Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

The Science of Seduction	By : aineko Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4041 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own no part of BBC Sherlock and make no profit from this work

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
A/N: The real Barts doesn't have an A&E (or an ER as it would probably be called in some countries), but it suits my purposes that it should, so I've made one up. It's all a work of fiction anyway, so what's one more bit of make-believe?

Three nights later, and John was more puzzled than he'd been in a long time. Sherlock was up to something, it was the only logical explanation for his recent behaviour. That, or he was on drugs.
That thought was actually not entirely far-fetched...
He shook his head to clear it. When had they come up with a Class A substance that rendered the user kind and considerate? Especially when said user was a naturally egocentric, emotionally stunted genius.
So back to the first theory: he was up to something.
It didn't make matters any easier that John's libido apparently still hadn't got the memo; yes, he was better able to control it in Sherlock's presence now (so long as he didn't stand too close or anything like that) but would pay the price later at night when he lay in his narrow single bed, alone yet again. Then, no matter how tired he was, his body would demand the release he'd earlier denied it, and he'd be helpless to refuse. Helpless because there was a part of him that really really wanted it too. One that said, so what if he's your mate, he'll never know about this and anyway it's only temporary, right? just until you meet someone. A part that wanted it like this because, damn it! doing it while thinking of his flatmate just felt so... brilliant.

On the evening after his first shift John had to almost drag himself up the steps; twelve hours at Barts' A&E on top of looking after a sick and bored Sherlock for four days left him positively knackered, although he was still hoping that would work to his advantage.
Sherlock was playing; hearing that bloody violin the second he entered the house didn't help John's general mood. Oh well. He decided to take it as a sign that the detective was definitely well enough to be left on his own (Mrs Hudson had promised to keep an eye on him today). And at least the tune sounded cheerful, not the mournful tones of what John had at the time taken to calling 'The Woman's Lament', or the jarring dissonance that usually accompanied Mycroft's visits.
He pushed the living room door and it swung open. He threw his jacket onto the back of his armchair and let himself drop heavily into its embrace with a loud groan. The music never so much as hiccuped. Of course not. John closed his eyes, not at all certain he wouldn't fall asleep there and then. At least Sherlock was a good violinist; not up to concert hall standards, perhaps, but he was more than capable. And whatever it was he was playing now was slow, soothing... like a lullaby...
Whoa!
John jerked his eyes open and reminded himself that he couldn't afford to let his guard down around the detective these days. He really couldn't.
As if alerted by John's sudden movement Sherlock played one last plaintive note and let the bow drop. He glanced briefly at his flatmate, then carefully set bow and violin down in his chair and nearly ran to the kitchen. Someone hadn't been working a twelve-hour shift, John thought sourly.
"John?"
"Mmm?"
"Would you like some tea?"
What? Since when did Sherlock offer to make tea for John? Uh-oh, he thought suddenly, flashing back to the Baskerville case. For weeks afterwards he'd been unwilling to accept so much as a glass of water from his flatmate (not that Sherlock offered, of course).
Let's not go back to that, he thought to himself. “All right,” he replied. Pushing himself up out of the chair – it was hard, the damned thing clearly wasn't keen on letting go of him – he watched as Sherlock dropped teabags into their respective mugs and added hot water. He then had the privilege of watching Sherlock pace impatiently while waiting for the tea to steep. He smiled crookedly at the sight, content in the moment. If only they could put the last few days' awkwardness behind them. Though he knew now that it wouldn't be easy.
Sherlock caught him smiling and stopped pacing. “What?” he asked, suddenly tense and frowning.
“Nothing.” John shook his head faintly, still smiling, and rummaged for a biscuit tin in one of the cupboards. Retrieving a ginger snap for himself he offered the tin to Sherlock, who looked at it as if it was going to bite him. Taking care not to chuckle out loud John returned the tin to its place and then took the mug of tea Sherlock offered him. “Thanks,” he said brightly and took a sip.
"Is it all right?" Sherlock didn't get anxious, didn't happen. Nevertheless John fancied he heard just that in his friend's voice. Anxiety.
"It's fine." He smiled. Sherlock didn't exactly smile in return, but there was a faint twitch at one corner of his mouth.

(Sherlock watched as John settled into his chair again and took another sip, and a tension he hadn't even been aware of released him suddenly. John was drinking the tea, the tea Sherlock had made for him.
For some reason the sight made him feel warm and content inside. Clearly this was the course to take.
It also set off the now-familiar fire in his groin. He did his best to ignore it, now wasn't a good time. Later, he promised it. For now he'd rather just savour John's company.)

