Interruptions (John/Sherlock)

John couldn't help but lick his lips when Sherlock stepped close to him.

"Yes, dangerous indeed, that's part of what I love..."

However, he knows he has to behave as well, so he hops into the shower without any other comments.

When Sherlock gets in and asks about Downtown, John laughs and leans back into him.

"Nothing important, silly TV show Ms. Hudson talked me into watching with her when I was unemployed. She'll still have me watch it on some of those weekends when you're doing an experiment and I don't have work. Takes place in the early 1900s, all about rich people and their servants, mainly focused on the romantic relationships. Plenty of scandalous flirting in dark corners, and takes place in a big fancy house like this, that's why I mentioned it."

"Personally, I find it a ridiculous girly show, but it makes Ms. Hudson happy when I watch it with her, and she always makes nice biscuits when I come over for it."

John stretches up and starts scrubbing the shampoo into Sherlock's hair.

"You have the softest hair I've ever felt, Lock. I love the feeling of it. Also, I caught you staring at me a moment ago," John lowers himself off of his tip-toes and wraps his arms around Sherlock, "Before this, I was never overly confident about my looks. I knew I was somewhere in the middle of the range- not bad looking, but not exactly modelling material either. Now, when you look at me like that, I feel like a work of art. It's a bit terrifying, but more flattering. I never thought anyone would ever look at me like that. I like it better this way too, that someone finds me attractive because they love me, rather than someone thinking they love me because I'm attractive."

Sherlock closed his eyes for two purposes: the first to keep shampoo and water out of his eyes and because he wanted to enjoy John's fingers massaging his scalp with all of his attention. He draped his arms around John's waist. He opens his eyes when John mentioned the staring.

Sherlock beamed the softest of smiles down at John. John had put his feelings so well to words. Sherlock could never have named his emotions so well.

"I mean it. Which is weird to say about ... staring. But I meant it."

Sherlock brought his hands up, sliding over John's sides to cup his cheek and kissed him. It was a good, thorough kiss, not meant for getting each other excited, but just to be close.

They naturally broke apart. Sherlock removed his hands from John's hips (his hands had somehow wandered off from John's cheek). He picked up the shampoo bottle and squirted some of it on his fingers. Then, he started rubbing it in John's hair.

"I know I'm generally judged as handsome. Did I ever tell you that, in my first year of uni, I was offered a job in modelling? I did some jobs when I needed the money. My parents were rich enough to fund the study and my apartment... But the drugs was my own deal, so that's why I did some mindless and idiotic catwalking and stand in ridiculous poses for a camera. But as I told you before: My flatmates said they loved me because I'm attractive. They hated my character, that what makes me me. You don't."

John sighs lightly at the feeling of Sherlock's fingers in his hair. He tilts his head towards Sherlock, and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"Physically you are handsome and sexy, and I find your appearance irresistible, but that would all be empty lust if you were someone else. I don't like when you use the excuse of your body just being transport to get out of eating and sleeping in healthy amounts, but in this case it is true. Your body is just the shell that holds what you truly are. You happen to have a very beautiful shell, but in the end it is just a shell, it's not the part that really matters. More than that, for me at least, it's what's inside your body that I fell in love with. This, and this," John kisses over Sherlock's heart, and on his forehead, "you could be the ugliest bugger on the face of this earth, but those wouldn't change, and I would still love you."

John then looks up with a grin.

"On the other hand, since we both know how desirable I do find your body- do you still have any of those old modelling photos? I would be very interested to see them."

An old memory stirs in the back of John's head. One of his best friends in med school, a girl named Kate, who had been completely obsessed with a model from Spencer Hart. She had magazine cut-outs of the man. He was tall, pale, with dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes. John had been completely convinced he was straight at the time (with a girlfriend to prove it), but even he couldn't deny that the bloke was attractive in a strange, androgynous way.

"Oh my God, never mind...I've seen pictures of you modelling. I had a friend who had a crush on you. She put the pictures up in her dorm room. I always said it was creepy because one of them had you staring right at her bed. Whenever I went over to study it felt like the picture was staring into my soul, freaked me out."

John starts laughing, "This is so weird, I'd totally forgotten about that. You know that at one point Kate, the friend, got me drunk enough to play a game. She went through pictures of all the male models and celebrities she found attractive and made me pick out the one who I felt I wouldn't mind kissing. I picked you. All the way back then. Before I knew you. I found one shot where you actually looked...soft. You were smiling a bit, your real smile, not the fake one, and they had let you take off your tie and just sit casually. I think you were fiddling with something in your hands and glancing at the camera out of the corner of your eye. I said that I could consider kissing you, but only if you looked at me like that, because that seemed like the real you. I said that in the rest of the pictures you looked like a prat who clearly hated the modelling work, and would probably just insult me if I tried talking to him. I also distinctly remember saying you were underweight and I was surprised she hadn't read about you being hospitalized for passing out on a photo shoot."

John is still chuckling, "Oh god, I wonder if she remembers that. It would almost be worth it to get back in touch with her and see how she reacts to me being engaged to you now."

"John-" Sherlock sighed happily. "I envy your ability to express yourself with words. Thank you. I- eh." He sighed again. "Thank you."

