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Rosieâs tantrum is about to reach epic proportions, and John needs to intervene. Immediately.
âItâs impossible! I will never be able to make it before he gets back!!!â
âRosamund Watson, you can, and you will.â
âI only have one more chance, Dad! Heâll be here in less than fourteen minutes.â
God, do you even know how like him you are?
John looks fondly at his daughter, but sheâs too distracted by her distress to observe it.
âAlright, sweetheart. Put that away for a second and come here.â
âThereâs no time, Dad!â
âYes, there is. Trust me.â
Rosie sighs dramatically, puts down the instrument, and approaches John tentatively.Â
âTake my hands.â
Another sigh, but the girl surrenders.
John squeezes the small hands in his own and smiles down at the tense and slightly anxious girl in front of him.
âInhale as deep as you can. Hold until I say so, then exhale.â
âIs this a doctor procedure?â
Her smile causes her body to visibly relax, and the tension in the room eases.
âGo on, now.â
After a few minutes, John is satisfied, and releases his grip.
âTry again,â he says softly and places a kiss on her forehead.
***
Sherlock is dead tired and just longs to get home to his two Watsons. Heâs been in Paris for nearly a fortnight; hired by one of Mycroftâs associates to solve the theft of the crown jewels in the Louvre. The case had been excellent, apart from one significant thing: John didnât have the opportunity to come with him.
Another thing that had irked him, was the timing regarding Rosie. A week before his departure, he had started to teach her La Vie en Rose. Tomorrow, she was supposed to perform it at school, which he knew she wasnât capable of now, due to his long absence. Instead, she had to play one of the easier pieces she already knew by heart.
He feels like heâs failing her, even though John has assured him heâs doing nothing of the sort.
âItâs the Work, Sherlock. And youâre not the first parent who must travel and be away from â â
âBut Iâm not her parent, am I?â
âPerhaps not officially. Yet. But to her you are. And to me.â
***
His timing could not have been better, John thinks. Rosie has played through the piece nearly flawlessly two times already, and when sheâs stretched and had a swig of water, itâs time for the last rehearsal of the day.
âReady?â he whispers conspiratorially.
âThree is a charm, Nana says,â she replies.
âThatâs my girl.â
Rosie lifts her bow and starts playing La Vie en Rose the second the front door closes behind Sherlock. John strains to hear if heâs ascending, but he also needs to pay attention to his daughterâs playing, so he nearly misses Sherlockâs appearance.Â
âOh,â Sherlock breathes almost inaudibly as tears stream down his cheeks.
Rosie prefers to face the window just as Sherlock does when he plays, and John isnât sure she can see her Papa in the reflection of the glass surface.
John moves over to Sherlock who seemingly canât avert his eyes from the playing girl. His hand covers his mouth, which probably is agape, and John decides to slide an arm around the manâs waist in case his knees give way.
***
Rosie, his beloved girl, is playing La Vie en Rose far better than Sherlock thought she would be able to do if he had stayed home instead of running off to France. How sheâs accomplished that is a topic for another day or hour. For now, he revels in the beautiful music and how Rosie moves with it instead of standing ramrod straight like a pillar.
He feels Johnâs arm around him, but Sherlock is too absorbed in the music and the miracle that is Rosie Watson. Next month, his surname will be added, which he still canât get his head around.
When the last tone has faded away, Rosie sets her violin and bow on the table and runs toward Sherlock. He falls to his knees and opens his arms to her. John mitigates the impact to prevent Sherlock from falling onto his back, by placing steady hands on his shoulders.
âIâve missed you so much, Papa!â
âAnd I you, my heart. Your playing was extraordinary.â
âYeah? Uncle Mycroft helped me a bit, and Dad found a tutorial video online who was really helpful too.â
âAh.â
âDonât be angry with him, alright?â
âI promise. For once, his aid was⌠noble.â
John chuckles behind him, and one of his hands â the left â ruffles his curls affectionately.
***
Later, when Rosie is tucked up in bed, John tells Sherlock about their daughterâs dramatic outburst.
âOne more chance? Really, John?â
âCross my heart. She takes after you, in my opinion.â
âRude!â
âTruthful!â
âYou are insufferable!â
âIf you say so. And yetâŚâ
âYet what?â
âArenât you a genius?â
âOf course, I am.â
âWell, then?â
Sherlock sighs mock exasperated, buries his nose in Johnâs neck and whispers: âAnd yet, I am marrying you in sixteen days.â
Sherlock fandom - ACD version today to celebrate the master's birthday.
