Fic: Showbiz (IV)
Oct. 31st, 2011 10:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mjartrodTitle: Showbiz
Fandoms: Muse/ Sherlock BBC
Summary: Muse frontman Matt Bellamy is being stalked. After receiving several threatening messages, they decide to contact a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes...
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence; sexual situations; slash
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictional, even those based on real people and material (having been altered, added or left out for dramatic purposes). I do not own Muse; I do not own Sherlock Holmes nor the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and so fabulously reworked by Moffat and Gatiss .
Big thanks to my ever faithful beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL
Had fun writing this chapter... *evil grin*
CHAPTER FOUR
The hours passed.
There were abandoned takeaway containers on the floor and John found himself dozing off, sunk into his favourite armchair, his head heavier and heavier despite his best efforts to stop his eyelids from drooping. Dom was already asleep, stretched out on Sherlock's thinking couch with his mouth gaping. Sherlock and Matt were both wide awake, though. Sat Indian-style on the floor facing each other like two children, they were going over the material they’d gathered about the case, which was spread in a circle surrounding them.
It had been with a pang of jealousy (which he had acknowledged but persisted on trying to ignore) that John had realised how he'd never thought he'd see Sherlock working closely with someone other than him without it descending into a slanging match. It was like he’d established in his mind that he was the only person Sherlock could work with. And John had taken pride in that, relishing how someone as brilliant as the detective, who deemed nearly the entirety of the human race idiotic and uninteresting, made no secret of desiring his assistance - to the point of consistently interfering in John’s life in a bid to have the doctor's sole attention at all times. It was often inconvenient and inappropriate, it could leave John seething. Yet, now that he was seeing someone else in his role, however temporarily, it irked him in a way he didn't want to acknowledge.
But there they were, both gesticulating gracefully as they spoke in a quiet murmur, closing the distance between them as their heads bent together over a document...
... and it was at one of these moments that it started. They didn’t pull away. Instead, they lifted their gazes from the photo Sherlock held and gazed at each other. They were so close their mouths were nearly brushing. John found himself frozen in anticipation, everything happening in slow motion. He saw their lips puckering, Matt tilting his head slightly to one side and Sherlock closing the distance between them.
Sherlock was human after all, he could kiss and be kissed in return. But John couldn’t draw his eyes away from the two, had no thought of offering them privacy, as they shared one, two, three brief, coy kisses. Until Matt’s tongue slid out to trace Sherlock’s upper lip, teasing, and the detective responded by angling his head and lunging forward to take his mouth fully. John’s initial enthralment vanished. He yearned for them to stop, to draw away and fight the magnetic pull that was drawing them to one another. But there was nothing he could do.
Mouths locked, tongues stroking, it was impossible for John to know to whom the choked gasp he heard belonged. Sherlock’s hand was cradling one side of Matt’s face and Matt’s fingers had curled around a handful of Sherlock’s hair. They were soon panting, shifting on the floor to get closer and the room filled with their heavy breaths, the sound of lips colliding, soft moans of encouragement.
With both Matt’s hands twisted in his hair, Sherlock started gently pushing the other man flat on the couch (when did they move to the couch? And hadn't Dom been sleeping there?), laying on top of him and finally releasing his mouth.
“Beautiful...” He whispered as he loosened Matt’s scarf and tossed it away to pepper small kisses along his throat, the singer groaning and pushing towards his touch. “You’re so beautiful... everything about you... extraordinary...”
And John didn’t recognise those words in Sherlock’s voice, but they had been real. He tried to tell himself that it was good that Sherlock was attracted to someone like Matt, someone so talented and so nice... and yes, if he looked objectively at Matt he had to admit that, despite his slight stature, he was an attractive man, with those intense blue eyes and high cheekbones. But then John focused on what was happening on the couch, where all those breathy sounds of pleasure were emanating from, and it wasn’t happiness or even resignation that filled him at seeing his flatmate atop the singer, the two writhing against each other as they kissed fervently...
John woke abruptly, the wave of relief that crashed over him almost making him laugh: it had only been a dream. There were two sets of equally bright and piercing eyes fixed on him, though. It took him a moment to realise it wasn't double vision, but it was disconcerting, nonetheless. Why were they watching him? Had he said something in his sleep...?
Matt’s scarf had been removed and was draped on Sherlock’s favourite chair, while Sherlock himself was no longer wearing his suit jacket, and the sleeves of his slim-fit white collared shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Face heating in shame as the dream came back to him, John attempted to occupy his mind with something new.
“Is that wine?” There were two glasses of red wine and a bottle in between the two men. He didn’t remember having any wine in the flat.
“We went out to get a bottle,” Matt said. “Fancy a glass? Sorry if our chatting woke you up, you were saying something in your sleep about us stopping.”
John blanched. “I... I must’ve dozed off. Sorry”
Not only had he nearly been caught, but the reality he was now presented with was almost as disjointed as his dream and John didn’t know which part of it was worse: Sherlock drinking wine at home; Sherlock going out with someone to get said wine while in the middle of a case; Sherlock chatting. He didn’t do idle chit chat, so what would they talk about if not the case? He swallowed. Music, maybe they were talking about music. That would be a common interest. Christ, they’d be fawning over each other. He glanced over at Dominic, unconsciously seeking assistance, but the drummer was still sprawled on the couch, sleeping soundly and oblivious to the fact that his friend and Sherlock were not exactly working.
