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“What’s he doing?” John whispers, knowing full well Sherlock’s view is no different from his own but depending on his friend’s finely-tuned senses to perceive what he cannot. Sherlock’s head is tilted in concentration. Though the wardrobe offers only total darkness, John swears he can see Sherlock’s eyes squinted shut and screwed back in his head as he listens to Milverton’s conversation.
“Boasting,” Sherlock whispers back eventually. “Showing the young lady who has accepted his invitation a great many of his rare paintings - photographs with powerful friends.”
“Dickhead friends,” corrects John. Sherlock hums his agreement but says nothing, his focus still on the pair seemingly just outside the bedroom.
“They’re on the landing…if perhaps we could-“ John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist before he can finish the thought, mic clutched in his palm, and decidedly refuses to think about the heat that spreads out from his chest at the contact, even closer than they already are in this stupid wardrobe.
“Don’t you dare,” John hisses in Sherlock’s ear. “Unless your next move is the bloody window-“
“Watson!” Sherlock hisses, attempting to break out of John’s hold and only succeeding in wiggling his bum against John’s crotch, which, yeah, lovely that, very helpful at this exact moment. John swallows hard and tries to remember his train of thought.
“Knock it off,” he says sternly, to no avail, as Sherlock continues to worm around, and John’s body continues to respond, if slowly. “Sherlock, they’re on the landing. You know, the one just outside this room? There’s no way we’ll be able to move the painting quietly enough, grab the drive and get gone. They’ll hear us. Stay put.”
“We need that information, Watson,” Sherlock insists, thankfully stilling himself at last.
“Then we’ll get it when he’s gone down to get them drinks, or condoms or something- oh, god, just pictured him having sex and nearly threw up in my mouth.”
“He is a detestable thing, isn’t he?” Sherlock agrees, his tone disappointed but no longer arguing. John relaxes his grip on Sherlock’s waist, resting hand and mic on bony hip rather than try to pull both back through the crevice of space in the wardrobe.
“The worst,” John agrees. “God, the woman he’s with…you think he’s got something on her?”
“I fear it’s the most likely explanation for her presence here tonight. But then, I suppose some are attracted to power.”
John sighs in agreement, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder and shaking his head.
“Whatever it is- or isn’t, and I obviously really, really hope it isn’t extortion and coercion- I think we’re going to be here a minute.”
“We’re going to be here a lot longer than that,” says Sherlock, crossing his arms petulantly. John sighs again.
And then, as the reality of their situation crashes toward him, John finds he’s grinning against Sherlock’s upper back.
“You are completely mental, you know,” he whispers, smiling so wide he feels his face might split in two. “This whole thing is just - god, you’d better hope I don’t have to do a wee at some point.”
“Crossing my fingers,” grumbles Sherlock, but John’s practically shaking with laughter, only Milverton’s close proximity keeping him silent. “What’s so funny?”
“This!” John whisper-shouts, using one arm to gesture about and accidentally banging it against the wardrobe. Sherlock shushes him, but Milverton is talking about his connection to some acclaimed author without pause, so they’re probably fine. “This entire situation is ridiculous. I can’t believe I was wearing a stocking on my head.”
“You did don it much earlier than necessary,” Sherlock concedes, and John can hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah, well, what can I say, I love lady’s pantyhose.”
“They suit you quite nicely.”
“You should see me wearing them properly, garters and everything, it’d take your breath away.” John’s never worn women’s undergarments in his life, but somehow he makes what should be a joke offer sound just a tad too serious.
“I don’t doubt I’d be rendered speechless, Watson,” Sherlock agrees, and John can’t tell if he’s being sincere or not, but he decides he’d rather not find out, not unless he wants this cosy cupboard to get a little less cosy real quick.
“Speechless, talk about speechless, you know what makes me speechless?”
“Nothing?” Sherlock offers blithely.
“Very funny, no,” John says into Sherlock’s jacket, batting down an insane urge to nip at him for being cheeky. “No, I was referring to Agatha, actually.”
“Her again, Watson? Really, aren’t we past this by now?”
“Oh, what, your fiancé? Believe it or not, no. Chalk it up to jealousy.”
“You admit it, then!”
“Yes!” John hisses, smile fading a little. “No! I don’t know. I was- look, for the split second I actually believed you were engaged-“
“Only a split second? Really? It was that obvious?”
“Yes, it was that obvious, now would you shut up and let me talk?” Unintentionally, John’s voice raises as he speaks, and for a moment they both freeze, quite terrified they’ve been heard, but Milverton chuckles loudly at something his mysterious companion has said and merely continues his art tour. Sherlock exhales in relief, leaning back against John as he does, and John’s stomach does several flips.
“It mattered to you,” Sherlock says quietly, and John has to actively work to remember what on earth they were talking about. Apparently aware of his struggle, Sherlock clarifies. “My getting engaged. It mattered to you.”
