Chapter Text
Sherlock runs his finger around the rim of the container to ensure that the seal is intact, letting a smirk crawl onto his face. He bends to rummage in one of the lesser used cupboards, the ones where John tosses empty post boxes he thinks he might want later and spare napkins and the box of those bizarre cleaning cloths that are supposed be electrically charged to attract dust to them which Sherlock refuses to let him use.
It’s character, John.
It’s filth, Sherlock.
He whips out a crinkled paper bag obtained on their last trip to the grocery store and shoves his fist into it to open it wide.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Sherlock jumps slightly, his absorption in the final stages of his experiment preventing him from registering that the shower had stopped twelve minutes prior. “Nothing…really,” he mumbles, sliding in front of the plastic container still perched on the counter. He raises his eyebrows and blinks innocently.
John slowly finishes slipping his olive corduroy jacket over his shoulders. “Nothing, huh?” His indigo eyes narrow and swirl around Sherlock’s face, a slow smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “You ready to go, then? Greg’s party’s at two. Bet he’ll be glad to be back at it, even if he’s tied to the desk. Crutches should be gone in another month.”
“Yeah. Sure. All set.” His long fingers fiddle with the seam of the bag.
“Go ahead, then.” John sweeps his arm generously toward the door. “After you.”
Sherlock’s eyes expand owlishly. “Oh! Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Please, after you, Doctor.” He tries an ingratiating smile.
“I’ll carry it for you.”
“You’ll—what do you mean, John? You’ll carry what?
“Whatever that tub of goo is behind you that you think I can’t see and haven’t known you’ve been cooking up for the last half hour.” John steps forward, directly into Sherlock’s space, and presses against him. He’s used the new shower wash that Sherlock had gotten him, and he smells divine. Sherlock knows its a ruse, but when the strong arms wrap around his waist, his eyes automatically fall closed. He feels John’s lips against his neck, a tongue snake around his right earlobe, and he shivers. “Damn sexy git,” is the playful whisper that floats past his cheek.
John pulls back, holding up the container in his hand. “Explain.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes to the ceiling. For approximately 1.5 seconds, he considers concocting some kind of semi-legitimate story having to do with preservation of aquatic samples or rejuvenating shriveled fingertips for printing. Oh, to hell with it. He sighs deeply with the annoying realization that his ability to fib to John, even about idiotic things, has basically evaporated like a shallow puddle.
“John, have you noticed Anderson’s fascination with ghost stories?”
“What?”
“Anderson believes in ghosts. Five months ago on the Danbury case, he swore that the safe had been opened by the spirit of the man’s dead mother. Do you remember that?”
The blonde head tilts slightly. “I think he’s got a Ouija board, too. So what?”
“So it occurred to me, based on that presentation of behavior, how easy it would be to…I don’t know, to help that theory of his along, to massage it a bit, and…and that given the proper stimulus, something tangible, it might, well… ” Sherlock glances down at John, places his spread fingers against his own skull, then straightens them abruptly and pulls them away, puffing his cheeks like an explosion.
“And this stuff?” John looks carefully at the jar, turning it in his hand. “Wait, is this the slime that ended up all over our kitchen a few months ago?”
“Yes. A small and rather unfortunate aberration in the mixing process.” He shrugs. “But, now, voilà —Ectoplasm.”
“And you were just going to—what, plop it onto Anderson’s desk and hope he’d think Beetlejuice had paid him a visit?”
“Yep."
John is quiet for a few moments. He reaches forward to put the container carefully back onto the counter, then stares up at Sherlock, expression strained, and slides his hands onto his hips. “Seriously?” He shakes his head. “I’ve never heard anything so immature. That is…utterly unprofessional, Sherlock.”
“But, John, I—“
“No, Sherlock!” He grabs onto his shoulder knobs and gives a quick shake. “A real professional would use a caulk gun to gum up his files and make a huge splotch on the wall as the apparition’s exit point. For pity’s sake, Sherlock, I made you watch it a dozen times—did you learn nothing from Ghostbusters?” John’s stern face doesn’t seem to move a muscle, but suddenly it is completely different, and a wicked gleam shows in his eyes. He bites his bottom lip. “Let me get my bag—pretty sure I’ve a feeding syringe in there…”
He disappears down the hall with a giggle, and Sherlock’s hit with another wave of it, another wave of disbelief that this is really his life, that this perfect man belongs to him, saturates Sherlock from sole to crown. He’s convinced he could never love John more than at that moment.
That is, until four hours later when they can scarcely hold themselves up against the Coke machine at New Scotland Yard as Anderson tears through the bullpen with a white face, screaming, “They’re here! God help us all, they’re HERE!”
Sherlock Holmes has experienced many things in his life, some terrible and some wonderful, but in all of his forty years, Sherlock’s never experienced laughing so hard that tears have streamed down his face like spring rain, to the point that his stomach muscles have ached with the strain.
John leans into him, shaking with laughter when Sally skitters by with a glare and a high-pitched, “Phillip, wait!” and Greg slowly slides behind his office door to hide his own snickers.
Maybe it is now. Maybe this is it.
Maybe they’ll never be happier than they are right now. Maybe it will stop being new and wonderful and addictive.
And maybe it won’t.
When John reaches up and grabs his face, wipes at the tear streak with his thumb, and pulls Sherlock down for a quick, messy kiss, just a click of teeth and smear of lips because he can’t keep his mouth from giggling, there’s just more.
There is much more.
Sherlock kisses his eyebrow and leans around to whisper in his ear. “Feels like the first time, you know.”
John circles his soft cheek against Sherlock’s and murmurs, “That’s what happens when you save the best for last.”