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Language:
English
Series:
Part 2 of Naked, Stripped, and Raw
Stats:
Published:
2013-03-10
Completed:
2013-04-03
Words:
19,687
Chapters:
8/8
Comments:
176
Kudos:
380
Bookmarks:
32
Hits:
9,083

Stripped

Summary:

Sequel to Naked. Fall has come and with it the end to old and new alike. With Sherlock busy investigating a case that strikes far too close to home, the only thing that can keep him from getting his revenge is the distraction of things he thought he'd avoided well over a year before.

Edited by Renadolce

Winner for Best Characterization in the 2014 Holmsies Awards

Chapter Text

John hated critics. He wondered sometimes if they had ever read a newspaper in their lives or somehow missed the big announcement about this thing called Google if they had the audacity to complain that the character of Sherlock Holmes wasn't believable. Artistic license his arse. If Sherlock Holmes wasn't believable, it was simply on the grounds that the man himself was every bit as unbelievable as he seemed. It was almost worth listening to his publisher's advice sometimes if it meant laughing in the critics’ faces, though the thought of going on the telly to promote A Study in Pink made his hackles rise. He'd had rather enough press for a lifetime as Sherlock's height-enhancing accompaniment. He knew the press all too well. A minute on the book, and the rest of whatever segment they scheduled spent on dirt and gossip. 'Bachelor' may not be the latest nick-name the presses could enjoy but the fewer people who called his wife a 'good cover' the better. There was a finite number of nights a bloke wanted to spend in jail for breaking noses. So instead John simply folded the paper to take home and add to the special pile for later reference. Just in case he ever snapped some day and considered a long overdue killing spree as a means to an end. It would, at least, entertain Sherlock.

Still, arsehole critics were a small price to pay for the limited luxuries of being a published author. The book advance had covered closing costs on a nice home not too far out of the city and his final manuscript had gone towards a very nice savings fund for his other big achievement. Sherlock had always been the first step towards life fulfillment and the proper chronicle of their meeting had shown itself to be a continuation of that trend. Though John had tried to split the money, Sherlock would have nothing of it. John liked to pretend it was because he'd rather the money go to John's starting family. More likely, Sherlock just didn't want to have to bother with bankers. Like an old Victorian gentleman, Sherlock seemed to get by on a simple stipend from one source or another—Mycroft by basic reasoning, perhaps as executor of their family estate. Scotland Yard certainly didn't pay him and he turned down more payments than he accepted for his private work. Still, never a sterling short and generous to the last pence. John did need the money; there hadn't been much argument there. Didn't make him feel guiltless enough not to demand he pay for their food and drinks during their weekly rendezvous, though.

Sherlock was late but that was par for the course. It was hard to hold it against a man with no set schedule. He'd come when he could or text if he could not. It was sort of a system they'd fallen in to. They had a usual table at their usual place and though the wait staff had changed some over the year, there was still one or two usual girls who would smile and nod and know. He had a usual order for when Sherlock was late and at least one of them brought it to him whether he'd ordered it or not. Ten minutes and no company meant coffee and a small service of biscuits while the sight of Sherlock elicited just the one menu to be brought to the table. It was like clockwork or magic. It made John feel important no matter how abysmal his time in the surgery had been. He truly did not mind having to wait on his friend when he was hardly among strangers as it was.

Sitting at their table, coffee resting on its saucer, John tucked the newspaper in his bag and pulled out instead his laptop to begin work once more, never one to waste a moment when one was spared. Much as his wife insisted he write next about how they'd met, John couldn't bring himself to put forth the effort of writing another novel. It was an exhaustive process which, at the time, had been a kind distraction but with life's not-so-subtle changes, it hardly fit in with his current responsibilities. Sadly the money certainly did. With The Strand willing to pay him rather generously for serialized stories, just a few pages on the many adventures Sherlock and he had enjoyed, not much more than the blog posts that had started it all, well, it would hardly have been sensible to have turned them down. His current piece—"A Scandal in Belgravia"—aimed to show Sherlock in perhaps a warmer light than his first book had done. It didn't exactly follow the order of events in their life but surely a dominatrix, faked deaths, the crown and government cover-ups would make for a fine story all the same.

He wasn't very far into either his story or his cup of coffee when the chair across from him pulled out, into which Sherlock seated himself hastily with a rather exhaustive groan. John looked up to find his friend lightly perspiring with his shirt collar crooked, waving aside the menu as the waitress came to deliver it and looking by all rights ready to bolt from the cafe as quickly as he had landed within.

"You look—"

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock breathed out with exasperation as he raked long fingers through his curls. "All done and taken care of, though."

John snorted, leaning over the table to set Sherlock's collar right. "You didn't have to run on my account. You know I'll wait."

"Trust me, this isn't your doing. Just... business as usual," Sherlock assured him, smacking his hand away to see to his state of dress himself.