“You okay?” Matt asked again, hesitant; Sherlock quietly observed the scene, disturbingly perceptive as always.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I... I need to sleep. I have a full morning at the surgery tomorrow.”
It was an outright lie and he immediately regretted it, hastily standing up to avoid meeting Sherlock’s eye - he knew his schedule as well as John did.
But he couldn’t bear to stay in the room any longer.
No sooner had his head dropped to his pillow, butterflies still fluttering in his stomach, than he heard a drawn out moan coming from downstairs. And against all sense, he tiptoed down the stairs and peeked from behind the kitchen doors. He exhaled in relief; it was only Matt stretching, nothing more. Standing in the middle of the sitting room, he had both hands laced behind him as he bent backwards in a quite impressive display of balance and flexibility. Sherlock seemed to be watching the very same thing from his current spot on the couch. Matt bent even further, the back of his head angling towards the floor, baring his neck... and it struck John how very suggestive the scene was...
And just like that, Sherlock was leaping from the cushions and stepping over the coffee table to grab Matt by one arm and shove him against the nearest wall, next to the windows. They were frantic, mouths fused, hands wandering. Bending down to nuzzle at Matt’s collarbone, Sherlock tugged on the glittery trousers until they dropped around his thighs. Matt pushed the back of his head against the wall and held Sherlock by the hair, forcing him down until the detective was on his knees in front of him. They weren’t much more than shadows outlined by the street lamps shining through the windows in the darkened room, but there was no need for more illumination for John to tell exactly what Sherlock was doing.
It went on for a good few minutes and then Sherlock was on his feet again, silencing Matt’s low protests with another series of kisses, hands on his slim hips. John could see them travelling upwards and underneath his shirt, arms sliding around the singer, their bodies pulled flush against each other. John peered a little further from around the door... Sherlock had splayed a hand on Matt’s lower back. It reached lower. Suddenly Matt arched his back sharply, gasping desperately.
In his state of shock, John could still hear soft murmurs, Sherlock’s in Matt’s ear, and despite being too far away to to make out any words, he felt the man’s swollen, moist lips brushing the guitarist’s ear as if it were his own. The pair were swaying slightly on the spot and so was he, his spine tingling when the diminutive Muse front man whined again. Sherlock tightened the hold around his waist and straightened him up against the wall when his knees seemingly buckled, Matt’s head tipped back, mouth hanging open. From the angle, John pictured their eyes locked together; he could easily imagine Matt’s pupils blown wide with lust and a sting of arousal hit him as he imagined Sherlock’s just the same.
And at that exact moment, the detective turned and looked straight at the man spying from the kitchen.
Sitting up in bed with a jolt, John watched as the dream dissipated before his eyes, realising he’d never left his bedroom. He took several deep breaths, feeling as though he’d just had another nightmare about Afghanistan. No, this was worse.
Having nightmares about something as traumatic as war was reasonable; that he felt he’d had a nightmare of comparable impact about a certain consulting detective getting it on with one of his clients was a calamity. He flopped back down on the bed and kicked the sheets off, sweating and angry with himself. It was then he noticed that his boxers were tenting. He’d gotten an erection from dreaming about Sherlock and Matt together.
“Shit.”
The rich sound of a violin expertly played had been resonating around the flat for awhile when John finally went downstairs the following morning. He nearly collided with Matt, who was leaning against the door frame listening, coat and scarf on as if he was ready to leave. John could barely look the singer in the eye, such was his embarrassment over the previous night’s events, but the other man smiled and greeted him with a friendly ‘good morning’.
“I’ll be going, then,” Matt signalled through the door to Sherlock, who had stopped playing the moment John arrived. “Be right back.”
John watched him leave and then turned to Sherlock, who was scratching the back of his head with an intent expression, his fingers disappearing in his unruly hair. The morning concerto appeared over; it was clear he’d had a particular audience in mind - one that did not include John.
They'd obviously been awake the whole night. Unlike Dom, who was on the couch in the same position he’d been when John had gone upstairs, his sleep not at all disrupted by the violin.
“He’s only gone to the hotel to pick up his phone charger,” Sherlock answered the question John was about to ask. “He’s taking a cab.”
Leaving the detective muttering to himself about how the list of names provided by Tom Kirk was missing something, the doctor went to the kitchen to put the kettle on without a word. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes and he rubbed his right leg, wincing. It hardly mattered if it was psychosomatic or not, it still bloody hurt. Sherlock had followed him and closed the sliding glass doors, but instead of going to check on one of his many experiments, he sat at the table.
And started at John.
“What?” John finally snapped, turning to his flatmate after an agonisingly long minute of silence.
“You’re angry with me.”
His heart skipped a beat as he processed the words. But John didn’t want to talk about it. There was no rational reason to be upset, and he knew that any discussion with Sherlock on the subject would only turn into a deeply uncomfortable argument. And one that he would lose, at that.
“Do you want tea?” John said instead, his voice tight under the detective's scrutiny. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, what’s gotten into you? And I’m not angry!” He realised he was almost shouting. “Sorry. I... I’m not angry with you, I don’t know how you got that impression.” He could picture the look of disbelief on Sherlock’s face without looking. “You’ve been odd lately. That’s all.”
“Odd,” Sherlock repeated after a long pause. “That I’m odd, as you put it, never seemed to be a problem for you before.”