John scoffs into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock reaches down and puts his hand over the one John’s got on his hip.
“Watson…”
John sighs, acquiescing.
“Sherlock, of course it mattered to me,” John whispers, glad for the first time all evening he can’t see Sherlock’s face. “My best mate getting married out of nowhere, not bothering to mention it to me of all people? Yeah, it mattered.”
“Even if I intended to go through with the arrangement, nothing would have changed between you and I,” Sherlock says, straightforward as always. John shakes his head.
“It would’ve.”
“It wouldn’t.”
“Nah, it would’ve,” John insists, curling the hand on Sherlock’s waist just a hair tighter, ostensibly adjusting his grip on the microphone, though he relishes the way his fingers sink into Sherlock’s hip. “Would’ve ruined all my plans for us.” John rests his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder again, grounding himself for the question he knows will inevitably come.
“Plans?” Sherlock asks, his voice hoarser than John was expecting. “For us?”
“Vaguely, yeah,” John admits, breathing in Sherlock’s scent - tobacco from the pipe he’s insisted on using all day, coffee from this afternoon, and Agatha’s sweet perfume. The last makes John’s just a bit nauseous, and he doesn’t think it’s anything to do with the notes the manufacturer selected.
“And these plans were…?” Sherlock presses.
“I don’t know- grow old together, I guess?” John confesses, not certain when his other hand began resting on Sherlock’s stomach but making no moves to retract it. “Get out of London - eventually, eventually, don’t make that noise, not ‘til we’re so old we can’t be doing with all this running around. Get a house in the country, I’d learn the guitar, maybe, and you’d- well, you’d probably have a whole Graham family by then - a Grahamily, haha - and-“
“I’d keep bees,” Sherlock says, suddenly getting into the idea. “I’ve always wanted to, but London’s no place for them, and I have no intention of leaving her before I absolutely must.”
“Her? London’s a she, to you?”
“Mmm, yes. A beautiful but tempestuous mistress.”
“Sounds a bit like you’re describing yourself, mate.”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Never mind,” John says quickly, not dealing with that right now. “Point is, if you run off marrying people at the drop of a hat, well, they might not really take to my retirement plans, eh?”
“What about you?” Sherlock asks quietly, looking as best he can over his shoulder at John. “I thought- that is to say, you and Mary-“
“I know,” John says gently, her memory still a bittersweet thing on his tongue. “It would’ve- it would’ve been different. With Mary. But…I don’t know. I think she’d have been game. She’d have heard me out, anyhow. I think she would have, I don’t know, I could be projecting-“
“She knew how to adapt.” Sherlock’s tone is respectful, but admiring, and John appreciates it. Distantly, he’s aware they should be listening for Milverton and his company, but he finds himself entranced with Sherlock’s considerations on Mary. “I…didn’t give either of you enough credit at the time, I’m afraid. She was a woman used to change. I imagine she’d have been willing to try a different lifestyle than the norm, if asked.”
“Right. Yeah.” John coughs, attempting to swallow down the knot in his throat. “Well. Anyway. Quiet retirement needs to be discussed with all potential spouses, alright? I mean, assuming that’s- I’m assuming you’d want that as well-“
“I would,” Sherlock agrees, reaching awkwardly back to pat John’s cheek where it’s resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It sounds quite nice, actually.”
“Mmm.” John’s breath, warm and bitter with coffee, puffs against Sherlock’s throat as he hums. Despite the angle being rather trying, Sherlock’s hand remains on John’s cheek, thumb doing a small, hypnotic rotation on his skin, rubbing over mustache occasionally. John nuzzles into the feel of it, letting the comfortingly familiar touch of Sherlock put him at ease, and-
And-
And. Alright. It’s going to sound like a shit excuse. But it was an accident, honest- it certainly starts that way. John’s intention, hand-to-god, was to whisper, jokingly, in Sherlock’s ear that he couldn’t believe Sherlock would abandon Graham and his descendants for bees, of all things. But he undershoots it, not quite far enough up on tiptoe, and his mouth lands neatly on the column of Sherlock’s elegant throat. Sherlock gasps, out-and-out gasps when it happens, and John, reacting on pure instinct, just holds him closer, presses him tighter.
Look, it’s a ridiculous wardrobe, bigger and more ornate than necessary for anyone’s clothes, probably a Narnia gateway, for Christ’s sake, but when it comes down to it, it’s a tiny space for two grown men, and somehow, somehow, John still can’t get Sherlock close enough to him.
Tentatively, reluctantly, John unlatches his mouth from Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock seems to sag as he does, though John’s not sure if it’s disappointment or relief until Sherlock speaks again.
“It rather seems to me,” Sherlock murmurs, his palm still warm and firm on John’s cheek, “that we may avoid the retirement discussion altogether if we simply…stop looking elsewhere for companionship.”
“We’re co-dependent enough, mate.”
