Toy (Sherlock Phoenix x John Hamish Watson)

Sherlock sighed when John talked again, for some reason now he really couldn't concentrate on watching the people outside, he couldn't drown everyone out like his usual, or better, somehow he couldn't drown John out.

He turned towards his new assistant, his eyes moving over him again.
"John, no, I don't have a boyfriend," he said, and for the first time in a long time he didn't know what to expect, John wasn't like everyone else, he was completely unpredictable.

John frowned. So girlfriends weren't his area and he didn't have a boyfriend. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of the information. He'd never said that boyfriends weren't his area though so maybe he was gay?

John shook his head. Sherlock was certainly a mystery. "So you're unattached then," he mused, almost to himself. "Just like me...good."

Why did he say good? Was it good that Sherlock was single? Why did John even care? He wasn't gay. And even if he did, it would hardly be appropriate to fancy his own boss. Not that he did. Of course he didn't.

Good?

He looked at John again, could it be...?
John was trying to ask him out?
The idea made him blush for some reason, no one had ever wanted to ask him out, of course, he was a freak and a criminal, not the best combination around.
Who in his sane mind would want to date him?

Oh, but of course!
John was a policeman, a spy, he needed information, and what was best than becoming his boss' lover?
It made sense.

Somehow the notion of it made him angry though, and he straughtened up.

"I am... Flattered... John, but I consider myself married to my job," he said, and his eyes sparkled softly. "I have no time nor desire for relationships..."

He smirked then. "Even though you are a toy I /will/ love to play with," he muttered, choosing his words carefully.
Oh yes, he was going to play with John, he was going to make him /beg/.

Oh God. Sherlock thought he was interested. He thought John was trying to hit on him.

"No," he stammered. "That wasn't what I meant I was just...I'm not...."

Just then Angelo came over with his spaghetti and John was relieved to get an interuption to the rather awkward conversation, although he had started to lose his appetite slightly with all this embarrassing talk.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, even more confused when Sherlock described him as a toy he'd love to play with. John was pretty sure that was what he'd said. What the hell did he mean by that? He really didn't like to ask.

He put some of the spaghetti in his mouth and tried to change the topic. "Mmm, this is very nice," he commented with his mouth half full.

Sherlock laughed a bit at John's stammering reply, but he didn't really have time to say anything back, Angelo ruining the moment when settling a wonderfully smelling plate of spaghetti in front of John.
He rolled his eyes, moving his chair closer to the table and going back to watching the street outside.

"Mmhmm?" He mumbled, as he glanced back at John. "Food is boring, John," he said again, leaning closer and whispering close to his ear. "I could put your lips to a more useful occupation," he whispered with a smirk.

John continued to eat and was just starting to feel a little bit better about the situation when Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and whispered something suggestive in his ear rather seductively.

He choked a little on the food in his mouth and very nearly spat out a mouthful of spaghetti all over the table, then quickly reached over for his glass of water and took several large gulps, feeling quite breathless.

"What...what do you erm...mean exactly?" he stammered.

Sherlock smirked, forgetful of what was going on outside for a few seconds, just letting his fingers brush along John's collar.

"You know exactly what I am talking about," he whispered, leaning closer and cupping John's cheek.

"Don't forget, John... this is not like any other job... you belong to me," he said, his thumb rubbing over the other's luscious lips, brushing away a drop of water.

He leaned back slowly, his eyes still into John's, wondering what he was going to say to that. Would he protest? Would he say nothing in order not to anger him? Not to blow his cover?

Oh God. Oh Christ. John's heart pounded so hard in his chest he thought he might have a heart attack or explode any second. What the hell was Sherlock saying? One minute he girlfriends weren't his area, he didn't have a boyfriend and he was married to his work and the next...the next...well...the next minute he was saying that John belonged to him, whatever that meant. Oh God, what did he mean?

John felt a sudden twitch within his pants and blushed a bright deep red, hardly able to believe he was actually getting turned on by this. Surely not? I'm not gay, he insisted to himself. But despite of that he knew he couldn't back down, couldn't turn away from this. Did he even want to? He couldn't be so sure. He couldn't be sure of anything anymore. One thing was for certain...Sherlock was really messing with his head.

"Um...yeah...right...of course," he stammered nervously.

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up in surprise at John's reply, why was he agreeing? He would have never expected someone as impulsive and strong as John to agree to the idea of belonging to him! Was he that desperate for information? Or was Sherlock completely wrong about him?

Sherlock had never been wrong about anyone though.