“It’s not a problem, I’m just surprised. I don’t know what makes you think it’s a good idea to even...” He was giving in, he was doing exactly what he didn’t want to do. John didn’t know if Sherlock was doing it on purpose and attempting to bring forth some sort of admission, or if he was simply clueless. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sherlock. Just forget about it.”
“A good idea to...?”
“Christ!” John placed his palms on the table, looking down. “Matt, Sherlock! I’m talking about Matt! This... this infatuation you have with him! I’m not blind! And you know me, you know I’d be the first to tell you to go after someone, to find someone... but he’s... he’s not the person for you. He’s exceptionally nice, he’s polite, he’s a bloody genius in his own right, but you said it yourself the moment we met him - he already has people in his life. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s going to be a father. And then there’s that man asleep on the couch,” he lowered his voice, pointing at the kitchen doors, “and for the life of me I cannot understand their relationship, but it’s not something conventional and he’s never going to replace him with someone else.”
“Well, thank you, John. For looking after my interests.” Glancing aside, Sherlock appeared somewhat perplexed but was clearly trying to remain patient, hands crossed placidly in his lap. “But -“
“There are so many people out there who could give you... who could...” John turned away, feeling his face flushing. God, what was he saying? What was he doing? Sherlock was going to get the wrong impression if this continued. Most likely he already had. John was starting to sound like a jealous, lover, which he most definitely was not and never would be. “All the time I’ve known you, I’ve never once seen you interested in another human being and it’s frustrating to... to see you wasting your energy on the wrong person. That’s all. Happy now?”
There was a long silence after that, ended by Sherlock’s low, deep voice. “John.” The doctor turned back to look; Sherlock was gazing at the floor as if lost in thought. “Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s. I thought you knew that.” It was John’s turn for stunned silence. “I promise you that whatever you’re worried about - you don’t need to be.” The kettle whistled and Sherlock rose to prepare the tea. He handed a cup to John, made exactly the way he liked it. “I need to get back to the case. Is that all right with you?”
John felt suddenly pathetic and incredibly immature and he swallowed, but the lump in his throat stayed and he couldn’t find the voice to reply. So he simply nodded jerkily and watched as Sherlock returned to the living room.
Matt grabbed his phone charger and stuffed it in one of his coat pockets, ready to take the waiting cab back to Baker Street. It was only a fifteen, twenty minute walk at most, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him go alone unless he took a taxi, so he'd agreed.
Sherlock Holmes.
What a character. Now he better understood why John Watson was willing to put up with him. If someone had told the singer two days before that he’d spend a whole night at the man’s flat working on the case, sipping red wine and discussing Romantic composers of the late 19th and early 20th century, he’d have thought they’d gone bonkers. For someone Matt had at first believed in love with the sound of his own voice, Sherlock turned out to be a remarkable listener. They'd had such an interesting and in depth discussion about music, Matt had to admit it had been ages since he’d talked to someone so knowledgeable who wasn’t trying to show off. Or kiss his arse.
Not to mention he was an amazing violin player. When Sherlock had finally picked the instrument up and played by choice and not due to Matt’s pestering, the Muse front man had just stood in silent appreciation, soaking in the music. He didn’t think the man who made a living as a detective would be out of place as a first chair violinist with the London Symphony Orchestra. The other guys would think it mad, but Matt also couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock would be keen to play as a guest on a track for the next album. There was bound to be one that required a string section. Frankly, Matt was rather flattered that Sherlock liked Muse, considering some of his previous experiences with snotty classical musicians.
Whatever Dom believed he’d seen when they first met, though, he’d been wrong, as not once had Sherlock tried to get personal if it didn't relate to the case, which Matt found refreshing. Although Sherlock probably didn’t ask because he already knew everything there was to know about him, having deduced it...
For a few hours he’d almost forgotten about the stalker, or at least that it was him being harassed. Matt could certainly use some detachment to help keep the nervousness at bay, especially if he had to call his girlfriend’s parents later that day, as he had decided to do if the stalker wasn’t caught in the mean time. They’d be worried sick, but there was no one better way to arrange for Kate and the baby’s safety, while covering for Matt and keeping her blissfully unaware that there was anything amiss. And that was the only thing that mattered.
As he waited for the lift to take him down to the lobby, his iPhone buzzed in his pocket with an incoming text. It was Tom.
Found something, where are you? DON’T TELL ANYONE – VERY IMPORTANT
Matt furrowed his brow and immediately called him, choosing to take the stairs so he wouldn’t lose the signal. Tom rejected the call, so he quickly texted him instead.
Leaving the hotel and back to baker st. whats up, its about the stalker?
When the answer came Matt had already crossed the lobby and was sliding into the black cab which had been waiting for him
You alone? Meet me at 6 Syon Manor Rd, Brentford. TELL NO ONE, I want you to see it first.
That was in Hounslow, way outside Central London. Matt's heart beat faster. What had he discovered that was so urgent and couldn't be shared? He tried ringing him again, but Tom rejected the call once more. For fuck’s sake, what was Kirk playing at? Sherlock had warned him not to veer from his path, but Matt couldn’t very well ignore Tom, could he? Matt rubbed his eyes in frustration before leaning forward to speak to the driver.
“Sorry, but there's been a change of plan. I need to go to Brentford instead.”
Settling back after giving the address to the cabbie, Matt drummed his fingers agitatedly on his thigh, clutching his iPhone tightly in his other hand. This was so odd. But Tom wouldn’t act like this unless he had a very good reason. Unless... what if he'd been taken...? A chill swept down his spine. No, it couldn’t be, they’d been in contact just the night before to confirm the names, as Sherlock kept insisting the list was incomplete. Maybe whatever he'd discovered had something to do with that? Or maybe it was to do with the detective himself - and that was why he wanted to speak with Matt alone first?
