Work Text:
Outside his room of steel, all of Sherlock's old methods and privileges are open to him. He is an agent, a detective, and a criminal mastermind once more. He erases himself from the CCTV footage and security cameras, before leaving, as invisible as a shadow in the night.
London is different than he remembers it. Or perhaps he is the one that is different. The people do not seem so small, so insignificant now. After all, if they can produce the likes of John Watson, what other jewels might be hidden amongst the rough?
His first task will be to locate Mary, wherever she might have gone. But to accomplish this, he will need to know more about her. He hails one of the cabs that roam the streets of London constantly, and asks to be taken to a place where he might find lodging.
It is when he has given enough cash to the owner of a shady little motel, that he opens up his laptop and discovers hidden inside the most secure file, the complete history of John H. Watson.
It is there that his education begins.
-l-
Months of watching John has taught Sherlock that he loves beautiful women (and Sherlock's female form is beautiful, very beautiful, everyone (Irene) says so). After some thought, Sherlock concludes that Mary will be more likely to befriend him as a woman as well.
He stands in front of the grimy mirror in the bathroom, using what little light there is, to carefully paint his face until He has become She.
He changes the colour of his eyes from blue-grey-green to a bright, piercing blue, and lightens his hair until it shines bright with amber and copper undertones. Thinking of John, he makes his breast a little fuller, his mouth a little redder, his brows thin and arched. His skin stays pale and clear, but he lengthens his hair with extensions so it cascades over his shoulders. Observing himself in the mirror, he is satisfied that he will seem a stranger to Irene, and be pleasing to John's eyes. He isn't positive the disguise will fool Mycroft, but he also knows his brother will be too busy dealing with other things to really notice another woman in a long string of John Watson's consorts.
He paints his face as he has seen Irene do, and orders clothing online. If he is to be a woman, he will dress fashionably. He opts out of heels, as 5ft 10" is tall enough. And since John is only 5ft 9", he would have to make himself seem even smaller. A marathon of Sex and the City helps him to learn the social customs attached to being a woman. Sherlock decides that Sex in the City is trash, and he'd much rather be a housewife than be that vapid and shoe-obsessed.
He returns to the tiny bathroom for the final step: shaving his legs.
-l-
He names himself Sheryl Williams, and uses his various hacking skills to create a history for himself. Sheryl is an orphan with no family (Mary will relate and John will feel compassion) who made her way in the world by cleverness and sheer force of will. She took ballet as a child (every good lie needs some truth) and has one degree in business and another in political science (stealing this from Mycroft because petty competition is all they have). For the sake of not being too good to be believed, she got pregnant as a teenager and gave up her child in a closed adoption. That will also appeal to John, since he will feel the need to give comfort and show understanding.
Once he has read all of the files that presume to know why Mary left John, he arms himself with a briefcase and tailored (black) suit dress, and goes to see Mary in her office at the small medical building on the outskirts of the Watson Estate.
Mary is as beautiful and poised as she ever was, with blonde hair and red lips and a strand of pearls at her throat. She smiles when Sherlock is shown in, her face the polite mask of a benign ruler, but Sherlock has watched her too long and is too clever to be fooled. He can see the lines around Mary's eyes, the strain that stiffens her spine.
"I am Sheryl Williams," Sherlock says, forcing his voice high and breathy, stretching his hand out to Mary in greeting, "and I am here to become John Watson's new personal assistant."
Mary blinks, giving Sherlock a puzzled expression even as she takes Sherlock's hand. Her grip is firm, her skin soft. "I'm sorry, Ms. Williams. I've tried to send four new assistants over since John and I…" She presses her lips together in a thin white line, her brow creasing. "John won't let anyone in to see him. I've stopped trying."
"I will get in," Sherlock says confidently. He will not be kept from those he considers his. John can not deny him what he claims for himself, no matter how hard he tries.
Mary's eyebrows draw down, suspicion sharpening her features. "Ms. Williams, I appreciate your confidence, but – "
"I think," Sherlock interrupts, "that you will find me just as highly skilled as a friend of mine who once held the post. A Ms. Adler?"
