Three weeks later my phone rings and it's Mycroft.

"John! Busy tomorrow at about eight?"

"No, we're not busy." There's a slight pause and I think, right, he wasn't asking about both of us. Right.

"Could I possibly impose upon you at home? I can arrange the food?" his voice is smooth and cultured. I imagine what Sherlock will say, how high his eyebrows can go into his hairline? But I want to know why Mycroft is inviting himself to our flat.

"Yeah, yeah eight will be fine. Erm. Are we dressing for dinner?" I have no idea how these public school boys do things. Mycroft laughs, genuinely amused.

"No, no John just come as you are."

"Thanks," I say then realise it's my flat he's coming to. He laughs again.

"Tomorrow then. I shall look forward to it." And he's gone. Leaving me with two questions. One, can I get this place even vaguely tidy by tomorrow night and two, how the hell am I going to tell Sherlock?

The man in question bursts through the door carrying armfuls of damp, wet wood. We don't have an open fire and we don't have pet earwigs, as far as I know.

"What's that?" I ask, my arms folded across my chest. Sherlock doesn't answer, he grabs a knife from the kitchen drawer and scrapes something from the wood into his hand and the he puts the knife back in the drawer. Ugh. It's wonder we haven't caught something yet.

Surreptitiously I removed the knife, wash it and put it back. Sherlock hasn't noticed he's busy dropping some chemicals onto the shavings on his hands.

"Ow! Fuck!" he swears violently, something he never usually does, and drops the pieces on the varnished surface of the table where we watch them smoulder through the veneer. I roll my eyes. I'll kill him one day.

"Sorry, what did you say darling?" he is all big grin now, coming towards me around the table. I back off slightly, he's started calling me darling recently. He's decided it's what couples do. Apparently. Lovely.

"Well, my initial question was what are the dirty, great lumps of wood you've just dragged in but now it's pretty much superseded by what the fuck have you just done to Mrs. Hudson's table?" I raise my eyebrows and my mouth is a thin line. He looks at the table as though he didn't know it was there. He twists his mouth at the corner, thinking.

"Not good?" he asks looking at me through his lashes. I sigh.

"No Sherlock. Not good. Especially when Mrs. Hudson comes up here." He spins in the kitchen, his coat fans out behind him. He grabs a rather large bell jar which holds some human leftover which I've not been too inclined to investigate and puts it on the burnt spot, like it's a flower display. I shake my head.

"No?" he says frowning.

"No." I shake my head. He shrugs and takes off his scarf and coat.

"Maybe I can put something else on there and cover it up?" he suggests. It isn't until I see his expression that I realise he means me. I do a quick calculation, post orgasm Sherlock is less likely to break something when I tell him Mycroft's coming to dinner. I nod slowly.

"Sounds like a plan." I say as I walk towards him. His eyebrows rise, he didn't expect that. Good. I like surprising Sherlock Holmes.

Rather than letting him push me back onto the table I grab his jacket lapels and lean him back. His hair falls back and he grins. I stop the grin with a kiss, unbuttoning the jacket and forcing it back over his arms, effectively pinning his arms out of the way. It's something I learnt in the army, an effective restraint when someone is struggling. Sherlock's eyes go wide and I feel how hard he is already against my leg. I'm guessing it's the trick with the jacket.

I've been meaning to try this for ages, ever since that night outside Liverpool St Station when I put my hand over his mouth and he obviously liked it. The jacket is far enough over his elbows that when I push him back he just falls, his long frame prone on the table. He's vulnerable and defenceless. I grin widely.

Pinning his legs right there with my thigh I reach into his jacket pocket and bring out a sachet of lube. Sherlock's been carrying this around for weeks ever since he decided we should try sex outdoors. He thought I didn't know it was there. I chuckle, cock my head on one side.

"Nervous yet darling?" I mimic his new word and unbutton his shirt, exposing the pale line of hair which meanders from his navel into the waistband of his trousers. He moans as I smooth my hands down and down and stop just at the juncture of his skin and the material.

"Ah god John, not fair. Not fair." I laugh now and trickle a finger along the band of his trousers. He bucks upward, trying to gain more friction. I'm hard now, what started as a distraction now has me completely in its thrall. My stomach butterflies at the thought of how he will feel. God.