Clueless
To him, everything is obvious. Where science and the Work is concerned at least. In other aspects, the great Sherlock Holmes can be completely ignorant. When it comes down to sentiment and matters of the heart, his mind is obscured by darkness. That is how he has described it to me in the privacy of our home.
âI will never comprehend how you put up with me, dear boy,â he murmurs against my neck, hiding his abashment and flushing face.
âMy dearest one,â I soothe him, âit is rather obvious, is it not?â
âNot at all, John.â
âBut you do believe me when I say I love you, do you not?â
âI never doubt you, my heart. Still, I canât help but question your motives.â
âMy motives?â
âThere is always something.â
âSo you keep saying, and yetâŚâ
I let the sentence hang between us for him to pick up whenever he is ready.
âAnd yet you are here every day when I wake up or come home from a nightly encounter with the Irregulars.â
âThis is true. What may you deduce from that, my darling?â
âThe signs are obvious enough, and I know I should trust my instincts.â
âAre you saying you cannot?â
âNot per se.â
âYou are being quite Delphic, Sherlock.â
âI am aware, John.â
âTea?â
âPlease.â
***
Some days later, I am using my shoelaces to tie up a rather volatile villain to keep him restrained until the Yardâs finest find it in themselves to come to our aid. It is not so much my own, but Sherlockâs aid I am referring to. The blasted criminal administered a blow to my belovedâs precious skull before I could tackle him to the floor. Had I not taken the Hippocratic oath, I am not sure I would have let the culprit live.
Because we are (almost) alone â the man on the floor is unconscious â I dare to use a less formal tone when I address my injured beau.
âDear boy, how is your head?â
âDreadful.â
âI am sorry I was unable to get to you fast enough, my dear.â
âShh, John. I was at fault, not you. I thought his moves would be obvious. A miscalculation on my part, Iâm afraid.â
âYou need to more careful, you realise,â I whisper in his ear, and plant a soft kiss to his temple. âIf I lose you, I donât know who I am anymore.â
Sherlock opens his mouth to say something saccharine - if the fond look in his eyes is any indication - but of course, the police choose that moment to burst through the door.
***
Thankfully, Sherlock shows no signs of having a concussion, so I let him sleep once I have divested him and arranged the blankets around him like he prefers. He is asleep before I reach the threshold, which speaks volumes about his fatigue.
In the morning, I wake to a blissful warmth. I can admit that my body is no longer as young and robust as I would like â it aches in most places â due to the tackle I performed the previous evening. Being enveloped in Sherlockâs tight embrace, helps immensely, though.
I try to turn in his arms, but his grip on me tightens, indicating I should stay as I am.
âNot yet, my heart. My head is fine, but your body needs more rest, and I find that I am quite amenable to stay in bed for a while longer.â
I hum contentedly lifting a hand to cover his.
Soft and warm lips are pressed to my nape and then Sherlock inhales.
âI have come to a conclusion,â he informs me.
âYou have?â
âIndeed. I have decided to throw all sense of logic overboard when it comes to you.â
âDear me! Should I be worried?â
He huffs exasperated but kisses me again all the same.
âLast night, you correctly ascertained that I was not concussed, which meant I was able to observe you closely when you werenât focusing on me.â
âI see. You did not think it impudent?â
âWhy on Earth would I think that? I observe you constantly!â
âVery well, then. Do continue.â
âI would if you could stop interrupting me repeatedly!â
âI am merely making conversation, Sherlock.â
âYou can count yourself lucky I adore you so much.â
âOh, I do, my precious love, I do.â
âJohn!â
âYes, my darling.â
I turn in his arms now; I miss seeing his beautiful face.
âTell me. Please,â I whisper and pecks his lips gently.
âIt was as clear as day, John. If I had been severely hurt by that villain, you would have served time for your actions. That is how much you love me, and I decided to stop questioning it. I realised in that moment, that everything canât always be properly explained. It justâŚâ
He stops speaking, as if lost for words, but I have an inkling of what he wants to convey.
âIt is what it is?â I suggest.
âPrecisely, my dearest John.
âQuite obvious, that,â I murmur, just to get in the last word â if he will let me.
In lieu of answering, he cups my cheek, gives me an intense look, and kisses me until we both forget anything but each other.