"Well, John, good to know we are on the same page," he commented, his voice clearly teasing. "That way I know I can ask you anything without shocking you," he added, and his hand moved to settle on John's thigh.

"Are you not going to finish your spaghetti?" he asked, moving his hand up the warm skin of his leg.

John licked his lips, trying to calm himself, but Sherlock's teasing tone of voice and the way his hand ghosted up his inner thigh really wasn't helping.

"Right...spaghetti...yes," he mumbled distractedly, then picked up his fork again and began to eat. The food suddenly tasted like cardboard, he wasn't particularly hungry any more but forced it down anyway. God knows when he'd get chance to eat again.

"So erm...what are we doing here exactly?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock had been busy staring at John's mouth, his thoughts running a mile a minute in between all the possible things he could get this man to do to him, and even though he wasn't particularly interested in sex in its simple form, somehow this one felt like a challenge he needed to take. To submit someone as guarded and careful as John Watson would surely be an interesting experiment.
He needed time though.
And he was not going to forget about the excitement they were chasing now either.

"The killer just received a text from someone who couldn't be anyone but the victim, he is bound to be curious, he is bound to come to the specified address..." he looked towards the other side of the road, his fingers drumming restlessly on John's thigh.
"So we are waiting for him..."

John continued to eat his spaghetti, trying to concentrate on what Sherlock was saying rather than the fact that the criminal had his hand on John's thigh. He couldn't understand what it was about Sherlock that he found so utterly mesmerising but the man was making him start to question his own sexuality. God, what was he thinking. I'm not gay, he told himself again and again.

"Right, yes," he mumbled, although Sherlock's words didn't really register at first, his head still in a spin, then suddenly it clicked what he'd just said. "Hang on. So we're...we're waiting for a murderer? You really think he's stupid enough to show up here? At the address you gave him?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose in surprise at John's words. "Stupid?" he repeated, and turned fully towards him.
"John, you have to imagine that he has no idea we are after him, the police seems to be crawling in the dark and now he gets a text, the one you typed, on his last victim's phone, that seems to imply that he hadn't succeeded in killing her..." he explained quickly, his voice low and determined, as his eyes flashed to the street.

"How do you think he would feel? This man is smart, but he is also curious and proud, he will want to know what had gone wrong and even if he suspects someone else is behind it, he will think he can take them anyhow once he sees who it is..." he muttered, his hand slipping further up John's thigh.
"Don't underestimate me, John," he warned him with a smirk.

John nodded, trying to understand the points Sherlock was making. "Hmm right yeah, I think I understand," he mumbled. He was used to stake outs from his time as a cop, but this situation was a little unusual, mainly due to the fact that he was working with a criminal.

John sighed a little sadly, "you would have made a great cop," he remarked, then regretted the comment, biting his lip slightly and hoping Sherlock didn't become suspicious. The last thing he wanted was to blow his cover. Not before this big job that Mycroft apparently had in the pipeline.

He yelped as Sherlock's hand crept further up his thigh, unable to prevent the tingling sensation between his legs as the warmth from the criminal's hand eminated through his body.

"I won't...I don't," he gasped. "I have...I have a lot of respect for you Sherlock."

Grey icy eyes moved on John's face for a long moment when he spoke about being a cop. "I was never given a chance to decide about my future..." he said simply, not even sure why he felt he needed to justify himself.
The truth was that he liked this much better than his usual tasks, it excited him and it gave him a sense of fulfillment he had never felt before.

His career as a criminal had given him the chance to experiment things that were highly unethical and he was always free to do as he wanted, but somehow it had never been enough.

"Respect," he scoffed, pulling his hand away suddenly. He couldn't possibly believe John would choose to 'respect' him, especially when they belonged to opposite side, but of course this was his cover and the soldier had proved he knew how to act already.

"That cab has been here for a while now, it could be our man," he commented, jumping to his feet, he had enough of this talking.
John made him feel strange, different.

John felt it was quite sad that Sherlock had been forced to go down the criminal career path. It was a shame for the world to have lost such a brilliant mind that could have been put to much better use.

But John liked Sherlock anyway, he had quickly decided. He wasn't like the others. There seemed to be a certain kindness there behind his cold eyes and John was sure he wasn't as bad as people made him out to be. He actually felt quite ashamed at the idea of having to betray him.