Sherlock chuckled. "I have to disappoint you. The work wasn't important to me, so I have no pictures at home. Mycroft might have some-"

Wide eyed of surprise, Sherlock listened to John's story. Sherlock couldn't believe it. His jaw dropped. For a moment, he was oblivious to the feeling of the water.

"Seriously? Well, it can be true, I must admit I was rather wanted in the fashion scene at that time. It surprises me they put up with my behaviour that long. The other models were so pissed off-" Sherlock said smiling, he was kind of proud that he had irritated his colleagues. Models, generally speaking, are such idiots. "They were so pissed off I was so successful without even trying. Oh they were all ambitious show-offs. All so over the top."

"I think that is why Nick Hart liked me. I used to be the face of Spencer Hart. I liked that work the most of everything I was offered to do. Nick Hart was nice and interested in me. Plus the suits are nice. After my breakdown, Mycroft only bought suits from Spencer Hart. And ah, yes I remember that shoot. It felt relaxed. The photographer was nice and I wasn't forced to do weird things like hold a chicken while balancing on one hand. I did feel like a boyband member though."

Sherlock snickered. He imagined the situation: "Hello, Kate, so nice to see you again. Yes, yes, I am more than fine. I am engaged, in fact. Hey, Kate, a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon an old memory. You know that time you fed me drunk and played that 'which male celebrity would you kiss?' Well, I would like to introduce you to my fiancé: Sherlock Holmes."

"That would be ... highly amusing."

Sherlock remembered what John said about the photograph he was attracted to. Sherlock took John's hands loosely in his own, lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew how the photo had looked and pictured it very vividly in his imagination. He fiddled with John's fingers. Finally, he looked up out of the corner of his eye and smiled softly, reenacting the photograph of over ten years ago.

John's breath caught when Sherlock smiled at him, recreating the photo.

"Yeah, that's the one, and I had said I would do this."

John leaned up and kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth closest to him. Then, he lifted one hand and brought it up to the other side of Sherlock's face, turning it and kissing him fully on the mouth.

"So much more attractive now," John murmurs against Sherlock's lips, "Kate wouldn't have been able to guess half of the moments you look your best- she'd never seen you deduce, or play violin, or sleep curled up against her chest, or smile in surprise because she said something unexpectedly smart. If they'd had pictures of you doing that, I probably would have become as obsessed as her. You would have been able to laugh at me, as I told you how I creepily hung up pictures of you over my bed and wanked off to dreams of a 19-year old you in Spencer Hart."

John shakes his head, "I'm glad they didn't. That would be too weird. Particularly the last bit."

Sherlock kissed John back. He was glad his imitation had worked.

He stopped the water and got out of the shower. The skin of their hands had started to become wrinkly and sunset was coming quickly.

"Well, I'm glad they didn't too. If fate had still brought us together and if you had wanked off on my appearance... I would feel... you know." Sherlock's eyes clouded for a moment. Boys and girls had wanted him because of his looks before and that had only lead to.. bad emotions.

Sherlock shook his head to clear his mind, spraying water from his hair all over John like a dog. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, he smiled a little.

"It is unwise to dwell on scenarios that never happened."

"And you are wrong." Sherlock smirked. "You did wank off on dreams of me after seeing me in Spencer Hart. Do you remember that day after we were chased by criminals and faked making out in the alleyway? You got drunk after I asked you a personal question you evaded. You got upstairs and drank a whole bottle of brandy Lestrade gave you for your birthday. The next day, you asked me (after bugging you) if something had happened the night before. You were afraid you had forced yourself on me, which wasn't the case. You were unsure what was real and what wasn't, a common after effect of alcohol. So I deduced that when you were drunk, you wanked off on me, but I never asked because I know you would lie about it. But you did, didn't you?"

John flushed bright red. He wasn't very proud of that memory, particularly how he had reacted to the dream. He had panicked, not only about putting his friend in an uncomfortable situation, but also about what his dreams said about his own sexuality. It embarrassed him now to remember being so put off by the idea of being attracted to Sherlock.

"Yes, yes I did, though I don't really remember what I thought about. I am embarrassed enough to admit that was the first thing that made me start to realize what I really felt for you. I then also had a rather explicit dream the next afternoon, most likely prompted by the fact that I was sleeping with my face on your dressing gown, so your scent worked its way into my brain, and thus you ended up in my dreams. That one was completely embarrassing because I woke up aroused with you staring at me. Then you practically sat on me, and I was horrified you'd feel that I was hard and kick your creepy pervert of a flatmate out into the streets."

John walks up and wraps his arms around Sherlock in a soft hug.

"I'll let you in on a little secret though- no matter how many dreams I've had of you, both sexual and completely innocent ones, the real you always makes my dreams look like a joke. You always amaze me by outdoing anything I can dream up. Your just better in every way, and that's amazing because I love you, so my brain normally comes up with dreams that are very complimentary to you. If anything though, it just makes me eager to wake up so I can see the real you."

John smiles softly, then laughs a bit, "Wow, apparently this is my evening for cheesy declarations of affection. Come on, we should get dressed."