John sat back, shaking his head at the clear signs of fatigue in Sherlock's demeanor. It wasn't just the sweat and heavy breathing but the darkness under his eyes and the tiredness of his features. Another long and involved case, then. Part of him very much wanted to know all about it and hear the tale from beginning to end in as much detail as Sherlock could spare. But that wasn't part of their arrangement. So he just smiled and sipped his coffee, still pleased all the same that Sherlock had tried to wrap the case up in time for their weekly meet-up. "You should probably eat," he cautioned, pushing closer to him the plate of biscuits. If he was tired, surely he was hungry too.

But Sherlock just turned his nose up at them, accepting only the cool water sat before him. "I can't stay long; I told Lestrade I'd meet him back at the station. Just stopping by."

"Oh. Alright." John shut the lid on his laptop. "Ah, you have a chance to look over the first few pages I sent you?"

Sherlock gave him a stern frown—nearly a pout.

"The sheet?"

"The sheet." Sherlock confirmed, making the ice dance with his straw. "I was not being obstinate nor was it a sign of rebellion. I was merely making a point."

"The point being that Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do just because he was supposed to. Do you need me to define obstinacy for you?"

"You make me sound like a spoilt child," he complained, arms crossing over his chest.

John could not help but chuckle, warmth rising in his cheeks at the memories of sitting in Buckingham Palace next to his nearly naked best friend like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You are a child, Sherlock. Not in all ways but in some. It's not a bad thing. I think people will find it.... endearing."

"No they won't; why will they?"

"Because it shows that you're... you're funny. You're remarkable. It's really very you in ways that's hard to describe. I'd really hate to take it out. I think it does well to show how strong willed you are in contrast to... well, to the later bits."

Sherlock sat up straighter. "And what was weak willed about solving the case and foiling Ms. Adler's plot?"

"Not weak willed. Wrong word. Ah..," John licked his lips, trying to think of how best to describe what he meant. "Okay, innocent. I mean, the case stuff for the most part is simply brilliant but you have to admit you were pretty naive about the whole romantic aspect. I wasn't exactly helping, I bought the whole love story too, believe me, there will be plenty of asides of me reprimanding myself for encouraging you. Can we maybe wait until it's done and revisit the sheet? Maybe if you can read the whole thing it will make sense why I want to keep it."

Sherlock looked less than pleased but gestured the topic aside. "Fine. We'll address it later. I expect you to focus on the actual case this time and much less on personal matters is all."

"They're my memoirs. It's my autobiography in god knows how many parts. I'm writing these to describe my life with you and define you as a real person. So hopefully we can continue to agree to disagree there because I am going to focus on us now and then, even in these shorter ones."

Sherlock continued to scowl but his eyes had softened from their earlier expression. He sipped his water and left it at that, saying not a word edgewise despite his propensity to have the last. It made John wonder sometimes just how genuine Sherlock's complaints were and how much was just further testament to his obstinate nature. The sheet was staying in. He was going to win that fight one way or another.

John watched as Sherlock glanced at his wrist several times, the expensive timepiece hardly having a chance to change between each look. He'd been in the middle of something important. He'd made time but not much. John smiled at him as he put his laptop back into its case and waved for the bill. "If you hate it that much, you're more than welcome to write your own versions. A whole annotated copy of my works with you scratching things out and writing in the margins 'Wrong!', correcting me in the footnotes."

Sherlock chuckled. "Tempting. Pity such free time is rarely made available to me."

"Lucky for me, then. I get enough guff from the paid critics as it is," John said, passing off a few bank notes to the familiar blonde before standing and making his way out of the cafe with his friend.

The busy street was relatively empty. Tuesday night, not exactly prime time for dating, not much more than business men and women and the occasional student in transit or finding time to idle. Sherlock held up his arm to hail a cab, his stature ensuring one almost immediately.

"Tell Lestrade I said hello, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, leaning his hand against the cab as it stopped beside him. "He was asking about you just the other day, actually. I think his exact words were 'where is that bastard when I need him? '."

"On your best behavior, were you?"

"My very best," Sherlock assured him, his smile deep and mischievous.

John chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "Keep at it," he said, and stepped back to let Sherlock open the cab door. Then things went much, much slower.

At first there was the screaming—a woman's; older from the pitch—and from that siren a shift of bodies like parting waves. Second was the gleam of sunlight off the gun. He felt a fool not to have looked up and seen the face of its wielder, motivated instead to move back towards Sherlock whose back faced the scene, caught in slow motion as he turned. Third was the bullet. Fourth was cold. Fifth was stupidity and gravity and somehow not yet pain but full awareness. Sixth was his head against the cab on his way down. Seventh was a pale blur with black fringe keeping him from the pavement. Eighth was black and cold and heavy.

There was no ninth.