Slowly, slowly I unbutton his trousers and pull them down, then his shorts which I struggle over his erection because he's bent so far back over the table. I push him backwards so that he is lying with his hips just over the edge of the wood and peel his trousers and shorts off one leg. It's all I need. His cock stands up hard and it's interesting to see how the restraint, the vulnerability has him so turned on. I can see the blood pulse along the length of him.

"John..." It's half groan, half plea. I grin. I put one hand on his chest and hold him there. I can feel his heart pounding wildly and his breath is ragged and he looks so desperate, biting his lip and his eyes rolled back. With my free hand I undo my jeans and wriggle them down. It doesn't look elegant but Sherlock's head comes back up, his hair falls about his cheeks and he watches me from under his brows as I free my own erection and he's sees what he's in for. He moans and puts his head back again. God he is so fucking sexy like this.

I tear the lube sachet with my teeth and trail it over us both. It's the first contact I have made with his cock and he's writhing a bit, trying to get nearer to me. I force his legs wide, putting his feet flat on the table. It's a position I've used to examine patients and I smile briefly thinking that, maybe my medical degree did come in handy.

Three slow thrusts, all the while he pants and sucks in his cheeks, bites his lips and I'm in him. I put my hand back on his chest, effectively holding him where I want him and thrust into him so slowly it nearly kills me. Then I pull out, so far I nearly come right out. He gasps and tries to move but I increase the pressure on his chest. He gets the message.

When I can't cope anymore, when his moaning and twitching and how fucking tight he is just about are driving me mad, I touch his cock. I manage three, maybe four strokes before he's got to that point where I know we can't stop now. Something about his voice, his body movements tell me that we're there. I've had weeks of practise playing the amazing instrument that is this man. So I push him over the edge.

"Sherlock," his head comes up off the table but he's not focussed. "Sherlock."

"Yes, yes, John what?" each word is breathed out of that gorgeous mouth and there is such need, such desire in his voice that I smile.

"Come hard for me darling." He doesn't even notice the word. He comes, Jesus, does he come. His stomach muscles ripple and he squeezes me so tightly that I can almost not move. Three tiny thrusts and I'm with him.

"Jesus! Sherlock Holmes you beautiful fucking man!" every time I think it can't get better and then it does.

After a second where all we can do is drag oxygen into our lungs I help him up from the table and ease the jacket down his arms. Then I rub them, hoping I didn't cut the circulation off too badly. He rests his head against my shoulder, his smooth chest against my jumper. He looks up at me and grins.

"Much better than that awful burn on the table top." I laugh and help him stand up. His legs are wobbly, mine are too and for a moment we prop ourselves against the kitchen work surface and smile at each other.

I bend down and pass him his shorts and trousers.

"We've got a guest to dinner tomorrow night." I mention, casually, lightly. He raises an eyebrow as he hops back into his clothes, grimacing slightly at the sticky lube adhering to his shorts.

"Clara?" he likes Clara, bless him. And she likes him too. It's nice having a friend. I shake my head and he looks confused, who else could be coming over? He's right, we don't often have guests.

"No. Not Clara. It's erm... Sherlock don't be angry... it's Mycroftandhe'llbehereateight." I rush the last words out. His face is impassive.

"I'm not leaving you here alone with him." he menaces.

He sulks for the rest of the evening, perking up when he realises that awful detective show set in Somerset is on. I write my blog, nothing really much to report, while he shouts advice to the well coiffured middle aged man who drives a BMW around solving crimes.

"Sherlock, I'm going to Clara's big garden opening tomorrow, are you coming?" he shakes his head, still absorbed in the TV.

"No, Lestrade's been nagging me to talk to him about a case. I think I'm going to pop down there. After all, he obviously needs help."

"Give my love to Anderson." I smile and get up to make another cup of tea. He laughs.

"Oh he'll love that."

When I get back from Clara's event, gorgeous garden, very posh people drinking champagne, Sherlock is in the shower. The flat is spotless. In fact it takes me a moment to realise that this is actually our flat.

The rugs are both hovered and the wooden floor swept. The mantelpiece has been dusted and the dagger has been removed. Cups and plates which were on the draining board are away and the whole place looks, well nice really.

