Work Text:
Molly had done an impeccable job, there was no denying it. It had been Sherlock's decision to have John garbed in a uniform-like ensemble befitting his history; a cropped jacket with plenty of gold detail, cut high enough to show off his assets in the tightly-tailored breeches. And yet every time John drew an admiring glance (from nearly all the ladies and more than a few of the gentlemen), Sherlock felt a slither of something green and unpleasant deep within his belly. Jealousy, then. What a frustrating and useless emotion. He would be far better off without it. And yet, as he caught a glimpse of John chatting gallantly with a hideous old dowager, the emerald serpent coiled up his throat yet again.
Muttering under his breath, he ran a finger around the gilded rim of his glass. The Madeira was cloying and unpleasant, and reminded Sherlock very much of their pompous and insufferable host. Mycroft was flitting from guest to guest, chest puffed out and looking for all the world like some absurd stuffed bird. There was a flutter of movement at Sherlock's right shoulder and he turned, only to get a thoroughly distracting view of John, resplendent in his new clothing.
John smiled, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. There was nothing uncommon or inappropriate about the gesture, and yet somehow it was driving Sherlock to distraction. John smiled at him, smiled as though he knew the effect he was having, before pulling out a chair and sitting down.
"I think I might hide with you here for a while, Sherlock."
Sherlock bristled. "Hide? I have no need to hide."
"And yet, here you are at the table furthest from the door, tucked safely behind the hideous draperies. It really is no wonder you had no interest in inheriting this house." John smirked, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger. It was absurd, but now Sherlock found himself jealous of the curtains.
Bloody insightful John. Sherlock kept silent, which John clearly took as an acknowledgement of his perception. He grinned and swallowed a large mouthful of port. He was rosy and flushed, with the drink and the exertion of dancing with all of Sherlock's unbearable old aunts.
John stared out into the crowd. "Go on, then." He tipped his glass at Sherlock in mock-salute. "Do that one there, in the awful green velvet."
Sherlock grinned, picking the butter knife off the table and flipping it in the air before catching it gracefully. He could only hope Mycroft was watching - he would have fits at the impropriety of it all. He studied the woman John had brought to his attention.
"That great lump over there is her husband, but they have had no connubial relations in over a year. Which is likely in his favour, seeing that she has syphilis. Acquired from the lover half her age."
It was tawdry and vile, but John seemed to find it amusing, which made it all worth the while. It was a foreign concept to Sherlock, the idea of deriving genuine pleasure simply from watching someone else be happy.
Keen to ensure John stayed by his side, Sherlock indulged in a few more deductions about the dinner guests. Mr. Leander Shaw had run over a goat with his carriage, blamed it on wolves, and was still wallowing in guilt. Count Randolph Hoare was entertaining a young man from the continent, and was terrified someone would find out. Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way John flushed at that particular deduction. With embarrassment, or with curiosity? Mrs. Kitteridge was suffering her second failed pregnancy. Sherlock turned to John, ready to crow proudly over his deductions, but John looked utterly crestfallen at that last one, so he smartly kept his pride to himself. He studied John for a moment, instead.
"I never thought you to be the fatherly type, John."
"Not as though I shall have much of an opportunity at this point, I suppose. But in the back of my mind, I always envisioned a small cottage outside of the city, a fresh-faced young bride, a couple of little children running about. Have you not imagined the same thing?"
Sherlock's lip curled in distaste, both at the picture of domestic 'bliss' and the idea of John settling for some boring, vapid young lady. "In all honesty, I cannot say I have."
There was an expression of bemusement on John's face that Sherlock found fascinating. Usually John was quite transparent, but Sherlock could not pinpoint whether John was confused about Sherlock's hypothetical future, or his own. John reached out and patted the back of Sherlock's hand, in what Sherlock assumed was meant to be a gesture of fondness and solidarity, but it sent sparks up his arm nonetheless.
Sherlock had learnt his lesson after the last deduction, and so they sat in companionable quiet for a while, simply observing the other guests. He had to admit to himself that John's presence here was steadying and soothing, and the ball was turning out to be far less terrible than Sherlock had anticipated. Just as he was settling down slightly, yet another of his elderly aunts bustled up to the table.
"Sherlock, darling, how rude of you not to have introduced me to your charming table companion."
“Watson, This is one of my aunts, Mrs. Holmes. Much as the rest of them are.”
Sherlock scowled and muttered irritably, but John, ever the diplomat, stood and bowed slightly over her proffered hand. His lips brushed the air above it, but mercifully did not actually place a kiss on her dry, withered skin. Sherlock was fairly certain he would not have been able to control himself, and he would refuse to be held responsible for any actions caused by the slither of jealousy within him had John made contact.