The following night, coming off shift, John had texted Sherlock to ask if he should pick anything up on his way home, only to receive a reply saying Sherlock had already bought milk and bread but they were out of eggs. John stared at the text in astonishment. Sherlock doing the shopping? Without John having to cajole or threaten him? Had pigs grown wings and learned to fly?
But Sherlock had indeed done the shopping, as John saw when he got home. And Sherlock had made tea, John's regimental mug sat all ready on the table next to his armchair. The man himself was doing something in the kitchen.
Curious, John picked up his mug and stood in the doorway. Sherlock was mixing something in a bowl; John couldn't quite make out what, and he immediately decided not to get any closer; things were getting better, or so he told himself, but he'd still rather keep some physical distance from his flatmate.
"What are you doing?" he asked instead.
Sherlock didn't reply, was apparently completely engrossed in the job at hand. A new experiment, no doubt... then Sherlock picked the bowl up and John saw the empty jar that had sat out of view.
The empty marmalade jar.
The anger rose in him before he could check himself. "Sherlock?" he asked in a tight voice.
Sherlock looked up at him, puzzled.
"You're... using my marmalade again. Aren't you."
Sherlock blinked. "No," he just said.
"Damn it, Sherlock!" Why, why couldn't the detective - but before John could find words to adequately express himself Sherlock crossed to the other side of the kitchen and opened a cupboard. Took out a jar.
John's jar.
John swallowed. "Oh. Right." Anger departed so swiftly you'd think it had seen embarrassment come screeching around the corner and planting its fist firmly in John's stomach. He'd assumed... He took a deep breath. "Sorry, Sherlock," he mumbled.
Sherlock just shrugged and returned the jar to it place before resuming his experiment. No sign of resentment, which just made John even more embarrassed.
"Really. I'm sorry," he repeated. "I..." How would the detective put it? "I speculated ahead of the facts."
"Yes you did." Sherlock didn't look up from the petri dish he was coating with whatever he'd been concocting. "However, based on precedent it was a reasonable assumption." His voice sounded perfectly neutral.
"A-and you did the shopping," John went on desperately. "That was... thoughtful. Really." He pasted on a smile which Sherlock, being preoccupied, completely missed.
"I had to start my marmalade experiment over and I thought I'd better not use yours again, so I went out to buy some and I just got the shopping at the same time," he merely explained.
Which was the sort of thinking a normal, non-egomaniac non-sociopath might employ, John thought. "Still," he said. "It was thoughtful. Really. Thank you."
Sherlock finally looked up, face blank for a moment, then he smiled a quick fleeting smile. One that instantly turned John's insides to jelly.

(Sherlock didn't like shopping much, and under ordinary circumstances - as in before he'd started to think about the longer-term consequences of his taking his flatmate for granted - he wouldn't have bothered. But he really didn't want to upset John if he could avoid it. So as he had to get research materials anyway he'd decided to go the extra mile and buy groceries as well. It irked him that he'd forgotten about the eggs, though.
John hadn't seemed to mind about that, however. And after the misunderstanding over the marmalade he'd even praised him.
All in all, Sherlock didn't think he could be happier with the result.)

And tonight he'd come home to a Chinese takeaway clearly delivered only minutes ago, the contents of the cardboard containers still nice and warm. Rice, sweet and sour sauce loaded with vegetables, deep fried chicken and prawns. Sherlock wasn't hovering for once, he'd just greeted John when he came in and had then gone to hole up in his room, saying he wasn't hungry. John had no idea what he was up to in there, but as long as nothing exploded he was trying not to think about it. He already had more Sherlock on his mind than any sane man should have to deal with. And Sherlock himself didn't help, his clumsy attentiveness was frankly unnerving.
If only he could suss out what the man was up to.
He contemplated the small feast before him. He didn't really have much in the way of an appetite, but he also didn't have Sherlock's ability of surviving on sweet tea and coffee for days on end, so with a small sigh he picked up his fork and tucked in.
Chewing thoughtfully he tried to make a list in his head:
1. makes tea unasked -> considerate?
2. does shopping unasked -> practical, considerate?
3. keeps paws off personal marmalade -> respecting boundaries??
4. orders dinner despite not hungry -> unselfish???
Sherlock, unselfish? Pigs really must be flying.
The really frustrating bit was, he couldn't work out what it was all for. Oh, Sherlock wasn't above a little arse kissing (no, let's not even think about going there) if it helped him get his own way, but he'd kept this going for days, and Sherlock didn't play games that long. He was a tactician not a strategist.
So if it wasn't a game -
"Lestrade called." Sherlock came bursting out of his room, already pulling on his coat.
"Wh- where are you going?" John was already on his feet. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock stopped and stared at him. "Lestrade. Called. Case. Coming?"
John sighed. "Sherlock, you've been ill, you shouldn't exert yourself -"
"I'm bored, John! I need this!" Oh wonderful, whiny Sherlock was back in full force. "Come on!" He tugged at John's arm impatiently.
Shit.
"As your doctor -" John managed as Sherlock threw his jacket at him, "- I have to warn you -" Sherlock dragged him down the stairs,"- against excessive physical activity -"
"Oh, just come on, John," Sherlock repeated, hurrying him out the door. John struggled to get his jacket on; Sherlock was already running into traffic trying to hail a taxi.