Mary stills. "You know Irene?"
Sherlock smiles. "Very well. She can be quite a fury, can't she? And you can be assured, Ms. Morstan, that if you hire me I shall do my best to shield John just as well as Irene did." He puts a finger to his lips, and winks at Mary. He can sense the victory before she even says a word.
Mary smiles back. "One week, Ms. Williams. You have a week to prove you can handle the job."
-|-
The newly renovated Watson estate is as familiar to Sherlock as his own home in the heart of London. (Home no longer. Was it ever home?) He finds his way to the levels where the agents live easily, and calmly asks over the intercom if they could all convene in the central living area. John will not show of course. John is busy destroying more things in his shooting range.
Agent Anderson arrives first, looking just as Sherlock remembers, all lean muscle and cold looks. Sherlock smiles at him and scans his body, searching for information, looking for a way into his thoughts. It is easier to do so with someone that he once knew so intimately.
Phillip is aroused by what he thinks are Sheryl's breasts, and wants to know what she is doing here. He's watching her for signs of being an enemy agent. He doesn't recall ever seeing her around the base before.
Sherlock smiles and feels victory.
Lestrade arrives next, the silver haired fox and the oldest of the agents on the team, and Sherlock holds his breath, waiting to be recognised. But Lestrade merely bows over Sherlock's outstretched hand, his silver hair disheveled, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. "If the esteemed Ms. Morstan thinks you equal to the task, then our Captain Watson shall be himself again soon and once more join us on the field!"
Sherlock nearly collapses in relief, though not a flicker of it shows on his face. Of all the people who he will have to fool, Lestrade would be the most difficult. He had been a part of Mycroft's team for more than ten years now, and had on more than one occasion worked incredibly closely with Sherlock.
And then there is Irene, Sherlock's old...friend. "Agent Adler," Sherlock says, his palm burning with the feel of Irene's hand against his own. (Hair like night, lips like blood, skin like snow, wolf eyes that see all.) "You have no idea how I have looked forward to this moment."
Irene raises one eyebrow. "Oh?"
Sherlock raises one in return. "I believe the phrase is, 'I am your number one fan.'"
Irene is saved from having to answer by the entrance of Agents Donovan and Hooper. Hooper is a quiet, unassuming woman. One would never guess by her nervous gestures and soft smiles that she holds the great ability for murder and destruction inside. This is in direct contrast to Lestrade, who wears his good intentions and righteous morality on his face, as plain as day. What a pity that one so handsome should be so good.
"I am Sheryl Williams," Sherlock introduces himself to them all. "John Watson's new personal assistant. I desire that you aid me in my campaign to prevent his self-destruction."
"Whatever you need," Lestrade promises. "None of us have been able to get through to him. Here's hoping you can."
-l-
When the estates installed automatic voice AI, regretfully informs Sherlock that it cannot open John's shooting arena to him, Sherlock simply uses his hacking skills to circumvent the door.
John is thin, and looks as if he hasn't slept. His skin has taken on a greyish pallor, his blonde hair sticks up every which way, and his eyes are wild. He is not a young man by anyones standards, but this is the first time Sherlock has thought he looks old. Perhaps others would look on and scoff, would see a man so pathetic that he cannot carry on after a lover has left him, but Sherlock sees only himself. It is a hard thing, to lose the only real love one has ever known. (Not good enough, never. Always, always lacking in some way.)
Sherlock sits by John, and waits for him to notice. John is currently focused on one of the rifles, adjusting it's inner mechanisms, an impossibly tiny tool in his hand.
Sherlock finds him beautiful.
It takes some long minutes, but Sherlock is content to wait. Finally, John moves to reach for another tool, and registers that there is someone sitting on his workbench with him. He starts.
"Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? How'd you get by the locking system? Bloody useless AI!" He directs those last remarks to the ceiling.
