Blackmail

Lestrade discovers Sherlock's love of John through a picture, and uses it against him. Shamelessly. eventual Sherlock/John

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For the sherlockbbc livejournal's Make Me a Monday – Week 49 prompt by mushroom18: Sherlock uses a photo of John as his wallpaper in laptop/mobile phone or vice versa. Somebody sees it. Cue blushes and denials and what have you.

Regardless of the fact that this prompt was given on 8/15, and I'm only now finished filling it on 9/19...

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Chapter 1

The search was a complete ruse. Sherlock watched as Lestrade and his men hustled into the old office building like bees to flowers, but he just wandered in slowly after them.

He'd told Lestrade the one hacking the Yard's computers was operating out of this old office building. It used to be a regional center of a bigger corporation, but when they downsized, they'd dropped this section like a rock. Now the building was home to rats and flies, and maybe a homeless person or two sometimes. Sherlock had contacted his Network and told them to evacuate the building for a few days, so it was just him, John, Lestrade's men, and the rats.

Sherlock took the stairs at an almost leisurely pace, but his stride was almost something predatorial. John had gone ahead with the rest of the police, so he was alone. Glancing up, Sherlock saw a man with light hair amongst the men rushing up the stairs and searching each floor. The man hesitated at the door to one of the floors while the rest of his comrades rushed through to continue the search. Sherlock grinned.

"Excuse me. Yates, is it?" Sherlock greeted amicably, stepping up behind the man where he stood.

Yates jumped and turned around. "What is it, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. His eyes glanced briefly to the left and then back up at Sherlock. He didn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock smiled for a moment and then let it drop. "I was just wondering how much you're actually getting paid for all these Yard secrets," he stated like it was as simple as the weather outside. Yates tensed.

"I don't know what you-"

"Because, you see," Sherlock interrupted, letting his gaze travel, "I don't see anything you've stolen being worth more than, oh….one fifty quid a piece. Maybe three hundred for that bit about the Victor case, but come now."

Sherlock glanced down just in time to see the fist aimed straight at his face. Dodging to the right, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Yates' wrist and twisted. Yates twisted with the movement, but he kicked out at the same moment. Sherlock felt his legs knocked from under him and released Yates' wrist to catch himself on the railing.

"Really," Sherlock puffed out. "This is hardly necessary." He flipped around and punched out at the same time. His fist landed on Yates' chest, but it didn't seem to faze the younger man in the slightest. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. A bulletproof vest? Not to mention four days a week at a gym doing intensive training, based on the tone of his muscles. "Oh dear."

Yates smirked and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. He literally threw Sherlock down the stairs, which was good because Sherlock missed the stairs themselves, but was bad because he smacked into the wall at the next turn and then fell forward onto the bottom steps. He groaned.

"John."

"Put your hands in the air, sir," John's voice echoed out in the stairwell.

Sherlock lifted himself up off the stone to look up at where John and Yates were standing. John held Yates at gun point, almost point blank. His eyes were bright and serious. Yates would have to be mad to defy him, or that was Sherlock's opinion. Yates reached out like lightening, grabbing at John's gun. John dropped his hands about two inches, let go with his right hand, and punched Yates square in the jaw. Yates stumbled backward in surprise and John held his gun up again.

"Hands up. Now. Or I will shoot you," John said like a deadly promise.

Sherlock stumbled to a stand, a smile fighting for purchase on his lips. Sometimes John was simply amazing.

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When John woke up the next morning, it was to a crash from downstairs. Sherlock glanced up from the mess of books on the ground to the door as John rushed in.

"What is it? What happened?" John asked quickly, still pulling his shirt on properly.

Sherlock sniffed, blinked hard, and looked back down at the books. "I tried to look behind the pile and ended up overturning it instead," he responded monotonously.

John shook his head in disbelief. "What?" He shook his head again, but more to clear than anything it seemed. "What were you looking for?"

For a long moment, Sherlock just let his eyes search around the floor near him. Then he scanned the room once, quickly. "Nothing," he said swiftly. He strode across the room in a few simple steps, grabbed his coat from the rack, and put it on. "I'm going out for a bit. Don't wait up."

"What?" John asked again. "Where are you going?" he called down the stairs after the detective.

Sherlock shook his head and glanced up at John briefly. "Nowhere of importance." He continued on his way. "I'll be back."

The door shut behind him and any retort of John's was lost in the street noise of a waking London. Sherlock couldn't tell John he'd lost his phone. He'd never hear the end of it. He highly doubted John would tease him about it, at least not for very long, but he couldn't afford to have anyone – especially John – look at his phone. Thinking about it now, he felt like a total tosser. He never should have misplaced his phone, for one, but he never should have taken those pictures, either.

Having searched the flat from top to bottom, Sherlock knew his phone wasn't there. And he'd had his phone with him yesterday afternoon when he'd met with Lestrade about the case. That meant he must have lost it either during the false takeover of the office building, or in Lestrade's office afterward.

