Title: Double Trouble

Author: Cupcake-999

Sherlock/John. Rated T.

Summary: Sequel to Double Date. Sherlock and John might have realised they loved each other, but that's not enough. That's not even enough for a beginning.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.

Chapter Three

Sherlock slammed back down, eliciting a yelp. He was throbbing with meaningful silence, so John caressed his head to loosen him up.

"There's some money. A family thing. A trust." John felt the vibrations of that gloriously black velvet voice rumble against his chest. "I get it when I'm married. Or thirty. Whichever's first. Then you wouldn't have to work round the clock. You could still assist me. My work's important."

"I have to work, Sherlock. Practicing medicine is important to me."

"Fine. I don't expect you to be a hausfrau. But this way we could repay the debts and you could choose the work you do. And when you do it."

You mean you could, so I can still pander to you. "Yeah, OK. Let's go for it. I mean, you honour me, sir."

"There's one thing. Mother wouldn't be too happy to have a goy – a gentile – in the family."

"No worries. I'll cross over."

"Convert."

"OK." By now John would have agreed to anything to get some sleep. "It's fairly quick and painless, isn't it?" He made a hazy attempt to read the deafening silence. "Don't tell me. I'll find out. Well, thanks again. I do, I mean."

Sherlock still buzzed with electricity and while he was warm, the sizzle was keeping the sandman at bay. John intensified his massaging of Sherlock's scalp. He could fight dirty, too.

"Ohhh. That's nice. But why the coronal suture?"

John pressed deeper and lower into the suboccipitals and smiled as Sherlock melted into him. "Abbreviated cranial massage." He dropped farther, to the jaw muscles, as well as he could from his position, and Sherlock shifted to help, then winced and stilled.

"What?" John became Dr. Watson in a heartbeat, rolling Sherlock onto his back and shining the lamp on him, wincing himself at the dark bruises flowering on the pale skin over the ribs. Could even be a broken one there. "How?"

"Resisting arrest, they called it." Sherlock's deep contempt made air quotes around the first two words. "Maxwell, Stephens and that new one I had to correct last week. Isn't that what happened to you?"

"Told you not to reveal his gambling problem in front of people. Or Stephens' 'recreational' Internet use. No, mine wasn't from 'payback at the Ritz' time. Got mine later," John murmured. Not wanting to break the moment by leaving to get his medical kit, he kneeled next to Sherlock, rubbed his hands together and held them slightly above the site of injury, focussing intently.

"Really, John."

"No, reiki, Sherlock. I believe alternative treatments have a place alongside conventional medicine…" He directed the healing warmth as best he could. "I'm too low on energy for this to be effective. Let's try getting your body to work on it."

He crawled to the foot of the bed and pulled Sherlock's feet into his lap, gave one an all-over rub then started feeling along the meridians.

"Acupressure, doctor?"

"Reflexology." He stopped about two-thirds down the centre arch. "Erm, Sherlock, your intestines are…how often do you use the loo?"

"You're very purient. I don't know if I like this facet. It's worrying. Oh, as often as I need to, about every three days."

John applied enough pressure to hopefully get the Qi to heal the injuries, and decided to take Sherlock for an X-ray tomorrow as well. He might as well combine it with his job interview at the hospital.

"There's only one problem with doing this," he confessed. "I've got a terrible foot kink, as I'm sure you've deduced. In fact I know you have, all that walking around barefoot, feet up on the sofa or plonked in my lap, wriggling those long, sexy toes at me. You even bit your toenails one day. I just have to…"

And he lifted a foot so he could suck the big toe into his mouth, hotly and wetly. The toe next to it got tiny bites from the tip to the base. The next got bites along its top and the fourth swirls of John's tongue as he licked it round and round. That really made the other man squirm and pant. The little toe…

"What's that?"

"Sorry! I'm in bed with a gorgeous bloke, sucking his toes, it's only natural—"

"Downstairs! Shh."

"Sounds like a bloody SWAT team!" John flinched at the sounds coming up from downstairs. He clutched his flatmate, wondering a) what else he'd been up to and b) would the team throw tear gas cannisters in the window? He pulled off his t-shirt. He could rip it in two, soak it in that glass of water and make them face masks, better than nothing, but Sherlock stilled him.

"Listen. Those heavy treads. Mycroft!"

"Have you been ignoring him?" whispered John.

"It's a bit difficult to answer one's phone when it's held by the desk sargeant," the detective hissed back.