Feeling uneasy at all the possibilities, he opted for going to the address Tom had given him and making a decision upon arrival on what his next course of action would be. The second he found something dodgy, he’d call Dom.
When John returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but Dom was just coming out of the bathroom, stretching and yawning. The motion revealed his stomach and the belt on his jeans that had been covered by his t-shirt. A leopard print belt. Impossible to understand what in God’s name could make a grown man buy a leopard print belt. Or lever his way into a pair of ridiculously tight trousers. Rock stars, eh?
“Oh, hey, morning,” the blond greeted him with a smile entirely too cheerful for the time of morning. “Where’s everyone?”
“Sherlock's around. Matt went to the hotel to pick up his phone charger, he should be back any moment. Don’t worry, he took a cab. You want some tea?” John figured it was only polite.
“That would be lovely, thank you. Did they find anything?”
They sat at the table near the sitting room windows with their tea, talking idly about the case until Dom fell silent, gazing outside, most likely looking for Matt’s return.
“How long have you two known each other?” John asked, curious.
Dom released a small laugh. “God, it must be pushing twenty years now? We were 12 or 13, met at school. Feels like my whole life, really. I don’t remember much before then, anyway, just random childhood memories from Stockport, where I was born.”
“Must be nice to work with someone you’ve known for so long.” The only person John knew from such an early age with whom he still maintained contact was his sister. “Though you probably get tired of each other once in awhile.”
“Sometimes, yeah. We do spend a ridiculous amount of time together.” Dom looked down at the mug clutched between his hands. “But we don’t really fight, we’re lucky like that. There’s bands who make a record, do a few tour dates and then piss off separately till the next one because they can’t stand each other. We’re not like that. Cheesy thing to say, but we're like a big family when we're on tour. Sometimes it feels like we haven’t been home properly since we released the first album. That was 1999.”
“That's a long time.”
Dom nodded, thoughtful. “Chris, our bassist, he started a family early, he’s got five kids -“
“Five?!” John nearly choked on his tea.
“Yeah, I know,” Dom chuckled. “Never been a problem,. But there were times when he was there but, you know, not really there? Know what I mean?”
John understood. “It was only you and Matt sometimes.” Dom’s silence was confirmation enough. “You never thought of starting a family of your own?”
“I like this freedom. Things don’t work so well when I’m in a relationship.” Dom smiled wickedly. “Not bothered, maybe it’ll change one day. Matt’s the opposite, he likes being attached. Calms him down, too. He’s a hyperactive wee fucker, needs a steadying influence.”
“And you don’t worry it might change things in the band if he gets married one day? His girlfriend is pregnant, isn’t she?” John regretted the question the moment it was out, worried he was prying. But the drummer was grinning.
“Nah, there’s some things that will never change.” And he sat back, observing bemusedly as Sherlock entered the room in a frenzy with an open newspaper in front of his face.
It amazed John how utterly confident Dom was in his relationship with his friend, in his life. The drummer didn’t seem to feel the least bit threatened by Sherlock’s attention towards Matt, if anything he was overprotective. He wondered if perhaps that was what he felt in regards to Sherlock - and not silly jealousy as he'd feared. It would certainly make him feel more comfortable with himself.
“How about you?” Dom asked.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t have a girlfriend?”
John sighed. “Not so easy when you do what we do. If I tell you that on my first date with this woman we were both kidnapped...” Dom laughed good naturedly, but John felt a bit of a loser. “I guess it also doesn’t help in finding someone when,” he lowered his voice, “you have a, well, a flatmate like -“
“- like him.” Dom finished with a sympathetic smile. “Doesn’t seem the type that’s willing to share, does he? Reckon at least you’re never bored!”
Share? John was baffled. What sort of relationship did Dominic think he and Sherlock had? He supposed that for a man with an unconventional lifestyle, unconventional relationships, it was only natural to assume others acted the same.
The drummer had gotten up to peruse the wall where all the case notes and pictures were pinned when Sherlock suddenly stepped over the coffee table as he lunged for the desk, rattling items about on the wooden surface as he frantically searched for something.
“What? What is it?” John finally asked when the detective then ran to the pile of newspapers from the previous week.
Sherlock pulled one of the papers out and opened it. “Stupid. I’ve been so stupid, John. Too slow!” He shoved it against John’s chest, open at the page with the article about the body found in the Thames that John remembered from few days ago. “Drowned!” John gave him an inquisitive look and he huffed exasperatedly. “There was one just like this four months ago, another last year, a third two years ago. All in London, all found with alcohol in the bloodstream, all proclaimed accidental deaths.” He turned to Dom, arm outstretched dramatically. “Call Matthew. Call Matthew now, see where he is. If he’s not on his way here, we’re picking him up wherever he is, we can’t risk it.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Do it now! He’s going to attack again soon!”
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John demanded, blanching with worry.
Sherlock was pacing with a fervent glint in his eye, all excitement and adrenalin. “We’ve been following the wrong path, I should’ve seen it sooner!” The apparent irritation he felt at his error still wasn’t enough to keep a slightly manic smile off his face.
“What are you saying?” Dom said slowly, hands on his hips.
“The man we 'e chasing isn’t a stalker -”
“Oh, God.” John covered his eyes with one hand.