Sherlock leans toward John, knowing that doing so will draw attention to his breasts as the neck of his blouse slides down. He is gratified when John's eyes roam over his skin. "In order, I am Sheryl Williams. I am here to serve you in whatever way you require, as I am your new personal assistant, and as to how I got by the AI… I will make you a deal."
John's face assumes the calculating expression Sherlock loves so well. "What deal?" he asks.
"If you go take a bath, eat a large meal, and retire to your room to sleep for at least six hours, I will tell you how I got by the AI when you wake."
For a moment, he thinks it will not work. But then John sways and says, "Deal."
He wanders vaguely in the direction of the washroom attached to the arena. Sherlock gets up and guides him by the elbow, drawing his bath and starting to pull at his clothes. John bats his hands away, removing his shirt himself and throwing it to the floor. Sherlock's mouth goes dry at the sight of John's battle scar.
"Staying to watch the show?" John asks with a leer.
Sherlock smolders at him, making his voice as smooth and smoky as John's (and incidentally, Mycroft's) favourite scotch. "If you like."
John swallows. "That will be all, Ms. Williams."
Disappointed, Sherlock leaves.
-l-
The AI alerts Sherlock as soon as John wakes, and it is only moments before he blows into the kitchen to interrogate him as to how he managed to enter the arena.
Congratulating himself on his strategy, Sherlock opens the oven door and pulls out a plate of eggs bacon and toast which he had made Lestrade prepare some minutes before. He sets it and a glass of orange juice in front of John.
John starts to eat without a second thought, even as he glares.
"I've checked all the logs, and run the code on the system. A breach was never recorded, there are no blips, no radiation or electromagnetic pulses, I don't understand how – "
"Magic," Sherlock smirks. And in a way, it's not a lie. He knows of no one else (Mycroft not included) who can do what he can do. He is rare, and he is unknown; is that not how the world see's magic?
John looks unimpressed. "Magic," he say's, his voice flat and his face blank.
More truths come flowing from Sherlock's lips, and he cannot even pretend that he does not wish to speak them.
"You are a difficult man to assist, Captain Watson. It is only proper that your assistant be more than human."
He smiles and nods to John, even as he thinks, Less than human.
So much less than human.
He waits for rejection. For the ridicule that has ever been his lot in life. He waits for John Watson to tell him to leave, and wonders if he will obey when the order comes, or if he'll jump from the roof and burn this tower to the ground. (Either is possible.)
John touches Sherlock's arm, drawing his thumb over his skin.
Sherlock shivers.
"More than human, huh?"
His breakfast lies forgotten now, and he is watching Sherlock like a mongoose does a viper. And yet there is an edge of excitement to his caution, a spark in his eyes that speaks of danger and his love of it. Curiosity.
I am Sherlock Holmes's, John Watson's eyes say.
"More than human," Sherlock answers.
"Hmm." John leans back, looking Sherlock up and down. He takes his hand away, and Sherlock must force himself not to snatch it back, place it once more on his skin.
"I was part of the operation which disabled Moran. They called me Tiger Slayer."
Sherlock killed Sebastian Moran in a fight years ago, taking his former boss's prized pupil and toy in revenge for cutting him off. But few knew of his connection to Moran, and even fewer of his connection to Moriarty, and so few would recognise the name. It is simple enough for Sherlock to use that name when the need arises. (Unlike Mycroft's agents, Sherlock holds his triumphs close. The most dangerous weapons are those that cannot be seen.) Sherlock has not lied to John Watson, and yet if John were to consult with Mycroft, or possibly even Lestrade, he would surely find Sherlock out.
He does not wish to lie to John Watson. (Discovery. Curious. Why him?) He wants John to know him, to know him in a way that he has never had the opportunity to be known, with the weight of his name on his shoulders and the darkness of Mycroft's shadow hanging over him.
He wishes for John to know him, and in his knowing, choose to love him anyway.
He leaves and lets John think Sherlock is trying to impress him.
The truth is that he is fleeing from the (bright, burning, too bright) man who stole his heart in increments, a shard at a time, and may fracture it like so much glass. (He almost wishes that to happen, so he could examine the shatter pattern and cracks.)