I go into the bathroom, it's shiny and clean too. Sherlock has his back to me, soapy hands washing his legs, he bends over. For a moment I suppress the urge to grab his arse and then think what the hell and do it anyway. He doesn't jump. He turns and grins at me broadly.

"Afternoon John." He turns now and starts to shampoo his hair.

"What happened out there? In here?" I ask gesturing in wonder to the habitable presentation of our habitat.

"Got a cleaner in. Paid her £70. Flat clean." He is concentrating on rinsing the shampoo off. He has his eyes closed and I take the opportunity to look at how the soapy bubbles slick down his chest and stomach. I look at my watch. It's 7.15pm, no time for fun. Damn.

"You paid for a cleaner? Since when do you care about things being clean?" he looks at me when he's finished wiping the water out of his eyes.

"Towel." He gestures to the rack, snapping his fingers. I pass him the towel. "You're right John, I don't care, but you do. I knew you were already worrying about getting back early to tidy around so I just phoned a cleaner." I think back to four o clock when I told Clara I had to go and she had steered me into talking with a new group of people.

"You told Clara? To not let me come home early?" he nods and kisses me briefly on the cheek as he pushes his wet body past me and makes for his bedroom. I stand in the bathroom mutely. One thing about living with a genius is, when they bother to remember, they can be very thoughtful. I follow him to his room.

"Thanks," I say, "for the cleaner and everything." He is pulling on a t-shirt and its thin cotton sticks to his skin, he never dries properly.

"Come here." I pull him by the knotted towel around his waist and push him back onto the bed. He grins until I put the towel on his head and begin to rub his hair dry, and then he laughs. "Honestly, what would you do without me?" I ask laughing.

"Be damp?" he offers grabbing the towel and pointing to the door. "Go and get changed John, not the black jeans." I frown, what's wrong with the black jeans? They're my best ones. "You look too good in them." He grins widely and licks his lips. So, too good for dinner with Mycroft I think, as I go into my room. This is going to be interesting.

So I'm wearing my second best jeans and the jumpier Sherlock bought me when we went to Harry's. Sherlock's in his usual grey suit, wasn't going to make any effort was he? He comes into the kitchen where I'm pouring some wine and takes a glass. He downs it all and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, it makes me feel suddenly very warm. He grabs the bottle and pours another glass and then leans in for a kiss. It's a slow, lingering kiss and it makes me feel a bit lightheaded. He tastes of the wine and toothpaste and Sherlock Holmes. A heady combination. I moan into his mouth and he pushes me along the kitchen counter with his long body. I missed him today, it seems silly doesn't it? It was only for a few hours but I am so used to being with him and he makes life so much more interesting.

I know we're going to have to stop, that any minute Mycroft might ring the doorbell, but I'm enjoying what I can get right now.

"Charming, charming. Please, don't mind me, just carry on!" It's Mycroft and he's standing in the kitchen. I jump but Sherlock takes his time with the last kiss, licking the sensitive corner of my mouth and then he turns to Mycroft.

"Don't you know how to use a door bell or are you so used to spying you can't ring one?" It's not a nice tone of voice. Mycroft ignores him and smiles at me.

"John, wonderful to see you again. So glad the cheek has healed, and the fingers?" I glance down to my hands, the mangled finger ends are just beginning to be covered by new nail. I nod.

"Much better ... er... thank you." It occurs to me that this was the man who organised the breaking of my cheekbone and the pulling of my fingernails. And I'm thanking him for his concern. It's hard to put the two together.

"Good, good. I'll just get the food." He goes to the window, pulls the curtain back and gestures to someone in the street. There are footsteps on the stairs and two men come into the flat bearing silver slavers. I know I am staring but it's not take away as I know it. I wonder briefly if it's from the Bengali restaurant where he has his office but he's whisking off the lids and there's a smell of steak. He glances over at me, still ignoring Sherlock.

"Love those jeans on you John," he's a bastard. Sherlock growls and it's not a good growl either.

"I thought we'd eat at the table." I mutter, pointlessly, really John where else would you eat? The bathtub? God. But no one notices what an idiot I am, they are too busy. Sherlock glaring at his brother and Mycroft ignoring him.