"Nice," John declared as they got out of the taxi. "Lovely neighbourhood. I thought they cleaned this area up for the Olympics." Sherlock grunted; John wondered if he even knew what the Olympics were. You could never be sure with the world's only consulting detective.
The crime scene was down a dingy alley, yellow tape marking it out. Donovan gave the pair of them a sour look. "Freaks," she muttered, but didn't try to stop them; John knew she'd never forgiven Sherlock for returning from the dead and ruining her Christmas.
Lestrade was waiting next to a blue tarpaulin that lay half-crumpled over something; looking more closely John saw a human hand poking out under the edge.
"Possible fourth victim," Lestrade told them by way of greeting.
Sherlock pouted. "Should have called me in earlier," he grumbled.
"Well, I didn't," Lestrade told him sharply. "Wasn't sure they were linked. Still not one hundred per cent. Besides, it's the first time we've had a pristine crime scene. If I'd called you earlier you would just have complained about that."
John hid a smile. The inspector was absolutely right, he knew. Sherlock sighed, but didn't kick up a fuss. "So can we have a look now?" he growled.
"Go ahead. Body was found under the tarp - one of the lads brought a punter back here, spotted the hand. He did peek under the tarp, then was sick - right there," he added, pointing to a small puddle of vomit, "- but at least had the presence of mind not to mess about, just rang 112. That's him over there. Punter was long gone by the time we got here, of course."
"Hmmm." Sherlock seemed barely to pay attention, he had lifted the tarpaulin with a telescopic rod he'd taken to carrying around, and was peering at the body. "Male prostitute, it would seem. Underweight, signs of self-mutilation and intravenous drug use, left-handed, no permanent address, probably dosses down with punters whenever he can. Hasn't been on the game for long, but drug use looks established so he turned to prostitution to pay for his habit, very likely heroin by the way. Hasn't been here long, it was raining until three hours ago, the ground under him is damp but his clothes are dry. The knife next to him isn't the one that stabbed him, most likely his own, fingerprints will confirm. He hasn't had more than two customers today, the killer could well have posed as a punter, more likely a charity worker attached to a religious organization - soup kitchen, proselytizing, that sort of thing, there's plenty of it around. Possibly he even is one."
"How -"
"Pamphlet under his left arm, dry. Either the killer missed it or he left in a hurry. Though the tarp shows he took time to cover the body, probably hoping to delay its discovery... Sloppy, then. I hate the sloppy ones, no challenge to them -"
"Sherlock." John tried to sound stern, disapproving, but he couldn't hide his smile, the detective was back on his usual brilliant form. Sherlock looked at him, then suddenly smiled back, a bright flash that hit John squarely in the groin. Oh God. Keep calm. Don't lose it.
Dimly he became aware that the smile had disappeared again, replaced with a puzzled frown. Then Lestrade said something, Sherlock replied snippily, and things were back to normal. Except John really wished he'd worn a longer coat. He did his best to keep to the shadows instead, swiftly adjusting himself as best he could while hoping no one would notice anything.
"John." Sherlock. Of course. John steeled himself and walked over to where the detective was talking to the rent boy. "- didn't know him, man. All's I know is it's Tiny Tone."
"Where he worked, where he lived, anyone you saw him with regularly. Anything at all," Sherlock insisted.
"Lass," the boy moaned. "Guy called Lass. Works up the high street, same as Tone. Go ask him, man." The boy who was looking increasingly nervous, John saw. Probably in need of a dose of whatever his personal poison was. Or perhaps just unnerved that the police were getting in the way of his earning a living.
Sherlock nodded. "I know Lass," he replied. John wasn't sure if he or the boy was more surprised. "Ask him about me some time. Here," he added, pulling a hand from his pocket and holding out what looked like a folded banknote. "For your time."
The kid stared at the money, slowly reaching for it. "Filth don't pay," he mumbled, clearly confused.
"I'm not the police." Sherlock grinned. "Like I said. Ask Lass."