He looked up surprised when Sherlock moved his hand away. Had he said something wrong? Done something to annoy him? Best not to ask for now, and thirty seconds later he realised he wouldn't have had time to ask anyway, as Sherlock was getting to his feet. John hurriedly shoved another load of spaghetti in his mouth and stood up too, grabbing his coat. "Sorry where...where are we going?"

Sherlock was already in another world, his legs moving quickly towards the exit and his eyes were determined as they looked outside.
His mind was reeling with the possibilities and he hardly heard John's words.

"Less talking and more action, John," he told him annoyed, and groaned when approaching the kerb, he noticed the taxi was moving away.

"Damn it," he exclaimed, moving his hands in front of his eyes for a moment as he organized his thoughts.
"Where are they going?" he thought out loud, the map in his head moving and shaking.

"This way!" he shouted then, suddenly starting to run.


((You are welcome to go a bit faster with this part... we need to get to the John killing the cabbie part >> and then Sherlock is going to rape John, I mean... have tea with him >> or on him ))

((Have you seen the pilot? We could mix it in a bit and have Sherlock go off with the cabbie at the end of the chase scene? Maybe John gets a bit left behind and catches up with them in time to see Sherlock disappearing in the cab?))



John hardly had time to think before he realised Sherlock was racing out of the restaurant and darting across the busy London streets after this random taxi that had stopped outside the house.

"Sherlock!" he called after him, trying to get him to slow down as he was nearly ran over by a speeding car.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, realising he had no choice but to follow him. He set off running, finding it difficult to keep up with the fast paced large strides of the taller leaner man as they weaved in and out of alley ways and backstreets.

John had no idea where they were going but Sherlock seemed to have some kind of map inside his mind. If they weren't running so hard he might have found a moment to be impressed.

(I don't remember it, maybe I should watch it again << it sounds good... But how does John know where to find them then? I'll leave you to describe the scene? )

Sherlock ran, following his own directions, jumping from one building to the other, going up and down alleyways, but somehow he was always aware of where John was, how far behind he was chasing him and whether he was going in the right direction.
He had never been so conscious of another person, and it was quite surprising.

He gasped as he finally jumped in front of the taxi, looking in and moving to the side, opening the back door to see who was inside. His heart was beating so fast in his chest, the adrenaline felt like drugs in his veins.
He wanted so much to be right, he wanted so much for John to see just how smart he was.

(ok...I'll do my best, but just fill in the bits that I've missed out because obviously John doesn't know why Sherlock goes off in the cab...in the pilot the cabbie stabs him with a needle, drugs him and basically kidnaps him but you can make it anything you like)


John was breathless, his chest aching wi the exertion if trying to keep up with Sherlock. The other man was clearly a faster runner, those big long legs, huge strides. He felt like he was always several yards behind.

He jumped across a rooftop, ran down a set of stairs and found himself in an alley way, unsure of whether Sherlock had gone left or right. He glanced first to the left, then to the right, just in time to see what looked like the tail of Sherlock's long coat disappearing into a black cab, the door slamming shut behind it. That was it. The cab they'd been chasing. And Sherlock had just got in it.

John ran towards the taxi and out of the alley way onto the main road, just as the vehicle sped away, caressing off down the street at some speed. Something wasn't right, he could just sense it. Trusting his instincts, he quickly hailed another cab and ordered it to follow as fast as it could.

Sherlock had been too drunk on adrenaline to realize things suddenly took the wrong turn. When he leaned into the cab to see who was inside, he realized with a shock that the back was completely empty.

His mind raced to find the answer, to reach that logical next step that he needed to figure this whole thing out, but when he turned around with recognition, it was too late, a needle was sticking from his neck and pain shot through his body.

He catalogued his symptoms quickly and knew he wasn't going to die, but it really didn't matter that much considering he couldn't move as he was pushed into the cab.

He cursed himself mentally for his own slow reflexes and concentrated on breathing steadily.

"Don't worry, my dear, the drug will wear off by the time we get to the place," said the cabbie from the front.

Sherlock groaned in reply, realizing he could talk.

"You could tell me who the hell you are in the meantime..."

"How did you kill them?" he asked, ignoring the question, his voice groggy.

The cabbie didn't seem happy of the change of subject, nor he seemed to enjoy the fact Sherlock knew so much about him.

"Are you a detective? Some sort of police?" he asked, clearly annoyed.

"You can say that," he replied with a smirk, trying to look outside the window, but his eyes felt numb.

"I'll show you exactly what I did to them," said the cabbie with a laugh.

John leaned forward in the back of the other cab, anxiously following Sherlock, snapping impatiently at the driver when the other car was temporarily lost round a corner, or disappeared through the traffic.