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His mother told him the mirror in his room was magical and that its twin was out there somewhere. John didnât quite believe that.Â
At first glance, the mirror looked ordinary. It was oval with a thin black frame, and when he stood in front of it, he only saw himself and parts of the room behind him. But sometimes, when he looked at it from another angle, strange things could happen. Such as a vibrating surface, a change of colour, and the mirage of several worlds beyond it.Â
It happened so rarely though; therefore, John determined that the thing was just a mirror; that his imagination had got the better of him.
When he reached puberty, the incidents stopped completely. He was both relieved and devastated once he realised that. After all, he used a serious amount of time in front of the item to style his hair and to despair about new pimples.
***
The mirror in Marguerite Vernetâs boudoir was the most ordinary, yet fascinating object Sherlock knew.
âIt is just a mirror, brother mine,â Mycroft sighed when he found his little brother in front of it for the umpteenth time that week.
âItâs not! Sometimes the surface flutter. And it can change colour. If you look at it from an oblique angle.â
âNonsense!â
But his brother disapproval didnât stop Sherlock from seeking out the mirror when he visited his grand mère.
âSomewhere out there, its jumeau exists, mon trĂŠsor,â Marguerite whispered.
âA twin? Mycroft says itâs never twins,â Sherlock protested.
âOh, but Mycroft does not know everything.â
This wasnât exactly news to him, but it was rather jarring to hear it said out loud so matter-of-factly.
***
The week before John was shipped out to Afghanistan, something strange happened. He was visiting his parents for the last time in God knew how long. The mirror was still in place in his old room, looking harmless as it had done for years and years. But when he was about to climb into bed, something happened. A dark and unfamiliar voice reverberated through the room.
âGrand mère promised me that I should have it, and I intend to bring it back to London, Mycroft!â
âWhat the hell,â John muttered.
He placed himself in front of the mirror, but he could only see himself. The voice didnât speak again either. To Johnâs incredulity the baritone stirred something in him. A yearning, leaving his chest empty and aching.
âYou shouldâve gone easier on the whisky, Watson,â he berated himself.
âItâs the twin mirror and most likely itâs owner you heard,â his brain unhelpfully informed him.
The following days, nothing happened, which left John slightly nauseous and definitely disappointed.
It was strange to look at himself in the mirror wearing his uniform. His posture straightened on its own accord the second the last button was in place, and it felt almost solemn to put the beret on his head.
âAre you real?âÂ
John physically recoiled from the mirror when he heard the deep voice from days prior. He couldnât see anyone but himself, though.
Nonetheless, he asked, oh so tentatively: âWhoâs this?âÂ
He got no answer, and hours later John found himself under the Afghan sun.
***
âBe careful, soldier,â Sherlock mumbled when he realised that the man in the mirror couldnât see him.
It was clear that he was the owner of the twin mirror, but Sherlock had no idea where it was situated. The man was British, at least, but that didnât say much. Unfortunately, the background behind the soldier was rather blurry, so there was nothing for Sherlock to deduce. The only thing he knew for certain was the magnetic pull he felt. It all but radiated from the other man.
âWho are you, and what are you doing to me?â he whispered with an unfamiliar ache where his heart was.
No one had ever had that effect on him. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
Sadly, the soldier never asked Sherlock to be careful, and when the cocaine called, he forgot all about the mirror and its twin. Curiously enough, it was the thought of the other man that helped him through rehab three years later.
âSurely, I would have felt something if he â â
His mutterings were interrupted by a burning pain in his left shoulder, and Sherlock passed out.
***
âA bit different from my day,â John remarked to Mike as he surveyed the lab at Barts.
âTell me about it,â Mike sniggered.
âAh, Mike. Can I borrow your â â
Johnâs knees almost buckled, and his ears started to ring loudly when he heard that voice. The one from the mirror. How was that even possible?
âYou made it,â the man the voice belonged to murmured almost reverently.
Johnâs vision was not as affected as the rest of his body, and he gazed at the approaching man, who looked impossibly young. He was also devastatingly gorgeous; the voice fit him perfectly.
âI did. Barely.â
âYour shoulder?â deep baritone asked.
âWhat? How do you â â
âI felt it. Six weeks ago, yes?â
âYes,â John whispered.
Surely, he was dreaming. But then the warmth of the manâs presence engulfed him like the softest shock blanket.
***
âAre you real?â John asked him the next day when they met at Baker Street.
Sherlock took his hands in his and let his thumbs stroke Johnâs knuckles.
âDoes this feel real to you?â he asked softly.
âIt does, and still - â
John never got to finish that sentence, because Lestrade texted, and then they were running after a serial killer, over rooftops and down dark alleyways.
âNow, that felt real,â John panted when the black door to 221 closed behind them.
âHow about this?â Sherlock whispered and leaned in to cover Johnâs lips with his own.
âI think I need more data,â John grinned when Sherlock drew back, and pulled him back in to snog him properly.
For as long as I live, I will never forget the day Sherlock brought John home. He was so proud â Sherlock, I mean â to finally have found someone. A friend at least, though I suspected it wouldnât take long before theyâd only need one bedroom. John scoffed when I mentioned it, which I suppose was fair. It had only been ten minutes.
After John had shot that awful cabbie â yes, I do have my sources, thank you very much. Besides, Iâm neither deaf nor blind; like some⌠As I was saying: things changed between the boys after that night. They had clearly been to Sherlockâs favourite Chinese restaurant; I could smell the soy sauce and shrimp chips â the entire meal, come to that â when they returned. I was certain John had no clue that Sherlock never took anyone out to dinner. My conviction also included the fact that the good doctor hadnât the foggiest about the significance this mundane action was proof of. To anyone else, a dinner invitation was an everyday occurrence, but to SherlockâŚwell, it was more like a love declaration really.
I knew that Sherlockâs overbearing brother had tried to threaten and bribe John mere hours after their meeting at St Bartholomewâs. I was also aware that it would take more than a big cheque and poorly hidden innuendos to sway the likes of John Watson.Â
***
âJohn, dear, will you â â
âHeâs busy,â Sherlock interrupted.
âIâm not, Sherlock,â John protested and sighed exasperatedly.
That was a promising start, I thought.
âWhat can I help with?â John asked politely.
Sherlock had a lot to learn from John when it came to manners.
âOnly a light bulb, dear. But my hip wonât allow me to climb the ladder today.â
The impressive eyeroll Sherlock gave me did not go unnoticed, but it certainly went uncommented.
âNo problem, Mrs H. Lead the way,â John said; still polite.Â
âI have already estimated the time frame for this endeavour, Hudders,â Sherlock muttered darkly.
âDonât you worry, dear. I will hand your precious blogger back to you unscathed,â I teased, which made Johnâs ears turn dark pink alarmingly quick.
***
When John busied himself with changing the light bulb, I put the kettle on. I knew John never refused tea, no matter the hour. The shortbread I placed on a porcelain plate, made his eyes sparkle, and a genuine smile appeared.
âI havenât had those in ages,â he stated emphatically when I urged him to taste the biscuits.
He closed his eyes and sighed happily while he chewed. This smoothed out the lines on his face, and I could easily picture him as a boy and a teenager.
âSo, John, do you like it here? Sherlock isnât driving you around the bend with all his quirks and oddities?â
I tried to sound innocent, making conversation rather than interrogating the man.
His face lit up, and I knew he was telling the truth when he gushed about the low rent, the excellent location, and he also made sure to praise my baking while he was at it.Â
As I said: a polite man.
Before I got the chance to ask about the queries he hadnât answered, he continued.
âSherlockâŚGod, where to start? Heâs obviously brilliant and extraordinary. A bit mad. Extremely untidy. Heâs got no boundaries, you know. But that brain of hisâŚâ
He stared into space for a long while, and then he smiled broadly as if remembering a particularly fond moment.
âBut itâs more to him than that. I felt it the second he stood next to me in the lab at Barts. There was an invisible connection between us. Utterly curious. Electric, almost. I didnât even know his name yet, but I knew that my life was about to change. For the better. I was so sure of it.â
âAnd now?â I prompted when he fell silent again; my patience was wearing thin at that point.
âI was right. My life is getting better by the minute. Being allowed to live and share space with him isâŚmore than I could ever have hoped for. He gives me purpose. I feel valuable, needed; cherished even. Sherlock saved my life that day and I can never repay him. He scoffs at that, of course. Tells me I saved him as well, which I found utterly ridiculous. Until I learned aboutâŚhis previous troubles. The drugs.â
âI know, dear. So, you will stay, then? You will break his heart if â â
âFor as long as heâll have me.â
Forever, then, I thought to myself. There was no way Sherlock would throw John out. He was already head over heels.
John bid me goodbye, and I heard Sherlockâs deep voice complaining: âShe interrogated you. More subtle than Mycroft, but still. Insufferable busybody, is what she is.â
âShe just looks out for you, Sherlock.â
âDid youâŚâ
âNo, but I think sheâs clever enough to figure it out. At least if she dusts upstairs.â
âOh, she definitely will. Probably the next time we leave the flat. Mark my words.â
âAgreed. Now, how aboutâŚâ
The talking stopped, but the muffled sounds I heard before I closed my door, were convincing enough. My job was done, and I decided to celebrate with some Stilton, port, and Moulin Rouge.
Martin Freeman and Rachel Mariam attend the British Vogue and Netflix event to celebrate The Bafta Television Awards at Dovetale London on May 7, 2026 in London.
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âCanât you give me more than that?â I ask Ella.
âMore than what?â she enquires, clearly not at her most vigilant.
âMore than: âWhat happens to you?â Nothing happens to me, you know that. How about a prompt of sorts?â
âA prompt?â
Nope, Ella sure is distracted by something today. Normally, sheâs as sharp as a razor.
âForget it. Iâll think of something,â I sigh, and stand.
âNext week, then? Same time?â
âSure. Whatever,â I mumble.
***
Merely two hours later, I feel Iâve jinxed it. The ânothing ever happens to meâ gibberish, I mean.
Iâm currently in front of my laptop. My brand-new blog is on display; the cursor is blinking mockingly, impatiently, as if it says: âGo on, you numpty. Start writing, already. Things have finally happened to you!â
And my is that cursor right. But still I have no more idea what to write now, than the last times Iâve been sitting in front of a new blog entry. Itâs likely due to the fact that too many things have happened to me in quick succession. I feel it needs processing before I put words to paper, metaphorically speaking.
Iâve got my prompt, though. The one Ella couldnât (or wouldnât) give me.
A meeting. No. Two meetings, actually.Â
I know Iâm dawdling, but I canât seem to decide on a title, and I desperately need a title. Even in school, I couldnât write a damn thing before I had a title. Little has changed in that department it seems.
It needs to be something that foreshows what the blog post is about, so the word âmeetingâ should definitely be in the title; plural or singular.Â
I start typing. Trying it out.
A Meeting in the Park
A Surprising Meeting
Two Meetings at Different Locations
Meeting a Doctor and a Madman
A Strange Meeting
I read them over and decide on the last one. Itâs not that meeting Mike wasnât significant â it was after all that particular meeting that led me to Barts and Sherlock Holmes â but it was the meeting in the lab that changed my entire world.
How to describe him? Sherlock Holmes, that is. Mike Stamford hasnât changed much since our days at Barts. Heâs gained some weight, but heâs as jovial now as he was when we first met years ago. Some would even say, heâs easily forgotten; normal.
âNormalâ is not a word I would use to describe Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary.Â
Heâs most likely human, but his capabilities to observe â not to mention speak so rapidly you feel like youâre boarded a carousel out of control â are quite extraordinary and otherworldly. By just a perfunctory onceover, he knew almost everything about me.
âAfghanistan or Iraq?â was his first question.
For once, I was immensely relieved that I had my cane to lean on.Â
After Iâd told him it was Afghanistan, he rattled out my entire life story, as if he read it out of a book. He did get the gender of Harry wrong, though, but I didnât tell him that. Maybe Iâll surprise him with it some other time. Because I am meeting him again. The man that looked 12 when I first laid eyes on him. Tomorrow weâre off to look at flat together. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.
You can now order a physical copy of "The Science of Affection" from lulu.com! [click here] It includes every panel of the comic that I posted on tumblr (with pen and pencil doodles re-drawn in cg) plus the omakes that were included in the PDF versions.
You will be paying for the printing cost and shipping. I have not added anything for my own profit so that it is affordable as possible. If you would like to pay me something for the book, you can go to my ko-fi account to leave me a tip. âĄ
FYI, if you want to tear off the cover and fan-bind it, I am absolutely okay with that. You can also buy a PDF version if you want to print it onto specific paper and then fan-bind it, too.
So, instead of finishing this FTH fic, I decided to tease you with an excerpt of the first meeting between Sherlock and John in this AU where no one is who they normally are in the series. This is Sherlock reminiscing back to that meeting.
It had been an ice-cold January afternoon. The darkness outside was absolute, and Sherlock was about to close the salon for the day. Nobody would venture out if they didnât need to; Sherlock knew the residents of Arboreta Combe, they were nothing but predictable in their actions. So, it surprised him to no end when the bell over the door chanted and a man stepped over the threshold, closing the door firmly behind him. He rubbed his bare hands together and brought them closer to his face to blow hot breath into his palms.
The man was at least five inches shorter than Sherlock. His hair was blond with streaks of silver. His blue eyes widened when he recognised the colour palette of the salon, but he didnât remark on it.
âDo you have a spare moment to cut my hair?â
âAs you can see, the salon is quite empty, but I donât think I am the right hairdresser for you.â
âCheeky,â the man chuckled, then smiled up at Sherlock.
This changed his face completely. He looked ten years younger, and his shoulders finally relaxed, though Sherlock detected something sorrowful lingering in his posture, nonetheless.
âI have rules and standards,â Sherlock explained.
âDo you now? Letâs hear them, then.â
There was a challenging undertone in his voice, which made Sherlockâs stomach flutter slightly.
âIf I donât like your suggestions, I wonât cut your hair. I know what suits people, and I refuse to let them walk out of here looking like morons.â
âI see. Do you enjoy playing God in this little kingdom of yours?â
The challenge had turned to steel, now. Sherlock shivered before he huffed in annoyance.
âIt is my salon, and I do as I please. If you donât like my terms, please feel free to bugger off.â
This usually did the trick, but this man was stubborn, and he didnât look the least bit perturbed. The fluttering in Sherlockâs stomach intensified.
âSo, tell me why you think I want a haircut you donât approve of.â
âObvious,â Sherlock said and rolled his eyes. âYouâve had the same style for what, fifteen years?â
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No one knew yet. It was so recent and precious, and theyâd decided they wanted to keep it that way a little longer. It was a miracle Mrs Hudson hadnât sussed it out, or perhaps she wanted them to have this secret for themselves. In Sherlockâs opinion she was far too clever not to have realised what was going on upstairs, and John wouldnât put it past her to secretly delight in the fact that she had (almost) married ones too now.
Inside of 221B, they didnât stand a chance. Whenever they were in touching distance of the other, touching happened.Â
Outside, in public, well, that was another matter altogether. Particularly at crime scenes. The Yarders were used to Sherlock calling John over to have a look at something â preferably a corpse â and in those circumstances close proximity was necessary. Dark alleys and abandoned warehouses didnât exactly provide sufficient lighting, allowing them to keep their distance.
The scent of Sherlock sometimes overwhelmed John completely, and all he wanted was to lean his head on the other manâs shoulder and inhale deeply. Maybe place a kiss to his neck or run his fingers through those curls.
Sherlock in turn, became dizzy when John crouched down next to him; his calm presence paired with the intrigue of the grim scene before him, made the great detective want to snog his blogger senseless.
They did nothing of the sort, of course. The Work came first, and they were (mostly) professionals.Â
But the thrumming energy between them needed an outlet, so when they walked away from the scene, both searched for an acceptable space behind the lights from the police cars and, more often than not, the emergency lights from the ambulance(s).
âThe alcove,â John whispered, reaching for Sherlockâs hand.
âPerfect,â Sherlock praised and hurried after him.
Sherlock hunched down a little, widened his stance to make some sort of barrier between the street and the opening. In the dim light, his dark figure, dressed in his long coat, completely hid the alcove.
John was mindful of wrapping his arms around Sherlockâs waist inside the Belstaff; his bare hands would stand out against the dark fabric. To hide what they were doing, Sherlock needed to rest his arms and gloved hands on the wall, which intensified the experience tenfold. He hated that he couldnât touch John, but he knew it would be worth the wait.
They kissed frantically for some glorious minutes, but when John spoke, Sherlock had to end the rendezvous.
âGod, Sherlock, I canât wait to have your hands on me. Youâre gagging for it arenât you? I can feel it. Itâs so bloody sexy, youâve no idea.â
It was a herculean effort to part from Johnâs lips and warmth, but Sherlock thought he would come in his pants if they kept it up much longer. They had run all over London for days, with only a few hours to spare for sleep, and he was harder than heâd been in a long while.
âHome. Now!â he growled.
Johnâs wicked chuckle did nothing to ease the arousal that was building with alarming speed. Luckily, a taxi approached them seconds later. Sherlock was quite certain he would have a hard time walking properly; his tailored trousers were becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
Neither of them was sad to see the emergency lights disappear behind them, and John wondered if it might be time to reveal their secret soon, though he found it indecently exciting to rile Sherlock up. Not that he was unaffected himself, but he had the benefit of slightly wider trousers than his vain boyfriend.