RSVP: A Well-Dressed Detective and His Reluctant +1Fandom:
Written for jaune_chat
for Five Acts, Round 3.Summary:
John had followed Sherlock into some unpleasant situations, but this one was proving to be particularly dreadful.
[Format note: if you don't see breaks between paragraphs, try viewing this page in Firefox, or click "view in my style" on the livejournal navigation bar at the top of the page.]
John pulled at his tie and then, when a nearby upper-crusty woman in a teal gown raised an eyebrow at him, tried to look like he wasn’t fidgeting.
The ballroom—who had ballrooms in their home, honestly?—buzzed with chatter at which John could only smile and nod. After fleeing the last conversation he’d attempted (“Yes, my agent came back from Sotheby’s with the most appalling Degas sketch. I’m sure you saw in the papers. No?”), he felt a profound gratitude and visceral relief similar to what he usually experienced after escaping a gang of armed criminals.
After waving off the advance of yet another tux-clad waiter bearing a champagne-laden silver tray, John forged a path through the crowd, craning his neck over the heads of the guests to try to catch a glimpse of a certain curly-headed detective. He curled his left hand into a fist and pressed it against his leg, which had begun to throb with a phantom pain. Another hour of this madness, and he’d need the cane again.
The sound of a smooth wash of laughter caught John’s attention. He pivoted on his good leg to spot Mycroft Holmes standing in a circle of distinguished looking men in expensive suits. Next to him stood Sherlock. Not next to
Mycroft, precisely. John might characterize it more as “nearby” Mycroft, as Sherlock was currently staring at the ceiling, looking like he was wishing fervently for death.
As soon as John’s gaze landed on him, Sherlock left off his contemplation of the heavens. His eyes searched the crowd until they found John, and there they stayed. He muttered something John couldn’t hear and patted absently at his brother’s arm before striding away from the group, leaving Mycroft to stare daggers at his back.
Sherlock came right up to John, caught his arm, and kept walking, steering them toward the far end of the ballroom. “How are you getting on?” he asked.
“I feel like a peasant.” John pulled at his tie again.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side a bare degree, as if he needed to study John’s statement from another angle. “A peasant?”
“Yes.” John lowered his voice below the level of the buzzing crowd. “A commoner. The help. Like I belong below stairs. This isn’t my kind of party, Sherlock.”
“Nor is it mine.” Sherlock snatched a glass from a passing waiter’s tray, tossed back the contents, and deposited it neatly on the tray of the next waiter they passed.
“That’s not precisely true, is it?” John said, glancing at Sherlock’s bespoke suit, which fit him unreasonably well. “And since when do you drink champagne?”
“I’m celebrating our escape,” Sherlock said. They’d reached the edge of the ballroom, where a hallway branched off further into the mansion. Sherlock steered them into an alcove screened by a ficus. “Explain. What’s not precisely true?”
John glanced out over the sea of upstanding citizens from the relative safety of the alcove. “How many of these types of things would you say you’ve been to in your life?”
“Countless,” Sherlock said, then grimaced. “I could count, of course, but I see no reason why that’s necessary. Several dozen.”
“See, there you have it. Several dozen. You have the right kind of clothes. You know which fork to use. You treat everyone like a servant, so having someone hand you a towel in the loo probably doesn’t seem jarring.”
“I generally avoid these kinds of engagements.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.
“You’d rather play at being charmingly bohemian in your bachelor flat with a washed-up Army doctor.” The sparkle of the ballroom glinted in John’s eyes; he felt a headache threatening. “And yet here we are.”
“Have I done something you don’t like?” Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled now. “You asked me to come. I’m here.”
“I thought you should be here. The way you looked at the RSVP card…” John trailed off. He’d interpreted Sherlock’s long contemplation of Mycroft’s invitation as interest. Sherlock so seldom displayed curiosity about any social activity that John had insisted they go. Now that John re-examined the evidence, however, he began to doubt his conclusion. “You weren’t secretly dying to come?”
“I was trying to figure out which of two printers had set the typeface,” Sherlock said slowly. “If I wanted to go, I would have said so.”
“Not if you were secretly pining,” John said, but he knew he was grasping at straws.
“I never pine in secrecy,” Sherlock said seriously.
“True enough.” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Alright. I apologize for getting us into this. My fault entirely.”
“Yes it is. Well.” Sherlock straightened his tie and threw a glance past the ficus to the swirling crowd beyond. “Suppose we must make the best of it. Come along.” Sherlock grabbed John’s elbow and pulled him down the hallway away from the ballroom.
“What’s this about?”
“Exit strategy. Coping mechanism. Means of extracting further apology. Take your pick.”
“Hurry,” John hissed.
Sherlock responded by reaching up for John’s wrists and pressing them to the wall on either side of him. “Do calm down, John,” he said, breath ghosting over John’s thigh. “Considering how many bottles the sommelier took out of here earlier this evening, they won’t need more for at least ten minutes.”
Sherlock had easily figured out the mansion’s floor plan well enough to navigate unseen to the wine cellar, and though John had not planned on earning forgiveness in quite this way, he found it difficult to argue when Sherlock was tugging open his trousers.
“Ten minutes.” John darted out his tongue to lick his lips. “Not much time.”
“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock’s look was meant to be angelic, but on his knees in that damn expensive suit, he looked positively sinful.
“Absolutely,” John said.
Sherlock surged forward to swallow John down, and began taking him apart with methodical, precise abandon. John pulled one hand out of Sherlock’s grip and fastened it onto the wine rack on his right to prevent his knees from buckling as Sherlock hummed around him. He told himself he had to listen for sounds, to be ready to do something
--God only knew what-- if someone were to come in, but the roar in his blood drowned out everything else. John’s brain had room only for sensation, and he’d venture to say that even a genius in deductive logic would have trouble keeping coherent thought alive when such things
were being done with a tongue.
When Sherlock growled around John’s cock and shoved him back into the wall, John bucked forward. His mouth fell open in a soundless shout as his release spiraled through him. Sherlock moved with him, keeping John captured in his mouth until he sucked him dry.
John slid down the wall to land in a crumpled heap. He allowed himself a few seconds of recovery before prying his eyes open.
Sherlock had sat back on his heels, braced a hand on the floor, and taken himself in hand. John leaned over and added both of his hands to the process. “Come on, then,” he whispered. “You’re getting away with fooling around in the wine cellar of an MP’s mansion. Bet those ponces upstairs wish they were down here watching you rather than upstairs talking nonsense and politics.”
nonsense,” Sherlock rasped.
“Hush. Pay attention.” John leaned closer, nudging Sherlock’s legs as far apart as they could go with his expertly-tailored pants still caught around his thighs. John rolled his palm around the head of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock made a strangled noise that caught against his teeth.
John leaned in, pressing into Sherlock's space in an attempt to rumple his composure as he'd rumpled his clothes. “You have this gorgeous look of full attention on your face when you come, and I know no one up there saw that from you tonight. Come on, show it to me.”
“John,” Sherlock choked out as his cock jerked, spilling his seed over John’s hand, the floor, and onto his Italian wool suit.
They slumped together a moment, breathing hard, until John said, “Well, what do you know? Turns out it is our kind of party.”
They laughed together until the sommelier returned.