As they were getting dressed, John couldn't stop himself from sneaking over and whispering one last secret into Sherlock's ear: "My brain can't recreate your kisses in my dreams. They fall incredibly short of the real things. They all end up the same, none of your creativity, and none of the sparks I normally feel. That's part of why I'm always so eager to kiss you in the mornings, I have to spend all night dealing with sub-par imitations of your kisses."

((I'm under a lot of stress at the moment and I have so much to do, so I've permitted myself 1 post a day only. That you know...:s)

Halfway his shirt, Sherlock felt John's breath near his ear and then heard his voice thereafter. Sherlock smiled, looking at the ground. It was lovely to hear John's declarations, but they made him a bit shy. He snapped his face left to where John was and tackled him in a surprise kiss.

"I love kissing you."

Sherlock kissed John again. And again. And Again Every time in a different way. Chastely, tongue-y, lovingly... He made the differences very clear to make clear what John was missing in his dreams. He didn't kiss John heatedly or searing, because neither of them were into that now. They had a case to solve.

Sherlock buttoned up his shirt and put his suit jacket on. Sitting on the side of the bed and tying his shoes, e watched how John did the finishing touches to his look. Even by looking at John like this, he got a warm feeling. It was a familiar feeling, though sometimes Sherlock was still amazed by how lucky he was.

They both got up, ready to leave the room. Though just before they really left, Sherlock turned around to John.

"I don't know what will be in the secret room we're being lead to, so it might be wise to fetch your gun."

((That's fine, sounds like a very good plan to balance things.))

When Sherlock finishes showing off his kissing skills to John, John just stands there for a few minutes smiling with his eyes closed.

"I am definitely the luckiest man on the entire fucking planet," he mumbles to himself, before finishing up getting ready.

"Ah, gun, you're right, never hurts to bring it along."

John goes back into the room and gets it out of the bag. He checks that it's properly loaded, then slips it into the back of his trouser waistband, pulling his jumper over it to cover it up.

"Ok, ready to go, love."

They walk downstairs and meet the count at the front door. Next to him stands a servant with a silver tray.

"I had the cook make up sandwiches for us to take along, in case you are hungry. I've already eaten an early dinner. I would have invited you, but your porter said he believe you were busy and would not appreciate being disturbed."

The count raises a curious eyebrow.

John coughs slightly, "Ah, yes. We were going over information from previous cases that might have similarities to this situation to see if it illuminated any details for your case. This practice is a very important part of keeping our work flowing as smoothly as possible, so I thank your porter for his...discretion at not interrupting us."

"I am hungry though, so I will take a sandwich with me. Sherlock, I doubt your hungry?"

"Not particularly, no."

John gives a fond eyeroll, "I'll let you go for now, but I would appreciate you eating within the next 12 hours, sooner the better. You've done a lot lately that's used up energy. I'm happy that you've been getting sleep, but you need to eat too."

He gently reaches out and squeezes Sherlock's hand. Then he grabs a sandwich from the tray and starts eating it as he walks out the door to head to the tree.

The Count looked at them both when John outed his concern about Sherlock. He observed the tall man, seeing his eyes roll, but saw his face soften. He remembered the last time his wife had looked at him like that. It had been a long time. A very long time. He sighed, smiled a bit sadly and then washed his expression away in a general polite one.

Before they went out, Sherlock asked if the Count had any torches. They may need them, he said. The Count called the gardener to bring three torches to the tree.

Sherlock strode in front of John and the Count to the tree. The sun was setting, leaving shadows in the orange glowing grass. The rays of sunlight almost touched the top of the tree. Sherlock let go of John's hand and made a quick jog to the tree.

"It's not as hard as you initially think..." Sherlock muttered to himself.

"Sir! You might be of assistance to me. Would you please stand right... here."

Looking at the ground, Sherlock positioned the Count on the point where the shadow of the tree was the longest. It was under the elm tree.

"Stand very still! Don't move your legs until I say so! Now, what was the next instruction-"

He recollected the slip of paper with the riddle from his pocket.

"Ah, yes. Ten steps north."

Sherlock took ten long strides to the north. It must have looked rather odd to other people than the three men in the garden.

"Five steps east."

Sherlock counted his steps, absent mindedly shouting over to the Count.

"You can move again, sir!"

Sherlock took two more steps south, his side brushing against the brick wall of the mansion.

"Last one! One west."

Sherlock took that step and at his right, rays of ivy brushed over his face. He swept them away with his free hand and a brass wooden door in a niche peeked out from under the plant. John had followed him closely. Sherlock turned his head to give him an excited smile. Oh, he loved this so much.

"Said so."

((I'm planning on making things more exciting: I want to put boobytraps in the secret room :P And maybe something like a criminal organisation that bribed the butler, but wel... that failed. So they want revenge ehehehe))
((What do you think?))

((Oh, sounds great! Booby traps are fun :) ))
((Actually, here, I can have John find one in this post. Good old-fashioned set of darts to get anyone who comes in the door.))

John reaches out and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder lightly.

