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John really had no idea what to expect when he landed in Paris six days ago. Six months on the battlefield in the Afghan heat may prepare you for a lot of things; however they don’t give you any clue as to how your fresh-out-of-rehab sister will function in a city like Paris.
As it turns out, said sister fits into Paris perfectly. John thinks it must be Clara’s influence, but Harry is happier than John has ever seen her and that is what counts.
And to think Harry almost didn’t go with her wife when she was offered a job in the French capital… John shakes his head, banishing horrific visions of Harry passed out on the bathroom floor while her brother was getting shot at.
He arrives at the airport – a smaller one and home to many cheap airlines that are more compatible with an army salary than KLM or British Airways – as intended. By the time he has passed security and checked in his luggage, boarding will have started.
Everything runs smoothly until John is standing in the duty-free zone, bustling with passengers waiting for their flights and stocking up on wine, chocolate and bottled water. It is only when John’s eyes scan the display that he sees it – Flight EZY7437 has been delayed.
Bugger.
Well, he brought a book, might as well get to it. He just started it, still has four hundred pages left and spots three coffee shops in his immediate vicinity.
The time will just fly by, John muses and starts looking for a seat.
*
Seven hours, a horrendously expensive supper and three cups of equally expensive tea later, John curses himself for not bringing another book.
It is 1am and EZY7437 is still nowhere near the runway – technical problems, they say. “We’re working on it, sir,” was the curt explanation John received from the person at the info desk when he dared ask. Wonderful.
This is going to be a long night.
*
Sherlock can feel his mind rotting as the seconds trickle by, one by one, in a slow form of torture.
He could end it, is already toying with his phone while he lies sprawled across two uncomfortable chairs in the lounge. One call to Mycroft and he would be on a private jet back to England. After all the only reason for Sherlock’s trip was a favour to his brother – extricating one in return, even one as expensive as this one would be his prerogative.
Yet Sherlock does not ask his brother for favours. He is way above such trivial things. He has no need of Mycroft’s influence and phoning him now would only lead to Mycroft arguing that Sherlock cannot even survive a few hours at the airport. The mocking would never cease and it would be tedious. No, there is no way Sherlock is calling his brother.
Heaving a sigh, Sherlock pockets the phone and slides off the bench in one fluid motion. He rights the collar of his coat as he glances around, looking for a distraction.
Such boring lives. How do these people make it through the week?
Well, that one businessman in the corner might not make it after all, if the size of his tumour is as large as the nervous tick of his hand indicates.
Sherlock deduces a few more, immediately identifying those who are as stranded as he is. He shudders when he glimpses a toddler. The child may be fast asleep now but it will surely wake up once they board (should they ever), and scream and wail at the top of its tiny lungs.
At least Sherlock is flying First Class and won’t have to deal with the bratling in his immediate vicinity.
The thought is enough to lighten his mood marginally and he sets out to inspect the rest of the airport. Hopefully, there will be something to occupy his time.
*
John is browsing aimlessly through the displays at Relay. He forgoes the vampire books and after a look at the summary he also puts back something called The Hunger Games. He sees enough murder and mayhem during his tour; he doesn’t need to read about it in his time off.
He picks up something called Wake because the minimalistic cover is nice, only to almost drop it when someone comments, startling him.
“You won’t like that one either.”
The stranger is either incredibly stealthy or the long wait has dulled John’s senses – he should have seen the man approach.
John turns slowly, saying, “What makes you think that? You read it?” before he takes in the man next to him.
He is tall and handsome in an unconventional way with high cheekbones, dark, messy curls that look well-groomed and sharp blue eyes. His British accent is posh and the long, black coat, dark trousers and crisp white shirt all shout public school. He doesn’t strike John as tourist or businessman. Maybe he is a secret agent? He looks the part and it would put John’s mind at ease since no mere civilian should be able to sneak up on a trained soldier.
The bloke gives a derisive snort. “Why would I? But my landlady has a fondness for not only trivial romance fiction but also bland thrillers. I assume this is the latter and I doubt it will hold any interest for a soldier on leave.”
John, who was placing the book back on the shelf, whips around. “How do you know my occupation?”
His secret agent theory is becoming more and more likely.
He receives a smug grin in return. “Your occupation is evident in your gait and the way you hold yourself, as well as your haircut. Also you have a habit of taking stock of your surroundings, noting exits and escape routes; something you might not even be aware of after six months on the battlefield.”
John blinks, though apparently the man is not yet finished.
“Though you aren’t simply a soldier but a field medic, evident by the way you were browsing the medical section moments ago as well as by how you almost rushed to that old ladies’ side when she tripped before her son steadied her. A doctor’s reflexes and a soldier’s habits – army doctor, obvious. Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“A-Afghanistan,” John manages, thoroughly baffled. “How -?”
“Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. British army doctor deployed somewhere he acquires a tan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”
“How did you know I was British?”
At that, the stranger chuckles. “Please, you can always tell the Brits from the rest of the world.”
John swallows, licking his lips. “Alright, why am I in Paris, then?”
His tone is challenging and there is an excited glint in the man’s eyes when they meet John’s before they slide down his body, doing whatever it is the man does to gather the information he needs.
