concluded, turning to them both. “Different types?”
John lessened the pressure on Maria’s arm. Maria nodded. “Asteroid, lunar and Martian.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “At what price is it listed or is it already reserved?”
“I don’t wish to sell it,” Maria explained.
“I see,” Sherlock said, turning again to the sculpture. “Why three candles?”
John felt Maria’s arm tense. “I like the number,” she replied.
“Why?” Sherlock persisted.
“It’s a strong one. I’ve always liked it.”
“A Christian reference?” Sherlock asked.
Maria shook her head. “No. It’s personal. Threes…and nines…I like them.”
Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Maria, then John. “I see,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t usually like modern designs, but this is interesting.”
***
The sound of reed flutes died away.
“I’ll choose the music,” Sherlock said into the silence, setting down his wine glass on the wooden arm of the sofa. “Where is your system?” He had concluded it would be near the kitchen since it was probably a centralised control for heating and cooling, security and other functions, but he waited for Maria to reply. She appeared to be half asleep against John’s side, her head resting on John’s arm, but as they had been all evening while the three of them ate and discussed art and music, economics and geology, her eyes were on Sherlock and followed him when he stood. John looked up, too, and raised an eyebrow. “No need to get up. Just point me in the right direction,” Sherlock said.
Maria leaned forward slowly, leaving the crook of John’s arm with apparent reluctance. “No, no,” she said, “it’s complicated. I’ll show you.” Sherlock saw John smile when no sharp retort was forthcoming.
From the large ottoman they had all been sharing, Maria dropped her stockinged feet to the floor. John rose and extended a hand. She took it and smiled into his eyes. “Shall I open another bottle of wine?” he asked, indicated one of two still unopened on a side table.
“That would be nice, yes,” she replied and looked around for Sherlock and smiled even more when she saw him waiting. “Come with me,” she said and led the way.
The panel Maria opened in the utility room off the kitchen was more complicated than Sherlock would have expected for even an extremely modern and well-secured home, but, of course, there were precious materials and art worth millions of pounds in the adjoining studio as well. The controls for everything computerised were in one place as he had anticipated. Acting slightly affronted by so much technology, Sherlock allowed Maria to explain how to access her music files and to adjust the sound balance, if he wished. “An extensive collection,” he murmured as he scrolled through, more slowly than necessary. Maria leaned in under his arm. She was shorter than John and fit there easily, warm against his chest and fragrant with something sweet, but not overpowering. It reminded him somewhat of honey. He selected several instrumental pieces and continued to scroll.
Maria looked up when he chose The Rite of Spring. “Now I would have thought that too modern for your tastes,” she said. “See how you surprise me?” Sherlock looked down and felt her rising on her toes.
John appeared at her side, his arm curving between her waist and Sherlock’s thigh and Maria laughed. “See how you both surprise me?” she said, leaning back against John. “Jay, if you hadn’t come just now, I think I was going to kiss him.” She turned her head against John’s shoulder to look up at him. “Do you think he would have let me?”
“That’s a mystery we might not be able to solve in one evening,” John said. “Did I tell you that he likes to be mysterious?” Maria shook her head and laughed.
It was that tinkling, offering laugh again, Sherlock noted, but he did not turn away. It was apparently less annoying when one was included in the offer.
“But if you would like to kiss me, I’ll let you,” John continued. “Would you?”
Maria tilted her head back and looked up at John. “If you like,” she said and slipped her arm half-way around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him against her. Sherlock found the pressure surprisingly pleasant. He'd had strategies planned to reach arousal should it be required of him during the evening, but it seemed they would not be necessary. He noticed the honey-coloured flecks in Maria’s brown eyes before she closed them and hints of red and gold in her dark hair as it clung to the fabric of their jackets, but most of all he noticed how her lips opened against John’s and how John’s arm reached around his back to steady him when all the data made him dizzy.
The New World Symphony was playing for the second time when Maria asked again for a kiss. She was naked between him and John on the large semi-circular sofa, her skin shining with the approach of her third orgasm and her fingers tucked into the pocket of Sherlock's waistcoat to keep him close. Her head was resting on one of John’s bare arms, his face hidden by her hair as he nuzzled at the curve of her neck from behind. The light in the room was low, but a streak of brighter illumination from the kitchen caught the thin chain of diamonds at her throat as John moved, very slowly against her.
“Jay,” she whispered. Sherlock looked up from the glimmer of the gems to her face. None of them had spoken for a long time. The word sounded out of place amidst the music and the laboured breathing. John’s reply was muffled against her skin. Sherlock didn’t think it had been a word. “I wish he would kiss me now,” she said and gasped as John moved the hand splayed low on her abdomen. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the broad fingers of the hand. John’s hand. He wished to kiss it and make John come with the press of his lips.
John raised his head from Maria’s shoulder and looked at Sherlock. He saw his flushed face. John followed Sherlock’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow as he moved the hand up to Maria’s breast. Sherlock’s eyes followed and he nodded infinitesimally before leaning down to cover two of John’s spread fingers and the nipple caught between them with his parted lips. When Sherlock stroked all three with the tip of his tongue, Maria’s free hand clutched at his hair and John groaned. Sherlock’s arm darted out to clasp John’s hips and a climax rippled through all three of them.