“- he's a serial killer.”
Fandoms: Muse/ Sherlock BBC
Summary: Muse frontman Matt Bellamy is being stalked. After receiving several threatening messages, they decide to contact a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes...
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence; sexual situations; slash
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictional, even those based on real people and material (having been altered, added or left out for dramatic purposes). I do not own Muse; I do not own Sherlock Holmes nor the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and so fabulously reworked by Moffat and Gatiss .
Big thanks to my ever faithful beta
deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOLHad fun writing this chapter... *evil grin*
CHAPTER FOUR
The hours passed.
There were abandoned takeaway containers on the floor and John found himself dozing off, sunk into his favourite armchair, his head heavier and heavier despite his best efforts to stop his eyelids from drooping. Dom was already asleep, stretched out on Sherlock's thinking couch with his mouth gaping. Sherlock and Matt were both wide awake, though. Sat Indian-style on the floor facing each other like two children, they were going over the material they’d gathered about the case, which was spread in a circle surrounding them.
It had been with a pang of jealousy (which he had acknowledged but persisted on trying to ignore) that John had realised how he'd never thought he'd see Sherlock working closely with someone other than him without it descending into a slanging match. It was like he’d established in his mind that he was the only person Sherlock could work with. And John had taken pride in that, relishing how someone as brilliant as the detective, who deemed nearly the entirety of the human race idiotic and uninteresting, made no secret of desiring his assistance - to the point of consistently interfering in John’s life in a bid to have the doctor's sole attention at all times. It was often inconvenient and inappropriate, it could leave John seething. Yet, now that he was seeing someone else in his role, however temporarily, it irked him in a way he didn't want to acknowledge.
But there they were, both gesticulating gracefully as they spoke in a quiet murmur, closing the distance between them as their heads bent together over a document...
... and it was at one of these moments that it started. They didn’t pull away. Instead, they lifted their gazes from the photo Sherlock held and gazed at each other. They were so close their mouths were nearly brushing. John found himself frozen in anticipation, everything happening in slow motion. He saw their lips puckering, Matt tilting his head slightly to one side and Sherlock closing the distance between them.
Sherlock was human after all, he could kiss and be kissed in return. But John couldn’t draw his eyes away from the two, had no thought of offering them privacy, as they shared one, two, three brief, coy kisses. Until Matt’s tongue slid out to trace Sherlock’s upper lip, teasing, and the detective responded by angling his head and lunging forward to take his mouth fully. John’s initial enthralment vanished. He yearned for them to stop, to draw away and fight the magnetic pull that was drawing them to one another. But there was nothing he could do.
Mouths locked, tongues stroking, it was impossible for John to know to whom the choked gasp he heard belonged. Sherlock’s hand was cradling one side of Matt’s face and Matt’s fingers had curled around a handful of Sherlock’s hair. They were soon panting, shifting on the floor to get closer and the room filled with their heavy breaths, the sound of lips colliding, soft moans of encouragement.
With both Matt’s hands twisted in his hair, Sherlock started gently pushing the other man flat on the couch (when did they move to the couch? And hadn't Dom been sleeping there?), laying on top of him and finally releasing his mouth.
“Beautiful...” He whispered as he loosened Matt’s scarf and tossed it away to pepper small kisses along his throat, the singer groaning and pushing towards his touch. “You’re so beautiful... everything about you... extraordinary...”
And John didn’t recognise those words in Sherlock’s voice, but they had been real. He tried to tell himself that it was good that Sherlock was attracted to someone like Matt, someone so talented and so nice... and yes, if he looked objectively at Matt he had to admit that, despite his slight stature, he was an attractive man, with those intense blue eyes and high cheekbones. But then John focused on what was happening on the couch, where all those breathy sounds of pleasure were emanating from, and it wasn’t happiness or even resignation that filled him at seeing his flatmate atop the singer, the two writhing against each other as they kissed fervently...
John woke abruptly, the wave of relief that crashed over him almost making him laugh: it had only been a dream. There were two sets of equally bright and piercing eyes fixed on him, though. It took him a moment to realise it wasn't double vision, but it was disconcerting, nonetheless. Why were they watching him? Had he said something in his sleep...?
Matt’s scarf had been removed and was draped on Sherlock’s favourite chair, while Sherlock himself was no longer wearing his suit jacket, and the sleeves of his slim-fit white collared shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Face heating in shame as the dream came back to him, John attempted to occupy his mind with something new.
“Is that wine?” There were two glasses of red wine and a bottle in between the two men. He didn’t remember having any wine in the flat.
“We went out to get a bottle,” Matt said. “Fancy a glass? Sorry if our chatting woke you up, you were saying something in your sleep about us stopping.”
John blanched. “I... I must’ve dozed off. Sorry”
Not only had he nearly been caught, but the reality he was now presented with was almost as disjointed as his dream and John didn’t know which part of it was worse: Sherlock drinking wine at home; Sherlock going out with someone to get said wine while in the middle of a case; Sherlock chatting. He didn’t do idle chit chat, so what would they talk about if not the case? He swallowed. Music, maybe they were talking about music. That would be a common interest. Christ, they’d be fawning over each other. He glanced over at Dominic, unconsciously seeking assistance, but the drummer was still sprawled on the couch, sleeping soundly and oblivious to the fact that his friend and Sherlock were not exactly working.
“You okay?” Matt asked again, hesitant; Sherlock quietly observed the scene, disturbingly perceptive as always.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I... I need to sleep. I have a full morning at the surgery tomorrow.”