"Brilliant as ever, my genius. Though so far this feels more like following a treasure map than finding missing people. I was almost expecting a big 'X' on the door. I'm having fun though, different type of adventure than what we normally get."

John is the one to open the door and walk through it first. However, just as he steps in, a sound like six small puffs of air is heard, and John feels himself being sharply yanked backwards.

A second later, he realizes that it was Sherlock who pulled him back- he is now holding onto John tightly. He saw, as he was being pulled back, things flying right in front of his face. Now he looks and sees a grouping of slender darts on the wall right past where he was standing a moment ago.

"Apparently this place is booby trapped," he says, calmly, adrenaline kicking in, "we'll have to be careful. Sherlock, you should go first, you're the one who's most likely to spot the triggers."

Sherlock gasped when five darts pierced the wooden door just in front of his eyes. He checked if John was ok -that was the case- and sighed in relief. He frowned right afterwards.

"Count, you might want to stay back. John, you too. I'm going to open the door."

The count and John obeyed and rested their backs against the wall. Full of anticipation, Sherlock pulled the wooden door open until the wood touched the bricks with a thud. He had stood behind the door, as a shield for eventual other darts.

"Booby traps... it's not why someone would place them... It's how the butler came manoeuvred them and them still being in-tact, I don't understand-" Sherlock muttered for himself in a low voice.

"John. Torch."

Sherlock took his own torch from out of one of the bigger front pockets of his jacket. John did the same and together, they shone into the room.

The room was middle-sized, as big as a normal sized bedroom. It was very dark, even with the torches, but Sherlock could recognise very old gardening equipments lying around. A wheelbarrow lay tilted on the left and all kinds of sticks with shovels and scoops attached to it hung at the wall, clouded by cobwebs.

Sherlock got back from the doorpost to the gravel path that lay all around the house and took some pebbles. He also collected a long stick from the ground. When he got back, he carefully threw one or two inside.

Nothing happened.

He threw another one. The pebble clattered against the stone floor until it hit something else. It sounded hollow and wooden.

"And under, of course!"

John looked questioningly.

"The last line of the riddle: and under. There's a trap door!"

With the torch in his left hand and the stick in his right, he waved around in the semi-dark, looking for strings to break, buttons to press while standing safely in the doorway.

((Ugh, I never watch action movies like indiana jones, so I have no idea what booby traps they might find x) I'm sorry I'm so uninspiring :c))

((That's alright, I happen to love them, so I can add some fun ones in!))
((If you're ever curious, best movie for booby traps is The Goonies, film from the 80s about some kids finding a old pirate treasure map in their attic and racing against a mafia family to get the treasure.))

A few more booby traps were found- a huge boulder that fell from the ceiling )nearly crushing Sherlock) and a pit that opened up in the floor (John just managed to grab the detective's arm as he started to fall in).

When they finally reached the center of the room, it seemed safe enough. They all got down on their knees and searched for the handle to open the trap door.

"Found it!" John cried out, keeping his hand carefully on it. The handle was disguised to look like an ordinary rock on the ground.

John turned the handle slowly, carefully looking around for some sort of trap to activate. Below the ground, a loud click was heard. He starts to lift the trap door. As he's lifting, he feels a sharp pain in his leg- large spikes surrounding the trapdoor are lifting up from the ground. Had he flung the door open in one move, he would have been impaled completely. John lowers the door and the spikes retract with another loud click.

John hisses, and pulls a small travel size medical kit out of his jacket. He cleans the wound with a disinfectant wipe, then quickly ties it up with some gauze. Sherlock goes forward to the handle. He turns it- feeling a small jerk in the handle partway through the turn, then the loud click again when he turns it all the way.

He lets the handle turn back to it's locked position, then tries one more time. This time he stops when he feels the jerk halfway through. He pulls up...and the door starts to lift. He quickly looks down- no spikes.

John looks over at Sherlock with a huge grin, stepping forward to help pull the heavy trapdoor all the way open.

((Ok, that should fulfill the booby trap requirement :) ))
((Also, don't worry, John isn't hurt too badly, just a fairly shallow puncture wound.))

((Yay! it's great! I wouldn't have done it better :')))

Sherlock lay his hand on John's shoulder when he had bandaged his puncture wound of the spikes. He knelt down next to John and raised his eyebrows when their eyes met. A little nod from John and Sherlock's worry was weakened, though still existing.

Once the trap door was opened, Sherlock withheld John from hanging above the gap with his hand. There might still be booby traps and he didn't want John's eyes to be poked out by more darts. Sherlock took his stick and stuck it in the gap, feeling and shining with his torch for more triggers.

Luckily, nothing happened again.

It was almost dark outside and there were no lights inside the room. Together with John's torch, they managed to create enough light to see something in the gap. Sherlock patted with his stick against the walls until he hit something hollow and wooden.

Under the cobwebs, they saw a chest. It wasn't a big chest, but even though it looked withered, it looked majestic.

"Count! We might need your assistance now."

Together with an extra pair of hands, the three men got out the chest. It was very heavy and it was very dark, so they were preoccupied with that quite long. Too long for Sherlock's sake. The very moment they had hauled the chest on the normal floor, Sherlock walked out of the room, out to whiff the midnight air.