"Keep up! There...left! I said left!" He was getting increasingly frustrated.

"Alright damn it," the cabbie grumbled. "Are you the police or something?" He raised an eyebrow curiously.

John cleared his throat. "Well yes actually, I am. I'm an undercover officer and we're chasing a very important criminal actually, two, very important criminals. So please, do your best. I'll give you extra money."

The cabbie nodded and put his foot down a little more, much to John's relief, although to be honest, he had no idea why he cared so much about what kind of danger Sherlock was in. He was after all, amongst his own kind, and he'd clearly brought trouble on himself. But somehow he couldn't just abandon him. He wanted to help.

Sherlock tried to move, his hand felt foreign as he touched his own face, his senses were all there, but slowed down.
"Is that how you got the others? With drugs?" he asked, even though it seemed quite unlikely, considering the toxicology reports.
He wanted to keep the cabbie talking, he wanted him to spill the beans, and well-aimed questions usually did the trick quite nicely.

"I am a cabbie, I don't need to drug people to get them into my car," he said simply, Sherlock focusing on him, his eyes slowly taking in all possible clues.

"She knew she was going to die, she was clever, she planted her phone on you... and you fell for it," he muttered eventually, and the cab seemed to go that bit faster.

"I didn't fall for it!" he shouted, annoyed as he pushed the breaks.

Their destination, Sherlock realized, was a building that looked a lot like a school.
Deserted at this time of the night. Of course.
"You didn't kill them in your cab, no sign of struggle..." he said, slowly sitting up when the driver opened the door.

"How did you convince them to come with you?" he asked, and eventually saw the gun pointing him. "..right," he exclaimed with a chuckle.
A fake gun, what a laugh, he thought quickly, but slid out of the taxi nonetheless, his legs unsteady as they walked inside.
He wanted to know.
He wanted to know what had happened to the other victims.

John's taxi careered round another corner and he leaned forward, pointing through the gates of some kind of college. "There...in there." He could already see the abandoned cab as they pulled up, and realised they must have gone inside.

He jumped out of the cab then turned to the driver. "Will you wait here?" He asked pleadingly, taking out some money. "Here, have this...but I'll double it if you wait for me. I won't be long, it's just my friend's in there and - "

"Your friend?" The driver interupted. "I thought you said he was some insanely dangerous criminal."

"Right. Well. He is." John answered, wondering why he'd referred to Sherlock as his friend. The cabbie shrugged. "Whatever. I'll wait." "Thank you. Thank you so much."

John looked up at his surroundings and realised there were actually two separate buildings, also realising he had no idea which one Sherlock and the cabbie had gone into. It was a bit of a dilemma. Which one should he take? Left or right? He took a deep breath and ran through the door on the left. He raced through the empty corridors, burst into rooms, calling out Sherlock's name.

By the time they were sitting in what looked like a biology classroom, Sherlock had gathered enough information about the killer to know exactly what had happened to all the victims.
It was actually quite a disappointment, the method rather simple, and as much as the cabbie insisted he had outlived the other victims, Sherlock was still doubtful it could be anything but luck.

The man was a terminal patient, but clearly, he was doing this for the money, he had a sponsor apparently, and somehow he had an idea of who this person could be.
He used to know someone who could and would do something like that.

"So, Sherlock, are you going to play?" asked the cabbie, his sneer was ugly and Sherlock really couldn't stand it.

"This is hardly a game, isn't it," he commented with a scoff, his heart beating so fast in his chest. He knew already that he couldn't refuse, that he wanted to know whether he could beat this person, he couldn't possibly turn away.

"It is, it's like chess, and this is my move," said the cabbie, pushing forward the tube of pills on the left.

Sherlock looked at him for a long time, he let him lure him for a while, before he stood up and avoided the tube that had been offered, grabbing the pills in front of the cabbie.

"Fine," he said, moving towards the window, trying to use the artificial light coming from outside to see whether he noticed anything strange with the pills or the container. Nothing.

"Let's try them then," said the cabbie with a smirk, unreadabke as they both took the pills out of the tube.

Sherlock's hand was shaking, it was exciting, it was scary, he could be a few minutes from his death, but he felt exhilarated, knowing he had cracked his first case.
He wasn't the criminal this time and even if he died in that moment, he would only get this man arrested.

He moved the pill closer to his mouth, dark thoughts flooding his mind, and fear gripping his nerves.
He just hoped he had guessed correctly.
Else these were his last breaths.