It was an outright lie and he immediately regretted it, hastily standing up to avoid meeting Sherlock’s eye - he knew his schedule as well as John did.
But he couldn’t bear to stay in the room any longer.
No sooner had his head dropped to his pillow, butterflies still fluttering in his stomach, than he heard a drawn out moan coming from downstairs. And against all sense, he tiptoed down the stairs and peeked from behind the kitchen doors. He exhaled in relief; it was only Matt stretching, nothing more. Standing in the middle of the sitting room, he had both hands laced behind him as he bent backwards in a quite impressive display of balance and flexibility. Sherlock seemed to be watching the very same thing from his current spot on the couch. Matt bent even further, the back of his head angling towards the floor, baring his neck... and it struck John how very suggestive the scene was...
And just like that, Sherlock was leaping from the cushions and stepping over the coffee table to grab Matt by one arm and shove him against the nearest wall, next to the windows. They were frantic, mouths fused, hands wandering. Bending down to nuzzle at Matt’s collarbone, Sherlock tugged on the glittery trousers until they dropped around his thighs. Matt pushed the back of his head against the wall and held Sherlock by the hair, forcing him down until the detective was on his knees in front of him. They weren’t much more than shadows outlined by the street lamps shining through the windows in the darkened room, but there was no need for more illumination for John to tell exactly what Sherlock was doing.
It went on for a good few minutes and then Sherlock was on his feet again, silencing Matt’s low protests with another series of kisses, hands on his slim hips. John could see them travelling upwards and underneath his shirt, arms sliding around the singer, their bodies pulled flush against each other. John peered a little further from around the door... Sherlock had splayed a hand on Matt’s lower back. It reached lower. Suddenly Matt arched his back sharply, gasping desperately.
In his state of shock, John could still hear soft murmurs, Sherlock’s in Matt’s ear, and despite being too far away to to make out any words, he felt the man’s swollen, moist lips brushing the guitarist’s ear as if it were his own. The pair were swaying slightly on the spot and so was he, his spine tingling when the diminutive Muse front man whined again. Sherlock tightened the hold around his waist and straightened him up against the wall when his knees seemingly buckled, Matt’s head tipped back, mouth hanging open. From the angle, John pictured their eyes locked together; he could easily imagine Matt’s pupils blown wide with lust and a sting of arousal hit him as he imagined Sherlock’s just the same.
And at that exact moment, the detective turned and looked straight at the man spying from the kitchen.
Sitting up in bed with a jolt, John watched as the dream dissipated before his eyes, realising he’d never left his bedroom. He took several deep breaths, feeling as though he’d just had another nightmare about Afghanistan. No, this was worse.
Having nightmares about something as traumatic as war was reasonable; that he felt he’d had a nightmare of comparable impact about a certain consulting detective getting it on with one of his clients was a calamity. He flopped back down on the bed and kicked the sheets off, sweating and angry with himself. It was then he noticed that his boxers were tenting. He’d gotten an erection from dreaming about Sherlock and Matt together.
“Shit.”
***
The rich sound of a violin expertly played had been resonating around the flat for awhile when John finally went downstairs the following morning. He nearly collided with Matt, who was leaning against the door frame listening, coat and scarf on as if he was ready to leave. John could barely look the singer in the eye, such was his embarrassment over the previous night’s events, but the other man smiled and greeted him with a friendly ‘good morning’.
“I’ll be going, then,” Matt signalled through the door to Sherlock, who had stopped playing the moment John arrived. “Be right back.”
John watched him leave and then turned to Sherlock, who was scratching the back of his head with an intent expression, his fingers disappearing in his unruly hair. The morning concerto appeared over; it was clear he’d had a particular audience in mind - one that did not include John.
They'd obviously been awake the whole night. Unlike Dom, who was on the couch in the same position he’d been when John had gone upstairs, his sleep not at all disrupted by the violin.
“He’s only gone to the hotel to pick up his phone charger,” Sherlock answered the question John was about to ask. “He’s taking a cab.”
Leaving the detective muttering to himself about how the list of names provided by Tom Kirk was missing something, the doctor went to the kitchen to put the kettle on without a word. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes and he rubbed his right leg, wincing. It hardly mattered if it was psychosomatic or not, it still bloody hurt. Sherlock had followed him and closed the sliding glass doors, but instead of going to check on one of his many experiments, he sat at the table.
And started at John.
“What?” John finally snapped, turning to his flatmate after an agonisingly long minute of silence.
“You’re angry with me.”
His heart skipped a beat as he processed the words. But John didn’t want to talk about it. There was no rational reason to be upset, and he knew that any discussion with Sherlock on the subject would only turn into a deeply uncomfortable argument. And one that he would lose, at that.
“Do you want tea?” John said instead, his voice tight under the detective's scrutiny. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, what’s gotten into you? And I’m not angry!” He realised he was almost shouting. “Sorry. I... I’m not angry with you, I don’t know how you got that impression.” He could picture the look of disbelief on Sherlock’s face without looking. “You’ve been odd lately. That’s all.”
“Odd,” Sherlock repeated after a long pause. “That I’m odd, as you put it, never seemed to be a problem for you before.”
“It’s not a problem, I’m just surprised. I don’t know what makes you think it’s a good idea to even...” He was giving in, he was doing exactly what he didn’t want to do. John didn’t know if Sherlock was doing it on purpose and attempting to bring forth some sort of admission, or if he was simply clueless. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sherlock. Just forget about it.”