“You were visiting your brother.”
A smirk tugs at the corners of John’s lips. He nods, encouraging the stranger to go on.
“His wife is the reason they moved – job offer, most likely. You were worried about the move, probably because your brother almost didn’t follow her, or maybe it is because you thought the stress would trigger his drinking again. But you found that all is fine. I wouldn’t be too relaxed, though. You never know when the bottle calls him back.”
John’s jaw has dropped at some point and he hurries to close it again, but his eyes are wide as he stares up at the man.
“That was amazing.”
For some reason this surprises the bloke. “You think so?”
“Of course it was. It was extraordinary.”
The man’s smile is blinding. “So I didn’t get anything wrong?”
John was hoping he would ask. “Harry did have a drinking problem, but the move really helped. Clara did get a job and I was visiting them.”
“Spot on, then.”
Oh, how smug the man is. John can’t wait to take him down a notch.
“Harry’s not my brother. Harry’s short for Harriet.”
“Your sister,” the man grits out, brows furrowed and clearly angry at his mistake. “There’s always something.”
“Well, not every woman marries a man,” John teases, noting with interest how the bloke’s eyes narrow slightly at his remark. “I’m John Watson, by the way.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
Good, so John can stop thinking about him as ‘the bloke’ or ‘the stranger’. The name suits him – it is every bit as posh and unusual as the man himself.
“And what brings you to an airport at,” John glances at his watch, “almost two o’clock in the bloody morning?”
“I’m on the same delayed flight as you are.”
“Oh. Then you have time.”
“Time for what?” Sherlock shoots back immediately, but his tone is intrigued and his expression open.
“Time to help me choose a book for the flight, since you’re so clever.”
For a moment John expects him to turn him down, to say he has things to do, maybe answer some emails or check in with HQ (since in John’s mind Sherlock is still a secret agent; it is a thrilling notion), but Sherlock does neither of these things. Instead he grins coyly, turning on his heels and stalking down the aisle with a spring in his step.
John follows and is not ashamed to admit that he checks out Sherlock’s arse in the process. It is a nice arse, most definitely.
*
John hasn’t laughed this much since one of his mates was constantly scratching a mosquito bite at his inner thigh during one of their missions (thankfully, it was recon or they’d all be dead by now). Sherlock might be arrogant and a little standoffish, but his comments on books are priceless.
John can’t remember how it started, but after dismissing all the books Sherlock recognised they continued with books he didn’t know and had to read the summary, which always led to him deducing the rest of the plot and calling it “dull”, “mind-numbing” or other such designations.
No literary convention was safe from Sherlock’s scathing criticism, no trope allowed to stand unquestioned and by the time an announcement sounded throughout the airport, the clerk and several other customers were glaring daggers at them.
“Attention, all passengers of flight EZY7437,” the voice added after a statement in French of which John understood not a single word, “due to technical problems the departure is delayed until further notice. We apologise for the inconvenience.”
“Bloody hell,” John grumbles, “we’ll never get out of here.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer but his eyes rest on John, his expression pensive. “Maybe it is time for drastic measures.”
“You mean get another flight? I asked, Sherlock, everything’s booked.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.”
For the next few minutes, all John gets out of Sherlock are cryptic sentences until he dials a number and raises his phone – one of these sleek smartphones – to his ear. John wonders whom he might be calling at four o’clock in the morning but whoever it is picks up almost immediately. Whatever the person on the other end says seems to amuse Sherlock enough to warrant a smirk.
“Of course I know what time it is, Mycroft, the airport is full of clocks.” A pause, then Sherlock snorts. “No, airport security does not have me in custody,” he winks at John who grins and wonders why this Mycroft bloke would think that. “But my flight is still not departing and frankly I’ve had enough. … Oh, don’t talk to me about favours. It would have taken your amateurs of secret agents weeks to figure that one out. You owe me.”
John’s pulse quickens – so Sherlock is indeed affiliated with the Secret Service, but not as an agent… Maybe a freelancer? Who is Mycroft, then? Can’t be his boss or it wouldn’t have been a favour.
“Great. We’ll make our way to the gate immediately. Yes, ‘we’, Mycroft. And you will need to reroute John’s Watson’s luggage. That shouldn’t be too hard, even for your employees, should it?”
The call ends and John blurts, “What is going on?”
“We’re taking another plane.”
“But I just said –“
“My brother owes me, so he is having a jet pick us up. No worries, your luggage will find its way to London. Come on, we wouldn’t want to keep the personnel waiting.”
John hurries after Sherlock, whose long legs have him at a definite advantage.
“Who are you? MI6? Some other special force?”
For some reason Sherlock finds his theory laughable. “No. I would never stoop so low. Something, I’m afraid, that cannot be said about my brother.”
“Mycroft?”
“Yes. He occupies a minor position in the British Government and asked me to consult on a case in Paris, which brought me here.”
“Consult? What are you, then?”
Sherlock stops in his tracks, turning around to face him with a smirk. “What do you think?”
John considers him briefly. “I would say private investigator, but that seems a tad mundane.”