"Captain John Watson, ma'am. I am currently boarding with Holmes in London and he was kind enough to invite me to this lovely evening."
"Constantia Holmes. Please refrain from calling me ma'am, it does make a lady feel old!" She tittered and Sherlock gripped his Madeira cup so tightly he thought it might shatter. She was nearing her sixth decade of life - she deserved to feel quite old. It was shameful, watching her flirt in such an open and improper manner with John. Poor John, who looked perplexed at her social eccentricities, but was too noble and too polite to say anything.
Clearly sensing the tension in Sherlock, John stood and offered his arm to the old crone. Sherlock scowled as she led his only source of entertainment away from the table.
He was drumming his fingers irritably against the ostentatious table linens when a familiar and unwelcome bulk settled next to him, smelling strongly of imported German cologne. Sherlock had to admit, despite himself, that the scent was not unpleasant.
"Mycroft." He acknowledged his brother without once absenting his gaze from John's form, handsome and distracting as he danced an elegant quadrille with yet another of Sherlock's interminable stream of female relatives.
"Sherlock." Mycroft attempted no eye contact. His eyes, too, were fixed on John.
"He is surprisingly charming, beneath that unassuming exterior. I nearly cannot fault you."
Sherlock broke his sight line to glare at his brother. "You act as though you know something you should not. Stop making assumptions, Mycroft."
"Then kindly stop making eyes at your distinctly male housemate in public, Sherlock. My influence only extends so far."
Sherlock glowered. Mycroft's taunts had hit too close to home, and yet too far. John remained proper and unattainable, and as much as he would have liked to, Sherlock refused to sully his reputation or risk his safety. He sighed loudly and drained the last of the Madeira, cringing as the sweetness burnt his throat.
Just as he was preparing to verbally flay his dear brother, John spun back towards the table. His waistcoat was in disarray and his neck-cloth was coming undone, and something between Sherlock's brain and his groin reared its ugly head.
"Goodness, Sherlock. Mycroft." John tipped his head, vaguely acknowledging their host, ever the proper gentleman. "Your relatives are alarmingly forward when they have been imbibing. I am not certain I feel comfortable running that gauntlet again." He fanned his face with one hand, lowering himself into a chair. Despite his protestations, he was smiling. Sherlock raged internally. He had the irrational thought that nobody should ever make John so contented or so exhausted but himself.
Mycroft caught Sherlock's gaze and narrowed his eyes in silent warning. "I shall leave you two to your devices. It is getting late, Sherlock. Please consider spending the night. Your old rooms are ready."
John poured himself a glass of barley water from the pitcher on the table, and Sherlock found himself transfixed by the motion of his Adam's apple as he gulped it thirstily.
"I think we should take your brother up on the offer. I should quite like to see the rooms where you grew up and it would be less bother to take a carriage home tomorrow."
Sherlock felt his cheeks flush at the mere idea of John in his old bedroom and glowered, hoping he was not nearly as transparent as he felt. His rooms were cluttered with texts and half-completed experiments; he had not bothered to tidy any of those things when Mycroft had given him the boot.
However, John was already familiar enough with the messes Sherlock tended to leave in his wake back at Baker Street, and they had not sent him running yet. Perhaps allowing him into the sanctified halls of Sherlock's childhood bedroom would not be a bad thing.
As John sat there next to him, flushed and giddy and relaxed, Sherlock's mind was filled with lewd imagery -pinning John against the striped silk walls; pushing him onto the narrow bed; kneading the firm globes of his arse, so clearly defined in his breeches; taking his cock in hand, in mouth, and feeling him trembling and tensing as he came. Sherlock felt his body responding to his imaginings and bit his cheek sharply. His trousers left very little to the imagination, and as much as he was keen to embarrass Mycroft at this pompous farce of a ball, there were some things even Sherlock had the decency to avoid in public.
"Sherlock?" John's voice cut through his reverie. "Honestly, Sherlock, I have said your name three times now. What I would give to know what was going on in that head of yours sometimes."
Sherlock coughed inelegantly, trying to hide his discomfiture. "I suspect you would rather not know this time, John."
"Something vile, then? Murder, gore, awfulness?"
Pursing his lips, Sherlock made a point of staring off into the mid-distance. "Something like that."
Eventually, although after far too much time for Sherlock's liking, the bulk of the guests began to make their excuses and take their leave. Most of them lived nearby and had carriages waiting, and it was not long before the only people remaining in the ballroom were John, Sherlock, Mycroft, and his staff. The staff bustled about, tidying up in efficient and dedicated silence.
Mycroft swanned over to the table where they were sitting.
"It pleases me greatly that you have chosen to be reasonable and spend the night, Sherlock." He oozed disingenuous false sincerity and Sherlock felt his scalp crawling.
"And I assume it will please you further when I leave again tomorrow?"