“A good idea to...?”
“Christ!” John placed his palms on the table, looking down. “Matt, Sherlock! I’m talking about Matt! This... this infatuation you have with him! I’m not blind! And you know me, you know I’d be the first to tell you to go after someone, to find someone... but he’s... he’s not the person for you. He’s exceptionally nice, he’s polite, he’s a bloody genius in his own right, but you said it yourself the moment we met him - he already has people in his life. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s going to be a father. And then there’s that man asleep on the couch,” he lowered his voice, pointing at the kitchen doors, “and for the life of me I cannot understand their relationship, but it’s not something conventional and he’s never going to replace him with someone else.”
“Well, thank you, John. For looking after my interests.” Glancing aside, Sherlock appeared somewhat perplexed but was clearly trying to remain patient, hands crossed placidly in his lap. “But -“
“There are so many people out there who could give you... who could...” John turned away, feeling his face flushing. God, what was he saying? What was he doing? Sherlock was going to get the wrong impression if this continued. Most likely he already had. John was starting to sound like a jealous, lover, which he most definitely was not and never would be. “All the time I’ve known you, I’ve never once seen you interested in another human being and it’s frustrating to... to see you wasting your energy on the wrong person. That’s all. Happy now?”
There was a long silence after that, ended by Sherlock’s low, deep voice. “John.” The doctor turned back to look; Sherlock was gazing at the floor as if lost in thought. “Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s. I thought you knew that.” It was John’s turn for stunned silence. “I promise you that whatever you’re worried about - you don’t need to be.” The kettle whistled and Sherlock rose to prepare the tea. He handed a cup to John, made exactly the way he liked it. “I need to get back to the case. Is that all right with you?”
John felt suddenly pathetic and incredibly immature and he swallowed, but the lump in his throat stayed and he couldn’t find the voice to reply. So he simply nodded jerkily and watched as Sherlock returned to the living room.
***
Matt grabbed his phone charger and stuffed it in one of his coat pockets, ready to take the waiting cab back to Baker Street. It was only a fifteen, twenty minute walk at most, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him go alone unless he took a taxi, so he'd agreed.
Sherlock Holmes.
What a character. Now he better understood why John Watson was willing to put up with him. If someone had told the singer two days before that he’d spend a whole night at the man’s flat working on the case, sipping red wine and discussing Romantic composers of the late 19th and early 20th century, he’d have thought they’d gone bonkers. For someone Matt had at first believed in love with the sound of his own voice, Sherlock turned out to be a remarkable listener. They'd had such an interesting and in depth discussion about music, Matt had to admit it had been ages since he’d talked to someone so knowledgeable who wasn’t trying to show off. Or kiss his arse.
Not to mention he was an amazing violin player. When Sherlock had finally picked the instrument up and played by choice and not due to Matt’s pestering, the Muse front man had just stood in silent appreciation, soaking in the music. He didn’t think the man who made a living as a detective would be out of place as a first chair violinist with the London Symphony Orchestra. The other guys would think it mad, but Matt also couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock would be keen to play as a guest on a track for the next album. There was bound to be one that required a string section. Frankly, Matt was rather flattered that Sherlock liked Muse, considering some of his previous experiences with snotty classical musicians.
Whatever Dom believed he’d seen when they first met, though, he’d been wrong, as not once had Sherlock tried to get personal if it didn't relate to the case, which Matt found refreshing. Although Sherlock probably didn’t ask because he already knew everything there was to know about him, having deduced it...
For a few hours he’d almost forgotten about the stalker, or at least that it was him being harassed. Matt could certainly use some detachment to help keep the nervousness at bay, especially if he had to call his girlfriend’s parents later that day, as he had decided to do if the stalker wasn’t caught in the mean time. They’d be worried sick, but there was no one better way to arrange for Kate and the baby’s safety, while covering for Matt and keeping her blissfully unaware that there was anything amiss. And that was the only thing that mattered.
As he waited for the lift to take him down to the lobby, his iPhone buzzed in his pocket with an incoming text. It was Tom.
Found something, where are you? DON’T TELL ANYONE – VERY IMPORTANT
Matt furrowed his brow and immediately called him, choosing to take the stairs so he wouldn’t lose the signal. Tom rejected the call, so he quickly texted him instead.
Leaving the hotel and back to baker st. whats up, its about the stalker?
When the answer came Matt had already crossed the lobby and was sliding into the black cab which had been waiting for him
You alone? Meet me at 6 Syon Manor Rd, Brentford. TELL NO ONE, I want you to see it first.
That was in Hounslow, way outside Central London. Matt's heart beat faster. What had he discovered that was so urgent and couldn't be shared? He tried ringing him again, but Tom rejected the call once more. For fuck’s sake, what was Kirk playing at? Sherlock had warned him not to veer from his path, but Matt couldn’t very well ignore Tom, could he? Matt rubbed his eyes in frustration before leaning forward to speak to the driver.
“Sorry, but there's been a change of plan. I need to go to Brentford instead.”
Settling back after giving the address to the cabbie, Matt drummed his fingers agitatedly on his thigh, clutching his iPhone tightly in his other hand. This was so odd. But Tom wouldn’t act like this unless he had a very good reason. Unless... what if he'd been taken...? A chill swept down his spine. No, it couldn’t be, they’d been in contact just the night before to confirm the names, as Sherlock kept insisting the list was incomplete. Maybe whatever he'd discovered had something to do with that? Or maybe it was to do with the detective himself - and that was why he wanted to speak with Matt alone first?