Something was wrong.

Sherlock looked up. It was dark now. The moon was shining brightly down upon him. Stars accompanied the moon, but Sherlock had no mind for stars at the moment. Something was very wrong.

He heard John shout something, but he didn't listen. Instead, he muttered to himself.

"Something is wrong. Very wrong. The butler! I expected the butler to be here... somewhere. But he isn't how come that he isn't unless-"

In the end, Sherlock's speech was a slur. His mind was delightfully racing, but then it stopped. With his mouth in a perfect O, he opened his eyes and actually saw again. He saw John, looking mildly confused, because he knew Sherlock would elaborate his thoughts soon.

"When we opened the door, the booby traps were still in tact. The butler. Where is the butler? The butler is not inside, so we have to be the first ones to have broken into this cellar since decades, so where is the butler? Count, did he ever get strange phone calls? When he went to do the groceries in town, was he gone longer than necessary? And the maid you had, were there similar cases with her?"

((I haven't thought this over much. I'm so tired :P We could do an immediate attack or later or not at all :)))

((Oh wow, you did post late!))

John stays for the moment while the Count breaks open the lock on the trunk. He gasps when it opens- inside is a crown and some other royal jewels. They look old, possibly around a century old, though he really can't tell. This is amazing, and for a few moments John can only stare, not paying attention to what Sherlock was muttering about outside the room.

Once he's over his shock though, he goes out to check on Sherlock. Once he hears Sherlock talking though, he has to admit that things do seem strange- the booby traps were all in place, and the butler never seems to have actually gotten into the hiding place.

Sherlock seems to suspect something though, and starts questioning the count.

"I..I don't know. I don't keep tabs on who my servants receive phone calls from. Their private life is their own. So long as it does not interfere with their work, I care little about it. There were a few times that they would spend longer on errands than expected, but they normally had explanations for it- car troubles and the like. The butler would sometimes leave the house for the evenings, but he has a sister in town, and he would always say he was visiting her. If the maid left for an evening, I just assumed she was meeting a man in the town."

Sherlock seems frustrated by this answer and goes stalking off on his own. John sighs and is left to help the Count carry the heavy chest back to the house.

"We can't do anything tonight, but first thing tomorrow you should call people from the Royal Treasury or something to come deal with this. It's dangerous for you to keep it in the house. For now though...it might be best to keep it in our room. We can't trust that the butler or maid don't know the combination to any safe you have, and I don't want you put in the danger of keeping this in your room. Don't worry," John adds, "I'm not going to try and run off with it in the middle of the night. You know very well Mycroft would end up tracking me down if I tried. He probably has a chip in my mobile with GPS positioning on me. I just think it would be best to keep it in our room. Sherlock probably won't sleep tonight, but he will come back to the room. That's one person awake to guard it. I'm a light sleeper because of the army, and I have combat training. It will be safe. Plus it's not the obvious hiding place, so less likely to be searched."

The Count reluctantly nods, "Yes, I suppose that does make sense."

"As for you, I would recommend sleeping with a gun in your room tonight, just to be careful. Possibly having someone stay up with you as an extra precaution. We don't know who your butler and maid were working with, and how dangerous they were, but I'd rather not take any chances."

"You think they were working with others?"

"That seemed to be what Sherlock was saying before he walked off. I'd say it's fairly likely. Help me take the trunk up the stairs, then we should just act like we didn't find anything. Go to bed normally, but if you want to ask someone to stay up with you, give an excuse," John instructs as they walk up the stairs, "say you don't feel well or that you're afraid the butler will come back angry about his pay, or something. Make sure you have some quick way to contact Sherlock and me if you need us. How far is your room?"

"Other end of the house."

"Of course it is. Honestly, why do you need such a big house? Nevermind. In that case, keep your mobile next to your bed. You do have a mobile, correct?"

"Yes," replies the count, slightly irritably.

"Ok. When we get to the room I'll program my number into the speed dial so you can call us right away should something happen."

They get to the room and shove the trunk under the bed. John programs in his number, then says goodnight to the count. He quickly texts Sherlock a brief account of the preparations he made with the count for the night.

He goes down to the kitchen and gets more dinner to eat. He then returns to the room (checks the trunk, still there, untouched) and prepares for bed. He sits up reading until about 10, then turns out the light and goes to sleep. He is woken a few hours later by the door of the room opening. He sits up, pulling his gun out from under his pillow.

"Who's there?"

"It's alright John, it's me," Sherlock replies, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking off his shoes.

"Oh, hi love," John puts the gun back and slides across the bed to kiss Sherlock on the cheek.

"What were you up to all evening?" he asks, laying back down.

((So, maybe attacked tonight if at all?))

((Yeah, too late for my sake. I have to get up at six tomorrow morning. Today I slept in till noon...))

Sherlock rubbed his face against the back of his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. He sighed deeply. It had definitely been a night.

"Investigating."

Sherlock got up again and lay his coat over the desk chair. He stretched all his limbs vertically and rolled with his neck. His face wore a bothered expression, he did nothing to conceal it.