"You know you are welcome to return to this home as soon as you have found respectable employment or a young lady to settle down with."
John coughed quietly, as though to remind Mycroft he was still present and should not be party to this discussion.
"I have found work - and company - that please me just fine in London, thank you very much." Sherlock felt John's gaze burning the side of his face, as though he had just come to understand the underlying implications contained in Sherlock's statement. He had effectively just shown his hand to both his friend and his brother, inadvertently comparing John to a suitable match.
Irritated, he pushed away from the table and stood up, attempting to loom above the overbearing presence of his brother.
"Come, John. Let me show you where you will be sleeping." He spun on his heel and marched off without so much as turning to make sure he was being followed.
Clearly eager to diffuse the tension and avoid any further impropriety, John jumped up and strode out of the ballroom behind Sherlock.
They made their way up the stairs and towards the back of the house, to where Sherlock's rooms remained essentially untouched. Sherlock was eager and keyed-up, and he was concerned that if he spoke to John right now, or even looked at him, he would do something regrettable. Something he could never take back, that might ruin their friendship and partnership permanently.
After what felt like an interminable crawl, they reached the doors to Sherlock's rooms. He was not particularly tired and was feeling oddly charitable, and so he offered the bedroom to John. He pulled the inner door open with a flourish.
The room felt small and cluttered to Sherlock, full of the trappings of youth and the clutter of an overactive mind, but John peered around wide-eyed, as though he were studying the great mysteries of the British Museum at Montagu House. His eyes lingered a moment on Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock imagined for a brief moment that John was harbouring fantasies similar to the ones he had been entertaining at the table earlier.
John paced the room, studying the book cases with intent. Sherlock itched to reach out, to run his fingers along John's spine as John ran his own fingers along the spines of the books. He drummed them against his own thigh instead.
There was a small framed etching of Charles Babbage on one shelf, and John picked it up and smiled before putting it down. He then came to another etching, this one of Byron.
"Byron, Sherlock? You continue to surprise me. I would never have taken you for such a romantic spirit."
If only John knew the strange urges Sherlock was harbouring. Schooling his features into keen disinterest, he shrugged. "I feel an inexplicable kinship with him. I am unable to explain why."
John turned to face Sherlock. His cheeks were rosy, his fair lashes casting downy shadows upon them. Sherlock remained coolly in control of himself until the very tip of John's tongue darted out, tracing across his lower lip. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek for the second time in one evening and stepped back. He leant against the wall in an attempt to look collected and remote. A dark shadow passed briefly across John's face, but within moments he was once again all warmth and smiles.
"Your room is..." he looked around, gesturing helplessly. Normally Sherlock would have found a lack of words irritating and pedestrian, but when John suffered from it he could not help but smile. "It is very you."
"Mm." Sherlock's outwardly non-committal response was at complete odds with the fluttering he felt inside. "Perhaps I should bring home a few more things. To Baker Street." Was Baker Street already home, then? John cocked his head at the choice words, frustratingly perceptive as usual.
"Well," John held Sherlock's eye keenly for a moment before casting his gaze back to the bookshelf. "If you intend to remain at Baker Street much longer, it would be useful to have such a library at our disposal."
The use of the plural possessive was not lost on Sherlock. John had dropped so many hints lately, hints that led to a future together. And yet, what if - for the first time - Sherlock was simply misreading the clues? He could not bear to tarnish their friendship. It was paining him more and more deeply, but he kept his mouth shut.
There was a slight stoop to John's shoulders now, one that Sherlock convinced himself was merely fatigue, and not disappointment at their mutual lack of courage. He gestured to the wardrobe in the corner.
"There should be a clean nightshirt in there. I believe I left behind the ones that were too short for me."
This finally earned him a giggle from John. Most men would have bristled in self-conscious ire at a jab at their height. But John, pragmatic and level as he was, merely acknowledged it as a vaguely inconvenient fact and never reacted badly to Sherlock's jibes. Still grinning, he crossed the room and dug a night shirt out of the wardrobe.
They stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock realised John was waiting for a moment of privacy.
"Well..." Sherlock had never felt so flustered, or so desperate to touch another human being. "Good night, then."
John raised his hand slightly, reaching out into the space between them. Sherlock's heart pounded in his throat, but he froze in panic. As he made no move to respond in kind, John's hand fell to his side. Sherlock kicked himself internally. John smiled, but there was a tightness around his eyes he could not quite mask.
"Good night, Sherlock."
With a lead weight in his stomach, Sherlock slipped out of the room and closed the door. He lowered himself onto the settee in his drawing room and settled in for a fitful few hours of sleep, hoping all the while he would not have any inappropriate dreams, nor call out John's name through the thin walls.
On the other side of the door, John did very much the same.