***
John had kissed Maria good-night on the sofa, draped her pashmina over her and brushed the damp hair back from her forehead. As these things went, he didn’t think he had disappointed her. He had no idea what Sherlock felt about the matter, but John suspected it was other than what he had expected.
The swoosh of the windscreen wipers had been the only sound as they drove to the hotel. They hadn’t spoken as they entered their suite and locked the door behind them. As the member of the pair who had not kept his trousers on, John was grateful that he’d maintained enough rationality to be certain that the activities of the evening could not result in any conceptions. He pulled his damp vest from his jacket pocket, stared at it for a bit and decided he was washing it out in the bathroom basin himself.
When he looked up, the furniture on the way to the bathroom was already littered with articles of Sherlock’s clothing. John followed and stood for a moment in the doorway.
“Art,” Sherlock said from the shower.
“What?” John said.
“The revenue. It’s not just being transferred through bank accounts or gems, set, cut or uncut. No, art is definitely another channel and one I had not thought of before. One piece can be worth millions and better yet, one unknown artist’s piece that has no reliable estimated value could be purchased as a reasonable speculation and who could challenge it? In fifty years time, it might prove the most brilliant investment of the century. I should have thought of it.”
John stepped closer to the bath. “Wait. You’re fine? After…” John waved his hand towards the door to the sitting room, “…and you’re admitting you didn’t think of something…and you’re still fine?”
Sherlock stuck his head out from behind the glass doors. “Get your clothes off, John. We’ve got a lot of research to do before meeting up with Huysman at the ballet and a shower will help clear your head.”
John dropped his vest in the basin, filled it and began shedding garments. “So going over to Maria’s, together, was a good idea.”
“Definitely. One of your best ones.” Sherlock’s head popped out of the shower again. “Will you get in here, John.” John stepped under the water and slid the glass door shut. “I did think I would be jealous, if matters became physical, but I felt quite differently about it. I rather like Maria and she clearly likes both of us. It’s not impossible that she was acting, but I was watching her very carefully, and I don’t think she was.” Sherlock squirted some shampoo onto John’s head and started lathering. “You will have to do something at the ballet, so that she only flirts with you though.”
“Are you washing my hair, Sherlock?” John asked, knowing he was stating the obvious.
“She’s rather pretty and she smells nice, but I don’t want you smelling like her, John. So do you think you can keep her occupied this evening?” Sherlock pushed John’s head directly under the spray to rinse, massaging the shampoo away.
“You have never liked a woman I’ve been intimate with. The closest you’ve come is tolerating Sarah. Sort of.” Sherlock spun John around and began soaping his back.
“We’ll pick Maria up tonight and take her home so that I have an excuse not to accept any invitations from Huysman,” Sherlock said. “That will work out well, I think. He’ll still have the fishing excursion to look forward to the following day, so he hopefully won’t be too insistent or suspicious.” Sherlock knelt down and began soaping between John’s legs. “How likely would he be to suspect that the three of us…” Sherlock turned John around and washed from his feet upwards.
“Not very likely. That’s more or less fantasy stuff,” John replied.
“Wouldn’t that be one man with two women? Or two other men, depending on their preferences.” Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked up at John. The water plastered Sherlock’s hair to his skull and ran down his face in an alarming facsimile of tears. “A man and woman would be about perfect for you, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re about perfect for me,” John said and tugged Sherlock’s arm to make him stand. “You know I’m going to need some sleep, if I’m to be any use to you tomorrow.”
Sherlock looked down at John, hands still smoothing back and forth along his shoulders. “I wanted to touch you while we were there, but I couldn’t without giving our ruse away.” John nodded. “It was interesting seeing you from an outside perspective, seeing someone else respond to you as I do, but…” Sherlock’s thumbs pressed into John’s back muscles, “…before I can concentrate on the research, I need to be inside you.” John’s eyes widened. “The desire is really quite insistent and will take too much effort to suppress.”
John felt his heart rate soar as he absorbed the impact of Sherlock’s words, not merely their meaning, but their rapid fire delivery. He took in the darkened eyes and the heightened colour and the feel of the hands that would not stay still against his skin and thought they were far from understanding all they had started that day, but about one thing John was completely sure, if Sherlock was going there, so was he. John gave Sherlock one, resolute nod and smiled.
***
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(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 07:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 10:31 pm (UTC)I'm thrilled you liked the pocket bit. Those scenes have been especially challenging lately.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 02:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 10:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 10:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 10:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-12 03:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-12 06:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-12 06:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-12 07:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-15 02:24 am (UTC)Gorgeous, moody sexual tension and case. Loved it!
"John raised his head from Maria’s shoulder and looked at Sherlock. He saw his flushed face."
*fans self* This scene. I didn't know I wanted that until now.
Thanks for another great read!
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-15 07:56 pm (UTC)This was my attempt at a solution for what to do about Maria (Mary). I couldn't bear her taking John away from Sherlock, even for a little while.
Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-16 02:13 am (UTC)Basically what I mean to say is: This is absolutely fabulous.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-16 11:12 am (UTC)Pockets was such an open prompt (which are my favourite kind). I considered doing a 5 + 1 about pockets, but the idea didn't take off. Doing something that fit, to my mind anyway, into my OE series did. That basically seems to be where my brain is with regard to Sherlock. I know the story went all about the houses before it got to the pockets, but eventually it did. ;) I'm thrilled you like it! Thank you!