"I thought the butler would come in somewhere. But he didn't, well... I'm still not sure. After I left you, I went to the village. I think someone is behind this, some organisation or not what. So I went there to the busiest pub, ordered a coffee and observed the room."

He undressed himself while talking to John, piling his clothes on top of the other on over the back of the chair.

"You know, the busiest places are the best places to plan mischief. If you remember correctly, portrait photos of the staff members hung on the wall near the stairs. I tried to remember the butler's face, in which I succeeded, because twenty minutes later, he walked into the pub. He went over to three other men. I had thought nothing much of them when I first scanned them. They looked like ordinary pub-goers, maybe even football supporters. But when I saw the butler interacting with the men, I noticed that the three tried too hard. They were uncomfortable in their disguise. Anyway, I couldn't come up with ideas how to eavesdrop them, because they sat nowhere near the toilet or something quiet. They sat right under the television, crowded by loud football supporters."

Sherlock let out a tired sigh. He went back to the bed, dressed in only his boxers and shoved the covers away. He climbed into bed.

"And so I knew they were smart. And I knew they had confidential information. The butler showed the men something on his phone. Hey had frowned at it. The butler must have taken a picture of the document a few nights ago. They took out his diaries and checked something, I couldn't see very vividly. I asked the barman if he knew the men. He only knew the butler, the other men were strangers to him. Then I asked about the maid. He had not seen her for quite a while, though she used to come there with the butler. He wasn't of much help to me."

Sherlock lay down next to John, back flat against the bed. He draped his left arm over his eyes, rubbing them.

"I needed to think, but the pub was loud and horrible and you weren't with me, which was worst of all. So I went out and walked around. I had not much to go on, every conclusion I made was a guess. The best guess was that the four of them planned to get into the room tomorrow, as the document says "What was the month?''The sixth from the first.''Where was the sun''over the oak'" Well... tomorrow is midsummer's eve, so I presume they thought the shadow will be at its longest and thus they will find it better or faster or whatever. That's why the booby traps were still in tact."

"But maybe they were coming to get the treasure now we've survived the booby traps. Maybe, I reasoned, they were attacking the villa right at that moment. I was worried and I wanted to get back to the mansion as soon as I could, but I had wondered off very far away, and I was lost. I checked my phone - no signal in this god-damned place - and started to run. This village is a thousand times smaller than London, but together with the woods... it's a maze to me. Eventually I got back to the pub, where I saw the men part. I had gotten close enough to overhear their conversation. I only heard one sincere word: tomorrow. They said it very solemnly and to think they were terrible actors, I think they spoke the truth. So no assault tonight."

Sherlock lowered his arm and turned over to his side to face John.

"But there's so much guess work. What became of the maid? Why did the butler abandon his duties to the Count for so many days if he didn't have to? Why tomorrow exactly? Why not earlier? The sun shouldn't matter much. Or did they wait for us to get out the treasure?" He sighed once more. "I don't know for sure, and it is so irritating not to know."

((Six. Yuck.))

John reaches out to Sherlock and pulls him into his arms. He starts rubbing one hand along Sherlock's shoulders and one in his hair.

"Shh, you'll figure it out soon, I know you will. You just have to wait a bit, then more clues will show up. These people may be smart, but they're bound to make some sort of mistake soon."

John presses a few kisses to Sherlock's forehead.

"For now you should just relax, let yourself rest a bit so you can be fresh for whatever is planned tomorrow. You can take a chance to either think things over without getting lost in the woods, or try to take a break and let your brain reboot."

John buries his nose in Sherlock's hair, then wrinkles his face. Sherlock smells like cigarettes and alcohol. He can't help but chuckle a bit.

Sherlock looks up at him confused, "What do you find so amusing?"

"Well, you smell like a pub. It's just funny because it's not like you. You're not really the type of fiance to go disappearing for a whole evening and then slip in to bed in the middle of the night smelling of smoke and beer and sweat. It's such a common thing to happen in other relationships, but it means something totally different with us. Nice to know at least that I'm with someone who only spends evening at the pub to catch criminals rather than to catch a date."

John looks at Sherlock wryly, "Still though...between the smell and the way your hair got all messy from the run, you do look rather disreputable."

John looks closely at Sherlock, "Hey, love, are you alright? Nothing bad happened at the pub other than your frustration with the case, right? You weren't hurt or harassed, were you? I hate having you go places like that alone, I always worry about this."

((Yah, it was a total bummer. We were going on a school trip to the Hague (political centre of the Netherlands) and I got so sick in the bus that I had to vomit :c Not that nice. I had low blood pressure because I had just woken up, had had no breakfast and I had raced to school to be in time to get on the bus. Hmmm not that good.))

With his eyes closed, Sherlock embraces John tightly. An embrace like this was the exact thing he needed, though he would not admit it. Then he hears John chuckle.

"I didn't like it there either. It's not the environment an intellectual prefers. I was surrounded by idiots."

When John mentioned harassment, Sherlock looked to the side just for a split second. A second he cursed himself for later. He bit his lower lip at the same time. Then, he tried to put on his normal face again, but John obviously saw that something was wrong. He felt a stray of hair being swept away from his forehead.

"Tell me." John said softly.