"He won't bother coming up the stairs," reasoned John, settling back next to the other man and pulling the covers over them. Why even bother getting aroused, he wondered. If it wasn't the Metropolitan police it was the Special Forces coming to kill his libido.

"He won't, no. But he doesn't keep a bitch and bark himself." And Sherlock thrummed with readiness as light steps trip-trapped up the stairs and their door was pushed open. By the woman John still thought of as Anthea. She stopped as if turned to stone and stared, her eyes rounding. She even dropped her BlackBerry.

"Piss off!" hissed Sherlock.

"It's not what it looks like," mumbled John. He felt the full force of Sherlock's blackest glare and shrugged. "Chance would be a fine thing."

"My oh my. Is it hot in here, or is it just you two?" The brunette retreived her phone and held it out. There was a click.

"Don't you dare, you harpy from hell. Piss off, I said!" Sherlock's voice held steely, velvet threat.

"And to think I kept turning you down, Dr. Watson. Wish I'd said yes now."

"You still can?"

"She really can't, John."

John nudged Sherlock, trying to show him he had a plan. "Hey, listen." He did his boyish charm thing. "Your boss. Any chance you don't tell him we're up here?"

"Absolutely not. Sorry," she smiled back and ducked her head out of the room. "Sir, up here. He's fine!"

She snapped a couple more shots of the two men before slow measured steps sounded and Mycroft came in. He stared without looking, John thought.

"Have the men stand down, if you would be so good." The woman nodded and left, sticking her head back in to throw them a wink. Who did that remind John of? Oh well, he had bigger problems to fry. Fish. In the sea. What? What if he was asleep and this was all a dream? No, Mycroft stood waiting, in that crosslegged stance of infinite patience.

"It's not what it looks like. Well, depends what it looks like, I mean…"

"Your goons had better not touch anything of mine downstairs or I will retaliate. Oh, and thank John nicely, Mycroft. He solved your tedious 'official leaks – oh no!' case for you."

"I did?"

"Yes; you said it was the butler, remember?"

John could barely. It seemed a lifetime ago. He listened to the detective explain how the man took advantage of the restricted, high-powered locations to which his exclusive business allowed him and his select staff access to help himself to highly sensitive secrets.

"And you owe me; while multi-tasking above and beyond etc., I sorted out that annoying royal problem as well."

"Yes, Buck House has been suitably appreciative and, shall one say, inviting. I'm sure we can divert some funds into a bonus payment for you." Mycroft thanked them both but didn't look happy. He even raised his eyebrow farther as he regarded the two men.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention we're getting married." Sherlock's tone was half defiant, half bored.

"Oh. Is that wise, little brother, with the good doctor being…"

Mycroft's stare dropped to John who scrabbled to fill in the blank. Shirtless and holding a ripped damp t-shirt like a kid clutching a soiled blanky? In bed with the man's equally shirtless brother? Arrested for credit card fraud? Mycroft let his glance dip farther.

"Oh, that! No problem. I'm passing over. Through. Converting."

"Dr. Watson! John. Welcome to the family! May I greet you properly?" And Mycroft bounded upon them, hugging him, kissing him, and trying to wrangle a wriggling little brother. John looked around expectantly for not-Anthea but alas… Sherlock suceeded in shrugging the older Holmes off them.

"When is the happy day?"

"As soon as possible. Next week."

"Next w–but the preparations, Sherlock!"

"Just the civil ceremony. The religious can be after. Any time."

"Of course, I understand. Young love…You'll allow me to help with the paperwork? Mummy will be ecstatic! And you bagged a doctor! May I tell her?" It was all his birthdays at once.

"Yes, do what you want, as long as you leave. Now."

"And you'll allow Mummy to organise things? Unless your mother, John…"

"No, please. That's fine. Could we just be alone now? It's all so new, you see…"

Mycroft seemed to have a sentimental streak; burbling more inanities he bowed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I forgot you'd have that odious toad as a brother-in-law."

"You'll have a vicious drunk as yours. I win."

"And he's not the worst of them. God, how I hate her."

"Huh?"

"She's truly evil. She's got something on him, must have, to have got that post with him. They don't realise; I'm the only one who sees through her. She's biding her time, soaking up all she can like some designer sponge, until she can oust him. She'll be running things one day soon, John. Mark my words."

"Her, she, who?"

"Her! Caro! Cousin Caro!" And Sherlock did an uncanny impersonation of the woman's slightly mad smile and busy texting fingers. "Second cousin Caroline, never quite far enough removed."