-l-
He expects the other agents to be aware of his abilities and title when next he meets them, and yet they seem oblivious. John catches Sherlock's eye and smirks, and he feels his painted red lips curl in return.
Of course. He should have known. John loves secrets, when they are his. (And this is his secret. His and Sherlock's. Binding, sharing, does this make them friends?)
He slinks across the room to sit by him, nodding to Irene as he does so. "Captain Watson, interacting with humans. I am so very proud of you."
"Yeah, well, they were starting to get bored without me. You know how it is."
Very seriously, Sherlock nods. "Indeed I do. You are most entertaining."
Lestrade snorts.
John leans to the side, laying his head back to rest it on Sherlock's shoulder, looking up at him with deceptively innocent eyes. "That's sweet of you."
Hesitantly, Sherlock shifts his arm around John's shoulders and begins to stroke his hair. John stiffens, but does not pull away.
His hair is soft and silky against Sherlock's fingers.
Molly Hooper meets his gaze, and once eye contact is made (windows to the soul, windows to the mind, people don't remember that, how can they not when they work with Mycroft?) Sherlock examines her thoughts, her body language, gathering impressions.
Monster. Revulsion. Blood on my hands. No one should love me. No one should trust me. How could they? How could they?
And then Sherlock understands. Molly is like him too, in a way that not even John and Irene are.
Molly Hooper see's him for what he is. Molly has discovered that he is a Holmes.
"Hey," John disrupts the moment, waving one hand around. "Don't make eyes at my assistant. That's my job."
Sherlock jabs at a pressure point just behind John's jaw, and he yelps. Irene laughs.
-l-
Two weeks after Sherlock first ousts John from his self-inflicted isolation, Mary comes to the tower.
It is tense. John will not look at her. Mary's smile becomes frozen in place. The longing and pain between them is so palpable that Sherlock can almost touch it. (Could he wrap himself in it? Make a shawl of misery?) He frowns, even as the dark, broken pieces of his psyche writhe in pleasure within the corners of his mind that are cobbled together with red string and blood.
"It was too soon. I shouldn't have come here," Mary says after John has escaped to his rooms. She has forgotten Sherlock's presence entirely. Her words are not meant for other ears, and yet Sherlock has always been adept at knowing what is not meant to be known.
He hooks his arm through Mary's, offering her a sly grin. "If Sex and the City has taught me anything, now would be an appropriate time to gather all of our female companions, imbibe fruity drinks, and discuss all the ways in which the men in our life 'suck.'"
Mary giggles and Sherlock knows he will have his way.
-l-
Anthea Boyette is not the empty headed beauty Sherlock thought she must be. She is beautiful (soulful and slender), yes, but once she becomes tipsy she starts explaining strategy and analysing to Sherlock by writing complex equations on cocktail napkins. There is hope for Mycroft, if this is who he would have take his place.
And Sarah? She is a delight.
"Serioushly," Sarah is saying, "all the good men are taken, dead, or evil… Do you think Greg would date me? I should totally try to sheduce Greg."
Mary laughs, false brightness. Irene is quiet, waiting, watching. She glances at Sherlock.
They both know this is an interrogation. (How wonderful it is to be understood.)
The dam breaks after Mary's fourth mimosa. Sarah is waffling on about Lestrade.
Mary sniffles, and then sobs. "I want a baby," she says.
Sherlock feels his eyes widen as the pieces click into place. Irene pets at Mary's hair, whispering to her in Bulgarian.
"John isn't ready and he might never be. I know that. I appreciate it. I wouldn't force fatherhood on him, not after everything he's been through. But it's different, for women, you know? You only have so long before it's too late."
"You still love him," Sherlock says.
He buys Mary another mimosa.
-l-
When Sherlock returns to his rooms in the Watson Estate, John is lying across his bed. He has grease on one cheek, shooting goggles pushed up on his forehead, and he smells like scotch. A half empty decanter is in his left hand. Sherlock stops for a moment, admiring the way the light of the lamp plays over John's face. It is like magic. (John is like magic.)