Feeling uneasy at all the possibilities, he opted for going to the address Tom had given him and making a decision upon arrival on what his next course of action would be. The second he found something dodgy, he’d call Dom.
***
When John returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but Dom was just coming out of the bathroom, stretching and yawning. The motion revealed his stomach and the belt on his jeans that had been covered by his t-shirt. A leopard print belt. Impossible to understand what in God’s name could make a grown man buy a leopard print belt. Or lever his way into a pair of ridiculously tight trousers. Rock stars, eh?
“Oh, hey, morning,” the blond greeted him with a smile entirely too cheerful for the time of morning. “Where’s everyone?”
“Sherlock's around. Matt went to the hotel to pick up his phone charger, he should be back any moment. Don’t worry, he took a cab. You want some tea?” John figured it was only polite.
“That would be lovely, thank you. Did they find anything?”
They sat at the table near the sitting room windows with their tea, talking idly about the case until Dom fell silent, gazing outside, most likely looking for Matt’s return.
“How long have you two known each other?” John asked, curious.
Dom released a small laugh. “God, it must be pushing twenty years now? We were 12 or 13, met at school. Feels like my whole life, really. I don’t remember much before then, anyway, just random childhood memories from Stockport, where I was born.”
“Must be nice to work with someone you’ve known for so long.” The only person John knew from such an early age with whom he still maintained contact was his sister. “Though you probably get tired of each other once in awhile.”
“Sometimes, yeah. We do spend a ridiculous amount of time together.” Dom looked down at the mug clutched between his hands. “But we don’t really fight, we’re lucky like that. There’s bands who make a record, do a few tour dates and then piss off separately till the next one because they can’t stand each other. We’re not like that. Cheesy thing to say, but we're like a big family when we're on tour. Sometimes it feels like we haven’t been home properly since we released the first album. That was 1999.”
“That's a long time.”
Dom nodded, thoughtful. “Chris, our bassist, he started a family early, he’s got five kids -“
“Five?!” John nearly choked on his tea.
“Yeah, I know,” Dom chuckled. “Never been a problem,. But there were times when he was there but, you know, not really there? Know what I mean?”
John understood. “It was only you and Matt sometimes.” Dom’s silence was confirmation enough. “You never thought of starting a family of your own?”
“I like this freedom. Things don’t work so well when I’m in a relationship.” Dom smiled wickedly. “Not bothered, maybe it’ll change one day. Matt’s the opposite, he likes being attached. Calms him down, too. He’s a hyperactive wee fucker, needs a steadying influence.”
“And you don’t worry it might change things in the band if he gets married one day? His girlfriend is pregnant, isn’t she?” John regretted the question the moment it was out, worried he was prying. But the drummer was grinning.
“Nah, there’s some things that will never change.” And he sat back, observing bemusedly as Sherlock entered the room in a frenzy with an open newspaper in front of his face.
It amazed John how utterly confident Dom was in his relationship with his friend, in his life. The drummer didn’t seem to feel the least bit threatened by Sherlock’s attention towards Matt, if anything he was overprotective. He wondered if perhaps that was what he felt in regards to Sherlock - and not silly jealousy as he'd feared. It would certainly make him feel more comfortable with himself.
“How about you?” Dom asked.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t have a girlfriend?”
John sighed. “Not so easy when you do what we do. If I tell you that on my first date with this woman we were both kidnapped...” Dom laughed good naturedly, but John felt a bit of a loser. “I guess it also doesn’t help in finding someone when,” he lowered his voice, “you have a, well, a flatmate like -“
“- like him.” Dom finished with a sympathetic smile. “Doesn’t seem the type that’s willing to share, does he? Reckon at least you’re never bored!”
Share? John was baffled. What sort of relationship did Dominic think he and Sherlock had? He supposed that for a man with an unconventional lifestyle, unconventional relationships, it was only natural to assume others acted the same.
The drummer had gotten up to peruse the wall where all the case notes and pictures were pinned when Sherlock suddenly stepped over the coffee table as he lunged for the desk, rattling items about on the wooden surface as he frantically searched for something.
“What? What is it?” John finally asked when the detective then ran to the pile of newspapers from the previous week.
Sherlock pulled one of the papers out and opened it. “Stupid. I’ve been so stupid, John. Too slow!” He shoved it against John’s chest, open at the page with the article about the body found in the Thames that John remembered from few days ago. “Drowned!” John gave him an inquisitive look and he huffed exasperatedly. “There was one just like this four months ago, another last year, a third two years ago. All in London, all found with alcohol in the bloodstream, all proclaimed accidental deaths.” He turned to Dom, arm outstretched dramatically. “Call Matthew. Call Matthew now, see where he is. If he’s not on his way here, we’re picking him up wherever he is, we can’t risk it.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Do it now! He’s going to attack again soon!”
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John demanded, blanching with worry.
Sherlock was pacing with a fervent glint in his eye, all excitement and adrenalin. “We’ve been following the wrong path, I should’ve seen it sooner!” The apparent irritation he felt at his error still wasn’t enough to keep a slightly manic smile off his face.
“What are you saying?” Dom said slowly, hands on his hips.
“The man we 'e chasing isn’t a stalker -”
“Oh, God.” John covered his eyes with one hand.
“- he's a serial killer.”