"Just follow my lead," Sherlock said in a low voice as he scanned the sex workers, male and female, that stood along the road, some alone having a fag, others in pairs or small groups doing their best to look like they were just out for a night on the town. The difference was so obvious Sherlock was surprised they bothered.
"Why, what are you up to?" John asked.
"Homeless network. Some of them make a quid or two - ah." He spotted a familiar face and set off.
The kid - Leslie, goes by Lass, nineteen, on the street four years, kept away from hard drugs but wasn't averse to a spliff or five - looked up warily, his face giving no hint that he knew the detective. Good lad. "All right, mate?" he said brightly.
Sherlock stepped up close. "My friend and I -" he indicated John, "- would like to acquire your services for a short while, if you would be so accommodating...?" Beside him John was blushing, he knew. Pity he couldn't have a good long look at that. Better yet, pictures.
Lass looked confused for a moment - not the brightest to begin with, and the dope hadn't helped - but caught on. "Both of yer? Cool by me. Gonna cost, mind, no group discount."
"Not a problem," Sherlock assured him. "Got a place?"
"Right this way," he boy replied with an exaggerated sweep of one arm.

The doorway they ended up in was hardly any different from the one the dead boy had been found in. Tony, John reminded himself. The boy's name had been Tony.
Once they were out of sight from the alley proper Sherlock nodded at the kid. "Meet Lass. Lass, meet my friend John."
"Hiya," the rent boy said with a grin that made John feel distinctly uncomfortable, before turning to Sherlock. "Whatcher need, then?" he asked.
"Four of your colleagues have turned up dead over the past three weeks," Sherlock said bluntly. "What I need to -"
"Whoa, wait," Lass interrupted him. "Four?"
"Sorry," John cut in before Sherlock could get offensive. "A young man, early twenties. Someone said his name was Tony."
"Tiny Tone?" The boy sounded genuinely stunned. "You sure?" John nodded sympathetically. "Man..."
"I need to know," Sherlock said briskly, "if you've seen anyone around in the past month or so that doesn't... fit in. Maybe a punter, maybe someone else. Anyone you saw talking to Tony, or any of the others. I'm sure the police have already asked you, but this time it's me who's asking. You know what that means."
Lass nodded eagerly. "Means he in't getting away," he confirmed with a grin before remembering his mate was dead and turning serious again.
"That's right," Sherlock told him with a smug smile. "So anything you can tell me please."
The boy was obviously thinking hard. "Dunno," he muttered. "Same faces mostly. Couple of punters what were bad news a bit back, but everyone knows about 'em, so I don't reckon... Not Tone, anyway, he were always careful. Some do-gooders, come round once a week down the square."
"Do-gooders?" John interrupted before he could stop himself. He didn't have to look to know Sherlock was glaring at him.
"Yeah, church people, Sally Army, that kind. Bowl of soup and save your soul. They're okay, most of them. Go down see for yourself."
"They're here tonight?" Sherlock asked.
"Sure. Every Thursday. Come to think of it, Tone's been getting tight with one of 'em. Wouldn't catch me, bloke creeps me. But Tone, he says... said... the bloke made load of sense. Course, Tone used to be a student, for real I mean, 'fore he got too far into the habit. Brainy, like. You'd think someone like that would be too smart to get mixed up in this shit," he added morosely.
John couldn't help a sideways glance at Sherlock. "You'd think," he agreed neutrally. Sherlock cast a brief glare in his direction before focusing on their informant again.
"Good," he said, passing the boy two ten-pound notes. "Come down there with us, see if you can point him out."
Lass' brow furrowed. "You think he did Tone?"
"I think I'd like a word with him," Sherlock said curtly. "You said he'd been talking to your mate, he might know something."
"I guess... Okay, this way."
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Science of Seduction