John pushes himself up on one elbow and squints at him. "Sheryl. Sheryl, Sheryl, Sheryl. Heard you took Mary drinking."
Sherlock crosses the room to stand before his closet doors and starts casually undressing. "And I see that you took yourself drinking. Did you have fun?"
John makes a rude gesture, and Sherlock laughs.
"You aren't drunk. You aren't even tipsy," John accuses, sprawling once more across the bed.
"It takes much more liquor to intoxicate me than it would you. I pretended, while we were out." Sherlock is in his robe now.
He feels John's fingers, warm against his thigh, before he can stop him.
"You don't have to pretend with me," John says, the puff of his breath so close to Sherlock's skin, raising gooseflesh along his back. (He flays me alive without even knowing.)
Sherlock swallows hard and tries not to tremble. His throat grows tight. He turns to face John, who is sitting on the bed, nose level with Sherlock's belly button. John glances up at him and Sherlock wants desperately to untie his robe.
Fuck up, fucked up, fuck.
He takes an step backwards. "If only that were true," he says quietly, his eyes averted. John's eyes are dark and shadowed, and Sherlock is unable to see if they hold hurt.
"Alright," John's voice is understanding. "Alright." He stands up slowly, wobbling a bit, and moves towards the door. "Another time, then."
Sherlock turns to smile at him. "Yes," he agrees.
John nods and leaves. And then returns. "How about a blow-job? Would that be alright?" His voice is uncertain.
For a moment, Sherlock thinks he's talking about giving one to Sherlock.
"I-yes. God, yes."
Sherlock buries his face between John's legs and inhales deeply. John moans.
"Going to regret this in the morning," John mumbles as Sherlock's tongue laves against John's most intimate parts, even as his tongue probes at balls slit. Sherlock doesn't know if John speaks of his regret, Sherlock's, or both of theirs.
"Mmm," Sherlock responds, pulling the shooting goggles off John's head and tossing them to the carpet.
John's grip is firm on Sherlock's head. "Having sex with you is a bad idea," he reminds himself aloud.
"You will not be the first to think so and do it anyway."
He is a master of chaos, of destruction. He will not allow John to destroy himself, but he will revel in all the ruin he brings.
-l-
Morning comes, and John is not there. Sherlock is not surprised. He takes his time bathing and dressing, and lets himself into the arena.
John looks up, and then glances away, determinedly ignoring him. Lips twitching, Sherlock presses himself against John's back and nibbles on his ear.
John freezes.
"Look, Sheryl, about last night…"
"Yes, beloved?" Sherlock simpers.
John squeaks. "I told you you'd regret this in the morning. I don't usually do this, the whole morning after thing. If you didn't work for me and live here I'd have had someone wake you up and put you in a cab by now. This is why everyone's always telling me not to sleep with employees, isn't it? I need a drink, you want a drink?"
Sherlock pouts his lips, making his eyes big and tearful. "But John, surely you know that once we find the right person, the people in my family mate for life. You are mine."
How sweet it is to say it. Neither part is a lie.
John sputters. Sherlock grins a feral grin. Minutes pass.
Slowly, slowly John's expression clears, and an answering grin stretches his lips. "Oh, you are evil."
Equilibrium restored, John begins to destroy all the targets in the room as Sherlock observes (and occasionally helps, though John will admit to no such thing).
-l-
"Is John okay?" Mary asks when Sherlock goes to the medical building to collect items John needs for his (their) latest destructive feat. "I mean, really okay?"
Sherlock thinks of days gone without sleep, frantic oral sex that leaves marks on his pale skin, the crushing weight of knowing that it is not his embrace that John seeks, but solace, a rest for the weary.
The crazed look in John's eyes as he manipulates his screens of floating schematics for upcoming battles, every bit a genius, for all that he calls his work rudimentary
He says, "John's destruction is productive and beautiful. Yes, he is okay."
Mary gives Sherlock an odd look, but she accepts the words as the assurance they are meant to be.