It is steak in those dishes. The most tender, juiciest steak I think I've ever had. Sherlock sniffs it before he eats his and I try not to roll my eyes. There's moment's silence while we chew and then Sherlock speaks, his mouth is still full.

"So, what do you want? I can't imagine you've gone to all this trouble," he waves his steak knife about dangerously, "just to keep us well fed. Or see John's jeans." He adds malignantly. Mycroft beams like a statue of Buddha.

"To the point as always Sherlock. One day you may learn the pleasure of polite conversation." He rolls his eyes at me as though I am going to commiserate Sherlock's woeful manners with him. I look back at him, my expression blank. It seems to shake him and he sits up a little straighter.

"Very well, I can see my attempts at a nice family get together are wasted on you. Here, Sherlock is my 'point'." He pushes a picture across the table.

I pick it up and it's of a youngish man, maybe my age. He has short black hair and an attractive face. He could be a model or an actor. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he's laughing, and the picture seems to have been taken on holiday somewhere sunny. Sherlock gives it a cursory glance.

"The Bahamas, probably the south." I look at the picture again, the man is on a wooden decked patio, around him are some plants but I can't see anything that would indicate the location of the photo.

"Silver Buttonwood," Sherlock points to a small shrub in the background. "Endemic to the Bahamas and it's too hot and sunny to be the north islands." He sits back in his chair and chews his steak.

"Amazing." I say, because he is he smiles slightly.

"Yes, very good Sherlock. This man is Simon Eccles. He's an operative of my department and an acquaintance of mine." The way he says acquaintance sounds wrong but I can't just think why.

"And?" Sherlock stretches, like he's bored.

"And he's gone missing." Snaps Mycroft and suddenly the atmosphere changes. Sherlock is reassigning this might be a case, a case Mycroft wants help with and I realise that, whoever this Eccles man is, Mycroft is very attached to him.

"Missing?" I ask, leaning forward in my chair. "Since when?"

"From where?" adds Sherlock. Mycroft smirks; I think he's covering his concern.

"Quite the double act boys." He smiles. Then his face is more serious. "No one's seen him since a fortnight ago on Saturday. I saw him that evening and I tried to call the next day, nothing."

"He's gone on holiday, got sick of you." Sherlock is being deliberately cruel. I put my hand on his knee under the table. He looks at me, an eyebrow raised but he shuts up.

"I'm presuming you've thought of that Mycroft? Checked his family other friends?" Mycroft nods.

"Look, I can't tell you much more but I think something has happened to him."

"Why are you coming to us? You have the power of the government and MI5 and 6 at your disposal Mycroft." Mycroft closes his eyes briefly; it's the most emotion I've ever seen him convey.

"It's out of my remit Sherlock. I can't go near it. Not allowed, verboten, out of bounds." He sighs and sits a little straighter in the chair. "Look, if you don't want to be bothered with it that's fine. Just say so now and stop dragging it out."

"No, we'll look into it for you." I am saying this before I realise and both Sherlock and Mycroft look at me as though the teapot has just spoken. "What? I'll be helping too won't I?" I demand of Sherlock who looks surprised and then nods.

"Thank you John. I can offer you some of the resources at my disposal but I mustn't be seen to be involved in your investigations. Here's a number where you can contact me which will be private." He gives me a card. I wonder what sort of job you have where you have a number which you think isn't bugged. "Well, I can see this meal has been without some of the bonhomie I was hoping to engender so I'll just leave now." He gets up from the table. "enjoy the steak, the desert is a favourite of mine but," he pats his waist, "you know how it is..." and then he puts on his coat and scarf, finishes his wine and is gone.

Sherlock is running his hand over the picture. I can see him thinking.

"Well, that was a turn up for the books." I mumble. He nods. "Are we going to take the case?" I know I just said yes but I'm not the world's only consulting detective am I? He nods again, his eyes grave.

So, you didn't have to wait long did you? I just couldn't NOT write this. So, what did you think? Have these two developed sufficiently? What do you think of the new inkling of a mystery! Send me a review and let me know!

Hey Baker St Irregulars! They're back! Yay! I couldn't leave my darlings: PrincessNala Peachsilk, Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild for long! You guys are awesome!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx