Valentine’s Day Polyship Bonanza: Johnlockiarty
The phone buzzes again. Third time in five minutes, and John takes some small satisfaction in picturing just how frustrated Jim must be. Not used to being ignored. Well, you'd better get used to it.
The buzzing stops, only for one loud brrrrp to announce a text just seconds later.
He knows better than to look, really, but. And he knows better than to trust SHERLOCK'S BEEN INJURED CALL ME, but.
Jim picks up before the first signal has sounded. ”Johnny!”
Nothing but pleasure in his voice, and it is only then John realizes he's been holding his breath, heart pounding like a runaway train. Relief immediatly gives way to anger: ”Jim, I swear to God, if this is another one of your - ”
”You know I have bombs placed under the House of Parliament?” Jim cuts him off, and he's all business now, cold, indifferent. ”Just in case they'd be useful someday, or I get bored. Hang up on me and I'll set them off.”
And damn, what he wouldn't give to hang up on Jim anyway, just to, for one bloody time, surprise the bastard.
But of course he doesn't; of course he can't. Jim might be bluffing, probably is, but he's Jim, and John can't risk it. ”This isn't how you do relationships,” he says instead, fist clenched. ”You do get that, yeah? You can't just threaten innocent people to get me to talk to you.” He hesitates, but better have it all out. ”And you can't steal almost a hundred million quid's worth of jewlery just to lure Sherlock and I to Antwerpen.”
Except you very obviously can, you smug wanker.
”Is that why you wouldn't come, because you don't like little old me yanking your chain?” Scorn now, and if he'd been there it'd have been all John could do not to punch him. ”Or is your precious morals reasserting themselves, Doctor? I really though we were past that, but I suppose it always is hard for an obedient old watchdog to learn new tricks.”
But naturally the other cuts him off again. ”Don't be boring, John. No one's getting hurt, it's just a game.”
Just a game. Sherlock had said the same, and John feels another stab of sharp resentment at the memory of it: ”What's the harm, John? It's just a game, and he'll only think of something wrose if we don't play along.” –”If we go it'll only encourage him to do it over and over, just so he can see you dance. Sherlock, we musn't go.”
But Sherlock had gone, gone in spite of John's protests, and perhaps it is that, even more that Jim's criminal antics, that has his insides churning with something cold and bitter. Oh, Sherlock had made a big show of only indulging Moriarty, but there'd been a gleam and glimmer in his eyes, and John knows him only too well.
It is a game, all right, and one that Sherlock and Jim are far too fond of, and which has no place for John Watson.
”I'm not coming,” he snaps. ”And if you blow up as much as a mailbox I'll make sure you never see either of us again.” Ending the call with the push of a button isn't nearly as satisfying as slamming down and old-fashioned receiver would have been, but he'll take what he can get.
London on February 14 is a gray and miserable place to be when your lovers are elsewhere. John does his best to ignore that as he unlocks the door to 221B, juggling groceries and his umbrella while the cold rain soaks his coat. Inside, the hallway is dark, Mrs. Hudson elsewhere; most likely enjoying a nice meal with Mr. Chatterjee.
Good for her, John tries to think without bitterness.
Heading up the stairs he notices the faint smell of lingering aftershave, and so isn't a complete surprise when he opens to the door to the sitting room only to find Sherlock in his chair, Jim lounging by the window.
He pretends not to notice the small leap of his traitourous heart at the sight of them. ”Let me guess. You couldn't find a hotel room good enough for you?
Jim's body language is nothing but casual indifference, but his dark eyes are intent. ”I'll have you know I spent quite a lot of money on an absolutely darling honeymoon suite. Booked it several months ago.”
”It was disgustingly romantic,” Sherlock notes with a hint of amusement, a hint of disapproval. ”Though I suspect the chocolate and roses were all for your sake. The puzzle was his gift to me,” he adds, as if that wasn't already blindingly obvious
”So why aren't you there?” John says, still by the door. It won't do to give in too easily to these two.
They glance at each other. Jim makes a face, as if admitting defeat. ”What's the point, if you're here?”
Words, like a punch to the gut, though it's warmth and not pain that follows. Ah, John Watson, but you are an idiot. Is this how little it takes for you to forgive him? Forget what he is? It is, almost. ”Do you actually have bombs under Parliament?”
Jim's face is one of long-suffering impatience. ”Of course not, don't be silly. And Sherlock's already made sure the Leadentons got their diamonds back, so don't bother asking. Never had much interest for pretty stones, really, though I suppose it's funny the way others get worked up over them.”
John nods. Sure, giving in too easily won't do, but sometimes it's just too damn hard not to. ”Next year, you find Sherlock a Valentine's gift that doesn't involve you comitting a crime,” he says, trying to make his voice hard; failing, mostly. ”And if you want us to go on a holiday with you, you ask.”
”Yes, John,” Jim agrees, and his voice is meek but his grin wicked, and this probably isn't as much of a victory for John as it would appear, but Sherlock and Jim both have their eyes locked on him, hunger and affection mingling there, and he suspects they'll spend the night offering up apologies and amends the only way they know how, clever fingers and clever tongues and clever teeth, and though they'll never not run wild, at least they'll still for this, for him.
It isn't perfect, but it's more than he ever expected, and – he thinks – it is enough.