Sherlock caught a cab to the building where they'd apprehended Yates yesterday. He knew for a fact he himself had never left the stairwell. He looked everywhere anyway. Every hall up to the fourth floor, where he'd had his skirmish, and the stairs all the way up. The phone wasn't there. He retraced every moment of his time, every motion of the fight, but even checking every angle the phone could have flown out of his coat did not provide any clues.

That left only one place left, and it was the last place Sherlock wanted it to be: Scotland Yard. If Lestrade found his phone…or worse, Donovan or Anderson, or any of those peons Lestrade worked with who used less than ten percent of their brain and couldn't find their way out of a paper bag-

Sherlock forced himself to breathe evenly as another cab escorted him across the city to visit one of his least favorite places.

It was just after eleven when Sherlock made his way through the station. He walked with a steady, smooth air, like he owned the world. He didn't care about any of the people in this room. Not one bit. But his eyes trailed over every desk, every available surface, and every face of every officer he passed or saw. Any one of them could have his phone. It could be anywhere.

"Ah, Sherlock," a friendly voice called out, not too loud, "Just the man I wanted to see." Sherlock turned and acknowledged Lestrade with a curt nod. Lestrade tilted his head backward and to the right a bit, indicating his office behind him. "Come on in. I wanted to speak with you about something."

Sherlock walked past Lestrade, into the office, and Lestrade shut the door behind him. While Sherlock didn't sit, Lestrade strode around his desk to his chair and flopped down graciously. "Is it a new case?" Sherlock asked, even though there was no file on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade's body language also spoke of confidence…of knowing something other people don't and feeling powerful for it.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. I was just wondering if you were missing a phone." Sherlock forced himself not to flinch. An easy smile was spreading across Lestrade's face. "Because, funnily enough, I found a phone in that office building from yesterday and, once I'd gotten through the blasted lock on the main screen, I found the most interesting things."

"Lestrade," Sherlock said in warning.

Lestrade's smile just seemed to grow more pleased. "So it is yours then. Bloody confusing password on your phone," he complained, but it sounded light and airy. Sherlock frowned deeper. "You know, I never really believed it when you claimed you were a sociopath, or asexual, or whatever. Now I know I was right."

"Lestrade, stop it. You're talking nonsense," Sherlock tried, his tone as monotonous as ever and his speech quick. "Just hand me my phone and we'll pretend this never happened."

Lestrade frowned. "Sherlock, really. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know it isn't."

If anything, that made Lestrade frown more. "I don't think that's true." He looked away from Sherlock as he opened the top drawer of his desk. When he shut it and sat up again, Sherlock saw his phone in Lestrade's hands. Lestrade quickly ran Sherlock's code into the touch screen on the phone and held it up for Sherlock to see. "Look."

The image that constituted Sherlock's phone background was of John Watson. He was lying on the couch in their flat, sleeping under a red blanket with a Union Jack pillow under his head. Sherlock remembered. He'd been the one to place the blanket over John that day, after John had come home from the surgery looking like a zombie. John hadn't even had dinner that night. He'd simply laid down on the couch and fallen asleep. Sherlock hadn't been able to help himself. He'd snapped the photo before he even fully realized what he was doing.

"So?" he asked in a bored manner. He didn't reach for the phone. He knew Lestrade wouldn't let him have it. He was trying to make a point, but Sherlock would not submit.

Lestrade sighed and turned the screen of the phone back toward himself. After a few flicks of his finger, he turned the screen back to Sherlock. The picture now was of John sitting in the lounge chair, a fire in the hearth behind him, reading a book. His left leg was bent sideways, his left ankle propped on his right knee. His right hand was holding the book while he leaned on his left in an almost contemplative pose. The whole image seemed warm and homey from the light of the flames dancing on the walls, the chair, and John himself.

Sherlock looked away from the picture, to a framed photo of Lestrade from his school days to Sherlock's left.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said in an exasperated tone. "You've got eight pictures of John on this phone. Just admit you like him and everything'll be easier."

"No it won't." Sherlock fixed Lestrade with a sharp gaze. "Now give me my phone, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's lips pressed together and his eyes seemed to pierce right through Sherlock. It wasn't a look he was used to receiving and he decided he didn't like it.

"You don't want anyone to know, do you?" Sherlock didn't answer. "That's it, isn't it? Well, in that case…I'll give this back." Lestrade held the phone out to Sherlock. Sherlock reached out to the phone. At the last moment, Lestrade pulled back and Sherlock frowned. "But you have to agree to something first."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Blackmail, Lestrade? That's not your style."

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe not, but I know your secret. You're human, just like anyone else. Just like John," he emphasized. Sherlock frowned deeper. Lestrade knew he had him and he wasn't letting go. "So, are you ready to make a deal?"

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tbc.

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There are 5 chapters to this story, and I'll be posting one every few days. Please review to let me know you like it!