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fic: Consequences (5/?)

Title: Consequences 

Author: fengirl88

Beta: blooms84
Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: John/Lestrade/?Sherlock

Disclaimer: These characters are still not mine.  No matter how hard I stare at them.

Wordcount: 1648  for this part

Rating: NC-17 

Warnings: sexual content, fallout from threesome

Summary: John is confused again and this time it's not about Sherlock.

A/N:  This is all  blooms84 's fault for writing The Unbearable Fineness of Lestrade and making me sad about Lestrade all over again. 

The events that started this whole sorry mess take place in Triple Jump.


Part 5


After what feels like hours, the bathroom door finally opens. John emerges, towel wrapped round his waist. Which is promising. But also clutching his clothes and shoes to his chest. Which is more problematic. Still, one mustn't be deterred by these minor setbacks.

Sherlock considers saying Put that stuff down and come here, but he's not sure that's quite the right form of words. Not at the moment. It would be fine if John hadn't been acting strangely. Or if he hadn't turned up at Lestrade's office like that. Or hadn't come home at least an hour later than usual.

Sherlock feels uncertain, and he's not used to feeling uncertain. But he does his best to set that aside, and moves to embrace John, clothes and shoes and all. John of course can't return the embrace, because his arms are already full. Even so, he could be a bit more responsive, Sherlock thinks. Positively rigid, as if he's just waiting for Sherlock to stop and then he'll relax.

It's a bit cold out here,” John says fretfully.

Sherlock wants to say Come to bed and let me warm you up, but somehow the words don't materialize.

I – I should probably put something on,” John says. “And hang my clothes up.”

Sherlock can't think of a good counter-argument to that so he doesn't say anything.

Sherlock,” John says, not impatiently but with a sort of frayed note in his voice, “could you let go of me, please, so I can get out of this draught and put something on?”

He doesn't say I'll catch my death of cold and it will all be your fault, but Sherlock knows that's what he's thinking.

Yes, of course,” Sherlock says, letting go abruptly. “Sorry.”

Though what he's got to apologise for when John is the one who's an hour late... Oh god, John's shivering.

I'll make you some tea,” Sherlock says hastily. “Would you like some tea? For the cold?”

Thank you,” John says, sounding very unenthusiastic. “Although – I'm not sure tea is what I need right now. But something hot would be good.”

Honey and lemon?” Sherlock's never actually made this for anyone, or for himself, but really how hard can it be? And he's fairly sure they have honey. And a lemon. Somewhere. Though he might have used the lemon in an experiment. May have to improvise if so.

Thank you,” John says, sounding marginally less unenthusiastic now, “that's a nice thought.”

You get to bed and I'll bring it up to you,” Sherlock says. It's the sort of thing people say in TV dramas, so presumably it's OK. Seems to be OK, John isn't arguing.

John heads for the bedroom and Sherlock heads for the kitchen.

He was right about the lemon. Used it in that battery experiment. Bother.

What else do people put with honey for colds?

Whisky. There is some whisky in the cupboard. John won it in a raffle at some charity event he'd gone to with Clara, and it's been sitting there unopened ever since. It doesn't look like particularly nice whisky, but it's probably OK with hot water and honey. At least the honey is there, and it is honey, he's checked that already today. Only just managed to stop John spreading the contents of the wrong jar on his toast this morning. Sherlock licks the spoon cautiously just to make sure. Fine.

He has to guess at quantities and proportions, but that looks about right.

John's already in bed with the light off. In normal circumstances that wouldn't be a bad sign, not necessarily, but tonight Sherlock's not so sure. He lights a night-light, which reminds him of Angelo saying I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic. Never used to bother with that sort of thing, but that time there was a power cut it had been rather nice having sex in the flickering light, seeing the shadows on the bedroom wall -

You could just have put the light on, it's OK,” John says, breaking in on Sherlock's reverie. “I'm not asleep yet.”

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed holding out the mug. “It's still quite hot,” he says.

John takes it, sips and then chokes violently, spilling hot liquid over the bedclothes.

Shit, Sherlock, what have you put in this?”

There wasn't any lemon,” Sherlock says defensively. “So I put some whisky and honey. People drink that, don't they?”

John looks at him as if he's not quite sure whether this is a practical joke or just another example of Sherlock's refusal to engage with the mundane on its own terms.