“Watson, I meant-“
“Yeah, I know what you meant, I’m teasing,” John says, and, to make sure Sherlock knows he’s teasing, begins to suck a small mark into the junction between throat and shoulder. Sherlock groans lowly and moves his hand to the back of John’s neck, keeping him there.
“Watson, that’s- you’re- you’ll leave a mark-“
“Better invest in a turtleneck, then,” John says unsympathetically, heat and want having taken over the rational part of John’s brain and replacing all reasonable thought with a screaming animal demanding more, more, more. John tests the waters a little further, the hand on Sherlock’s stomach moving lower and coming to its natural conclusion at Sherlock’s belt. He does nothing beyond resting, doesn’t even try to put the mic down or mess with the buckle and zip below that, but the mere weight of it is enough to make Sherlock’s knees threaten to give out, and oh, that’s very nice.
“Careful,” John admonishes, lost to this small, pitch-black space, brave in the blindness of complete darkness, senses overrun with Sherlock and nothing else even daring to break through the barrier. “Wouldn’t want you falling and hurting yourself. What would Aggie think?”
“Her name is Agatha,” Sherlock hisses in irritation, whirling around with impressive speed considering their confinement and grabbing John by the shoulders. His grip is punishing, and for just a moment John is afraid Sherlock is indeed offended, whether by John’s jokes about his engagement, by his distracted behaviour on a case, or, worst of all, by his show of affection.
And yet, Sherlock’s lips brush John’s nose as he says in a triumphant voice, “I knew it.”
“Knew- knew what?” John asks nervously, attempting to laugh but just making a strange, frog-like sound in his efforts. “Knew I was jealous? What?”
In answer, Sherlock tips John’s head up with one hand, lowering his mouth to John’s and kissing the hell out of him. John whimpers, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s long back and tugging, tilting his head just so and opening his mouth in fervent hopes of gaining further ground. Sherlock breaks apart from him for a moment, panting, and John is shocked to hear himself whine at the loss of contact. Sherlock grins against his cheek.
“I knew you were bisexual.”
“Oh, well done you,” John says, rolling his eyes and shuffling so that they’re not fit together so awkwardly, putting leg between leg. “You and everyone else who’s met me.”
“I suspected for some time, but our encounter with Colonel Handsome confirmed it,” Sherlock tells him, and John rolls his eyes even harder. “That was not mere jealousy regarding his success and physique- there’s a history there-“
“Look, when you’re young, you find it’s easier to ignore a shit personality for a hot arse and a good shag - we’ve all been there!” John says defensively, and he feels Sherlock’s mouth fall open in surprise. “What? You haven’t?”
“I didn’t think you’d shagged him,” Sherlock replies, his scandalised voice not quite matching the laugh that cuts in around it. “Goodness. How…stimulating his pillow talk must have been-“
“Yeah, yeah, what can I say,” John interrupts, biting at Sherlock’s ear because he can, now. “I like ‘em tall dark and handsome.”
“And intelligent.”
“These days, sure,” John concedes, pleased when Sherlock drops his forehead to John’s shoulder and groans as John continues to kiss along his throat, his left hand dropping to John’s arse and resting there propietarily. “Matter of fact, these days I like them bloody brilliant. Mad geniuses who get us trapped in freak shows’ manor houses and-“
John is cut off, suddenly, by Sherlock’s hand clamping over his mouth. It’s something of a shock, considering they were pressed so tightly together and John’s lips so exploratory along Sherlock’s Adam’s apple that John’s sure Sherlock had to hurt himself wedging his palm and fingers in there, and yet he’s been silenced as effectively as if he were wearing a gag.
“Awf mmf?” John demands, his indignance palpable even with the nonsense that comes out of his mouth, but then Sherlock is shushing him frantically and the bedroom door is creaking open and John, panicked, slaps a hand over Sherlock’s mouth as well. They stare at each other, briefly, as light pours in through the sliver of a gap between the wardrobe’s heavy doors, both in awe of what has just transpired and how completely the rest of the world faded away in the middle of it.
And then they are both turning to face the wider world as Milverton enters the room, dripping with condescension as he compliments his guest’s performance, and John realises quite suddenly that if they are caught, this could very well be the end of his life as he knows it.
But he can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat, erratic just moments ago and growing steadier by the second, under his thumb where the hand holding the mic splays over the detective’s chest protectively. He can still taste the tobacco and coffee on Sherlock’s tongue, can still feel the thump-thump-thump of his own pulse in the aftermath of him snogging his best mate, and John knows right then and there that if Milverton ruins him, takes him to court and sues him for everything he owns only after dragging his name irreparably through the mud, it will have been worth it.
But he could never, ever do that to Sherlock. The great detective might seem invulnerable to some, but John knows better, it’s John’s whole job to know better. So John breathes Sherlock in one more time, and battens down the hatches for what he fears might be a long, frustrating evening - that frankly fantastic snog replaying in his mind the entire time.