"You know I won't let myself be 'harassed' easily. It's... it's nothing. Just in the pub, those bloody idiots... You mentioned people going to pubs to catch a date, right? Well, I obviously wasn't one of those people, but there was a woman... a girl, really, that I saw glancing at me. I saw no reason to stop that, she was just looking after all. I ignored her, naturally, but the football supporters did. I was sitting at the bar, very close to them, the television screen and so the criminals. The men obviously thought she was a rather good catch, but I didn't see anything outstanding in her. Then the girl walked over to me and introduced herself, Helen Pierce her name was. She was in her early twenties, nothing in my league. She obviously tried to seduce me, licking lips and wiggling bits and everything women do. The football break had just started and the football supporters were more interested in us than in the commercials. They shouted supporting at me, that I should 'catch the bait when it was still swimming in front of me' and not what. I got very irritated, I couldn't see the criminals, let alone hear them, so I turned to the girl, lay my hands on her shoulders and said:

"Dear Helen, you have the wrong man. Firstly, I am way too old for you. Secondly: I have a fiancé and lastly: my fiancé is a man."

"You remember the Count's reaction to our engagement, right? Well, the football supporters are of the fundamental kind. The girl seemed disappointed, but understanding, so I let her go. But the football supporters were so annoying. They called me names, you know the usual. I did my utmost best to ignore them, I wish to be above those idiots, but they were loud. They shouted and brawled at me and even gave me a shove. I ignored that too, I still thought I was better than them. But then they called me a pussy, a coward and us a pair filthy gay wimps, and that I can't stand, so I shoved back. It was more powerful than I had thought, so then the supporters were really pissed off. The biggest powered up to attack back, when luckily the barkeeper got in-between us. He asked which one of us would like to go, so I volunteered. I was ready there anyway."

Sherlock lied. He lied about not feeling anything when those man had called him a coward. But he couldn't admit that. That just didn't fit in his character.

"So that was it. That's the whole story."

For a moment, his face brightened up as if an idea-lightbulb was turned on above his head, but then he balled his hands into fists and cursed.

"Damnit! I should have asked Helen if she knew anything about the missing maid. Shit, oh bugger..."

Sherlock felt the irritation rising in his chest. He hated emotions, he hated them. He knel that was not quite true. He loved John with whole his heart, he didn't regret that in the least. He loved the feeling of orgasm, but also the warm buzz of spontaneous touches, hair ruffles and whenever John called him Lock. But in that moment, he hated feelings. He could not think rationally, not act rationally when he was overwhelmed by them, just like in the pub.

((Oh, that sounds miserable, sorry to hear your morning sucked so much.))

John holds Sherlock close as he listens to the story. He wishes he had been at the pub so he could have protected Sherlock then instead of just having to offer belated comfort now.

"Oh Sherlock," he says softly, stroking at his lover's hair, "I wish I could have been there to deal with those idiots for you. I know I can't change anything, but I am sorry that you had to put up with that."

John sees Sherlock getting frustrated and angry. Seeing Sherlock like this always breaks his heart, because he had to guess what would help- things that worked one time, wouldn't necessarily help again this time.

Maybe getting the grime from the pub off would be a good place to start. John wordlessly gets up and goes into the attached bathroom. There, he runs a bath instead of a shower, the tub quickly filling with warm water. He goes back out and pulls Sherlock into the bathroom and has him get in the tub so he can just sit back and try to calm down. He puts shampoo in his hands and sits on the edge of the tub, scrubbing it into Sherlock's hair. Normally playing with Sherlock's hair helped calm his thoughts. He hums the melody of one of Sherlock's thinking pieces he often plays on the violin.

"Why don't you tell me about that body that came into Bart's on Friday? The one with the odd burn marks? You said you were going to test to see what caused the burns, did you get results?" John asks, trying to get Sherlock to talk about something work-related, but not case-related to help.

"You don't have to apologise." Sherlock softly replied. He loved being held, presumably because he had not been held much before.

Sherlock is rather startled put in the batch, he had just enough time to dispose of his pants before being embraced by the warm water. He let a sigh of delight slip from his lips when he was seated in the bath. One could not enjoy feeling the warmth of a bath surround your whole body without a sigh.

John sitting there, tangling his fingers though his hair and washing the grease out immediately eased Sherlock's mind. It didn't stop it of course, but it helped. Then John started to hum one of his compositions and Sherlock could not help but smile softly to himself. For a moment he forgot their location and the time. He only let the sensations of John wash over him. Literally.

He also ignored the question, however it was meant well of John, Sherlock didn't feel like talking. He felt like playing. So Sherlock didn't answer John's question and was quiet for a while, listening to John's humming.

"I should have brought my violin."

"I don't think the Count would be very happy if you'd play in the middle of the night. Especially not your pieces when you practically sew your violin in half."

"He sleeps in the other side of the house, so I think he wouldn't have mind much."

Sherlock closed his eyes and enjoyed this indulgence. He started humming along with John, as in a duet.

"I think I should give you a clarinet for your birthday."