Not quite like this, usually,” he says. “Have you tried it?”

No,” Sherlock says indignantly. “I made it for you.”

John sighs, and holds out the mug. “Try it.”

Sherlock takes a cautious mouthful and only just manages not to spit it back into the mug. “Ugh. That's revolting – why do people -”

As I say,” John says, now obviously trying not to laugh, “they don't, not like that. You probably needed about half the quantity of whisky you put in and maybe a quarter of the amount of honey.”


But it's the thought that counts,” John says, giggling for the first time in days.

Sherlock hadn't realized how much he's missed that sound, which is so silly and so precious and completely John.

He puts the mug down on the bedside table and kisses John, a real proper kiss, doing his best to ignore the distracting and really rather off-putting overtones of whisky and honey.

John's kissing him back, which is encouraging, but there's something in the way he's doing it that feels – worrying, somehow.

If Sherlock had taken more interest in kissing, maybe he'd have a better idea what it is. Lestrade would probably know, don't think about Lestrade, not now. He would though. John liked kissing him all right.

Sherlock wishes he knew what this feeling was that John is giving off. Sad isn't quite it. Uneasy isn't quite it. Though it feels like bits of both, and something else he can't pin down.

Well, this sort of thing isn't really his area. But if John is kissing him back then it's definitely worth trying some of the things that are.

Sherlock slides his hands under the bedclothes, feeling for the hem of John's t-shirt, moving his hands up under it, exploring and stroking. John doesn't stop him, but he doesn't catch his breath either, the way he usually does at the touch of Sherlock's hands on his skin. He's lying quite still, just letting Sherlock caress his chest, little intake of breath when Sherlock pinches a nipple but that might be pain rather than arousal. Odd. It's not like him to be unresponsive.

Sherlock lets one hand drift down to caress John's thighs, brush across his cock -

Which is also not responding as usual. It's one of the delicious things about John, how quickly and easily he becomes aroused when Sherlock starts stroking his body, and by now he ought to be at least half-hard, if not straining and arching up for more of Sherlock's touch. But there seems to be nothing going on down there at all.

Hmf. More serious measures are clearly required. Sherlock pulls back the bedclothes, moving down to take John's cock in his mouth. John whimpers, but it doesn't sound like the right sort of whimper.

And nothing happens. No matter what Sherlock does. Which is unprecedented.

Sherlock is baffled. John loves having his cock sucked, can't get enough of it usually. Even if other things aren't going so well, this always does. He's sucked John off on at least four occasions when they've hardly been speaking to each other because of some stupid row about what Sherlock's keeping in the fridge or the bathroom cabinet, and even then it's always been spectacularly good. It just doesn't make sense. The only times he's ever known John not to get an erection pretty much straight away from this even if he didn't have one to start with are when -

Sherlock disengages himself carefully and moves back up the bed. He feels cold inside, as if John's chill has got into his bones.

Saying you've been for a run is a very good excuse for getting straight into the shower when you come home.

Saying you've been for an unusually long run is quite a good excuse for coming home an hour late and then being too tired to have sex.

But there are other reasons for doing those things.

One other reason in particular.

The most obvious reason of all. And with John, who is almost always ridiculously straightforward, the obvious explanation is usually the correct one.

An echo comes back to him from the threesome, his own voice insisting Say you're mine and no one else's, and John's voice saying No. He'd thought it was John's usual thing about nobody owning anybody, the argument about language they'd had several times already, and which Sherlock almost always won eventually if it happened in bed. This time he hadn't won it, because Lestrade had interfered. Which Sherlock had assumed at the time was just Lestrade being a nuisance and trying to get in on the act. Now he's not so sure.

Maybe today wasn't the first time John had been to see Lestrade on his own.

Maybe all that stuff about not liking each other had just been a front all along.

That strange feeling in Sherlock's insides is back, and it's worse than ever.

He has absolutely no idea what he's supposed to do now.

Next: Lestrade has finally lost the plot. )

Previous: John is running, running for all he's worth...


Oct. 17th, 2010 05:56 am (UTC)
Oh poor Sherlock. (Tell me it has an eventual happy ending /o\)
Oct. 17th, 2010 01:41 pm (UTC)
I'm working on it! thought I had completely written myself into a corner with the next chapter, which is currently a bit of a mess, but have woken up today with better ideas of how to get out of said corner...


scallop voices


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