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No. 69

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TEXT from My John: Sorry, not possible. Not when I know your brother is sitting right next to you.

How often have I said please in the past? Please. –SH

TEXT from My John: What good does it do?

I’m less than ten minutes away.  –SH

Less than a minute passed—John was weighing it up, Sherlock knew, trying unsuccessfully to talk himself out of it—and Sherlock’s phone chimed a different tone. Mycroft, seated beside him in the back of the luxurious black sedan,  tipped his face Sherlock's way and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You never get calls.”

“John Watson. Terrible typing. He finds phoning easier.”

“Hm.”

“You’ll excuse me. Hello.” Sherlock held the phone to his ear, looked out the window, willed any knowledge or sense of the existence of his brother away from himself.

John’s rough and ready voice in his ear. “You’re gagging for it.”

Sherlock couldn’t suppress a slight grin of satisfaction over getting what he wanted from John. In an even tone he simply replied, “Yes.”

“Anxious to get back here. To me.”

A hot shiver down the insides of Sherlock’s thighs—that was new; interesting. “Well, yes, obviously.”

“I’m thinking about pinning you to the wall—get my hands around those bony hips of yours and just…shove.”

Sherlock affected boredom, though he struggled to keep the volume of his voice from lowering toward a whisper. “That sounds about right.”

“Dirty thing. You want me to kiss you hard.”

“Absolutely.” Sherlock shifted in his seat, reassured himself the thick coat across his lap offered him cover. His ears were unimaginably warm.

“The buttons of your shirt are going to fly when I rip it open. . . So I can bite you—“ John’s breath hitched desperately. “—all over. . .Lick you. . . god. . .”

Sherlock could only muster a faint, “Ah,” and could not be bothered to worry whether it sounded appropriately staid.

“What if I pushed you down on your knees?”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, sighed it out in a gust. “That would be just fine.”

John’s breath was becoming ragged. He said, “You can’t wait to open your mouth for me.”

“True,” Sherlock answered, swallowing hard.

Mycroft: “John Watson and the shopping list, no doubt.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“Shame on you, prick fully hard, and your brother right there.” There was a wickedness in it that nearly undid Sherlock then and there.

Yes.” Sherlock imagined the force of it might sound like annoyance or impatience.

“With his waistcoat and pocket watch.”

“Of course.”

“If he only knew.” John huffed a thick laugh. “Get here now, Sherlock, and finish what you started.”

“Oh,” Sherlock sighed, then caught himself. “Yes, that’ll do.” He glanced at Mycroft and rolled his eyes heavenward, staging it: Oh this John Watson and his terrible typing and his nattering nagging about the shopping; what a bother he is.

“Ah,” Mycroft said then, in his faux-cheery tone. “Here we are. Give Dr Watson my regards.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Yes, of course.”