((Dunno, really xD I am so bad. I have to wake up in 5 hours again, but this time it's my own fault I've not studied and stuff xD))

((Oh no! I've been there, trust me. Good luck, hopefully things will work out.))

John laughs slightly.

"That's because you've never heard me play clarinet. I was horrible...well, maybe not horrible, but there's a very good reason I haven't played since 9th Year. I never wanted to learn in the first place, but the school required I do some sort of music. They were short clarinet players, so they didn't give me a choice in the instrument. I actually wanted to learn a string instrument, or maybe percussion. I didn't mind the clarinet once I got used to it, but...I could never love it because I didn't have any choice in playing it. Besides, the damn thing squeaked horribly, it was old and in bad shape."

"I'd love to learn some other type of instrument. I've always been rather interested in piano, but my music teacher told me my fingers were too short and I wouldn't be able to play properly. Said my hands were made for mundane work, not art. He was a real charmer."

"Anyways, kind as the thought is, no clarinets. We'll end up with Mrs. Hudson having a heart attack thinking you're killing a goose in the flat. My attempts at music are over, I'll stick to writing my bad poetry if I feel creative, or...I don't know, sign up for ballroom dancing lessons so I won't trip over my feet if we dance at our wedding."

John fills a cup with water and has Sherlock tilt his head back so he could rinse out the shampoo. Then he sits back down and picks up one of Sherlock's hands, stroking along the fingers and playing with it a bit. It's the hand with his ring, and John runs his finger along each of the edges of the ring.

((Bleh, I'm lacking inspiration too. Guess it's just a bad night.))

((hahahahah seems to be so))

For a few moments, Sherlock was mesmerized by John's fingers playing with his.John might not be a musical man, yet he played Sherlock's fingers with such delicacy, Sherlock thought John had talent for music. It was a pity John had used his digits for rougher work than playing an instrument. The way John let his thumb glide over the ring was so focussed and appreciative, Sherlock felt better gradually.

"Our wedding." Sherlock said almost surprised. He never forgot that they were engaged, though with all this mess of a case in his mind, the fact was clouded with work related stuff.

"Our wedding." Sherlock repeated in a whisper. He smiled. He was getting married.

When John finished rinsing his hair, he got up out of the bath. He was getting wrinkly all over and through water had coole down. Water dripped down his body from crown over spine to toes. He took a big towel and first dried his face to give John a decent kiss. When he retreated, he smiled softly.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock swallowed, determined to speak out his feelings for once. "For pulling me through this unharmed. For taking care of me."

((STOP I'M NOT FINISHED YET I pushed a button and then it posted. i'll notice you when I'm done))


((Done !))

John runs his hand along Sherlock's cheek into his wet hair.

"Of course love, I'm always happy to do this. Lord knows you always help me when I have my nightmares, this is my way of returning the favor. I'm always happy to see you make it out of these moods, and I'm glad that I can help. I do appreciate you saying thank you though, it's nice to hear."

He holds onto Sherlock's arm as he steps out of the tub, then takes the fluffy towel. He wraps Sherlock in the towel, turning it into a hug, and grabbing another towel to dry him off, making the rubbing feel like caresses. He randomly drops gentle kisses on the areas of Sherlock's body he dries off. He then drains the tub, and gives Sherlock another kiss.

"Alright, I'm going to go back to bed. Come in whenever you're ready, even if you don't want to sleep."

John goes back to the bed and burrows under the covers until they are touching his ears. The house was big and rather drafty, the room was the perfect temperature for cuddling up under the warm blankets on the bed. Within seconds John drifts off into a half-sleep, waiting to feel Sherlock climb in next to him, and reminding himself not to fall all the way asleep without telling Sherlock he loves him one last time- it seems like tonight is a good night for saying it a few times.

((Oh, so I forgot to add onto the last post- reason for John not playing clarinet anymore: I tried learning to play when I was 10, and I HATED the instrument, so I cannot write about it nicely.))

((Didn't expect John to play still, but your story explains it ))

Sherlock felt loved and carassed as John dried him off. The warmth of the tub wasn't lost , John's gentle rubs kept his skin warm. Sherlock was the center of attention. He wasn't uncomfortable with that, but he wanted to give the same comfort back to John. Probably the next time John had nightmares, though that occurred less frequently lately.

Sherlock didn't need much time to decide on whether he'd do some thinking work or go to bed. He dropped the towel in the bathroom and followed John. The cold air of the room surrounded him and he was very keen on getting in bed, but he stopped at the side. John looked so adorable with the blanket drawn up to his nose, eyes closed, all at peace. He let that image sink in for a few seconds, before folding the cover open and stepping into bed.

The bed was warm and comfortable. John opened his eyes when he got in and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's naked body. Sherlock nuzzled his head in John's shoulder.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered.

((Got to run to class! aarhgh))

John hums happily when Sherlock crawls into bed, and is quick to wrap his arms around his detective.

"Favorite feeling in the world," he mumbles out.

He then smiles and presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"I love you too."

He then kisses each of Sherlock's cheeks, over his eyelids, his chin, and at each corner of his mouth, whispering 'I love you' with every kiss. He finally hovers over Sherlock's lips.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes."

He bends down and kisses Sherlock.