Sherlock’s eyes sparkle at the implicit praise. “I’m a consulting detective – the only one in the world. I invented the job.”
It is John’s turn to laugh. “Of course you did.”
“Mostly I help the police when they are out of their depth – which is always – but on occasion my brother manages to find something interesting that goes above the small heads of his people.”
“Amazing,” John breathes out, unable to keep the awe from his tone. By the looks of it, though, Sherlock seems to enjoy it immensely.
“Come on, the jet should be ready by now.”
*
John Watson doesn’t even try to hide he is impressed by the private jet and its spacious interior. With every other person on the planet Sherlock would have found this annoying or borderline daft, yet somehow the soldier seems to be the exception to every rule.
The stewardess quickly explains the safety features and that their flight time is an estimated hour and fifteen minutes before Sherlock waves her off. She brews them tea after take-off and disappears into the cockpit for the rest of the flight.
John’s eyes immediately find his when the door falls shut behind her. Of course, he doesn’t have a book.
“Go on, feel free to nap,” Sherlock tells him but the soldier shakes his head.
“Tell me about your case in Paris,” he asks, leaning forward in his chair opposite Sherlock.
No one ever asks about his cases – not with such obvious fascination. So Sherlock recounts the tale that includes a chase on a motorbike as well as a fistfight on the rooftops of the banlieue and ends with Sherlock infiltrating a male strip-club where his suspect was hiding.
“How does one infiltrate a strip club? Can’t you just walk in?” John interjects, so Sherlock explains that it was a members-only fetish club and that he posed as a new employee to bypass security.
“The guard at the door was too distracted by my blush and the tight leather I was wearing to actually think about whether or not anyone new was starting that day,” Sherlock rants, because really, sometimes people are too easy.
It takes him a moment to notice John’s eyes have glazed over a bit. They have darkened considerably and Sherlock takes in John’s posture. It doesn’t need a genius like him to deduce that the mental image of Sherlock in leather does something to the man.
It is a power rush, having such open lust directed at him, and for the first time in months – if not years – Sherlock feels a shiver crawl up his spine. He meets John’s eyes and watches them widen and the man’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Sherlock can feel his skin heat up and something ignite low in his stomach when a whole new set of possibilities presents itself.
“I had to find the suspect in the crowd, so I needed to blend it, act along, pretend as if I actually worked there,” Sherlock recounts after a long stretch of silence. “People pulled me into their laps, paid me for a dance…”
John swallows across from him and his lips fall open. His mouth has probably gone dry.
“Do you want me to show you?” Sherlock asks, not yet rising from his seat.
“Oh God, yes,” is John’s reply, breathless and heady, and Sherlock is in front of him a moment later. He considers his options, intends to build up to it, unbutton his shirt slowly before sliding onto John’s lap but the man has other ideas.
He shoots to his feet and steps right into Sherlock’s personal space until their chests are touching and their faces are mere centimetres apart. John’s breath is hot against his skin.
It is John who carefully brushes the jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders. It is John whose fingers undo his shirt, caressing the collarbone when he exposes it. Apparently John doesn’t need the illusion, doesn’t want Sherlock to pretend he is back at the club. He surprises Sherlock again and leaves him panting in his wake.
John has divested Sherlock of all his clothing before he starts with his own, first the cardigan, then his button-up, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face despite the very prominent erection he is sporting.
Patience has never been his virtue, so, of course, Sherlock can’t wait until John is in an equal state of undress. He pulls John around and sits him down on Sherlock’s chair, his shirt half open but already exposing a well-defined chest. Sherlock climbs into his lap and takes care of the remaining buttons himself before undoing his fly and exposing him to the warm cabin air.
They rock against each other until John wraps a spit-slicked hand around both of them. It is glorious – Sherlock can feel the callouses on his fingers and is free to touch as much of John as he can reach himself, hard muscles under tanned skin.
They don’t kiss until the very end, when John’s breathing is coming in short gasps and Sherlock can feel the heat pool in his groin and his testicles tighten. Their eyes meet over their throbbing erections and then firm lips are on his and Sherlock loses himself in a chaos of tongue and teeth.
While they are catching their breaths, Sherlock remains where he is, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck. He wants to taste the skin, feel the sweat and salt against his tongue while John rakes an arm around his back and pulls him closer.
“Where are you staying in London?” Sherlock asks. He hasn’t thought this through, his brain is still fuzzy from orgasm, but he knows his instincts are right.
“Uh, at a friend’s. Why?”
“I’d really like to see what you can do on a horizontal mattress.”
John chuckles, smiling down at him where Sherlock’s head is resting against his shoulder. “I still have a week of leave left. I’m sure we can find out exactly what I’m capable of.”
“A slim margin, but it will have to suffice,” Sherlock decides, pressing closer. John’s body is warm and comfortable and Sherlock is tired after three days without sleep.
A short nap before they land, then a cab back to Baker Street where they will have to use the second bedroom since Sherlock’s is littered with experiments and files of cold cases Lestrade brought over, and maybe Sherlock can bring John along to a crime scene before he returns to the desert to get shot at.
Yes, that will do nicely, Sherlock muses, eyes already drooping.