DI Adams was new. Painfully new, Sherlock observed with a quick flick of his eyes. The windbreaker over the suit was from Birmingham, so he was a transfer. Unexpected but welcome promotion to London, and eager. He must have hoped to make an early good impression on his new superiors, but was, as expected, an idiot. He hadn't spent a good amount of time with any of his coworkers, superior or inferior, or else he wouldn't have Sherlock Holmes in an interrogation room.
Lestrade was in Somerset visiting his mother, it would be useless to try to give him a call at this hour. They had taken Sherlock's mobile, but that didn't stop John from sending an angry text to the poor beleaguered Lestrade:
New DI is a twat. If he arrests Sherlock I'll kill him.
JW
There'd been no reply. It had never been difficult for Sherlock to read John's face, and he was fairly sure that the next person to speak to the soldier would get a good measure of fist to his face.
Sergeant Donovan had seen DI Adams bully Sherlock through the rows of desks and back to the interrogation rooms, but even before John could open his mouth to plead for her assistance, the woman threw back her head and laughed. Secretly, Sherlock smiled at the withering look John shot in her direction as he stalked past her; he'd seen criminals shrink and crumble under that stare.
DI Adams tried to shut the door after Sherlock and himself, but John had thrown his foot down and stopped it hard. The DI (taller than John, but with a small, angry face; unhappy family life, by his childishly-ironed collar; no match for the army vet in sheer muscle, and certainly not comfortable under the domineering glare, perhaps son of an angry father) tried to snap the door shut again, but John persisted.
"What are you, his lawyer?" DI Adams snapped.
"His doctor," John spat back, and at once shouldered his way past Adams to broodingly lean against the wall behind the chair Sherlock had already calmly taken.
"I'm sure my brother will have his hands all over this soon enough," Sherlock said through his steepled fingers, though he sounded anything but pleased at the idea.
John rolled his eyes. "Or he could have a dentist's appointment."
"Don't be facetious," Sherlock muttered. "It doesn't suit you."
"You're not taking this seriously." John cajoled harshly just as Adams took the seat across from the detective. "Sherlock, he's wasting everyone's goddamn time-"
"Which puts him in good company at Scotland Yard," Sherlock cut in, folding his fingers so that he could look Adams in the eye. "You think that I should be considered a suspect."
John threw up his arms in exasperation and began to pace (his limp pronounced itself when he was particularly upset).
"Come on," Adams growled, "how could you possibly know that the lady had three kids just by looking at her? You're telling me you're not involved? Load of shit."
Sherlock simply smiled, to disarming effect. Adams didn't like this one bit, either.
"Your doctor thinks I'm wasting your time," he snarled (very much like a dog), "so let's get on with it then, shall we?"
"Please," Sherlock replied smoothly.
"Murder took place at about three this morning," Adams recited without having to pull out his file. "Can you account for your actions early this morning, Mister Holmes?" It was scathing, rife with distrust, the bad-cop in his one-cop routine.
John knew that Sherlock had been out. He knew because he'd been awakened by the sound of familiar footsteps up the stairs at sunrise. They usually came in at sunrise, when Sherlock had been too restless to sleep. The fewer the cases (and the dry spell was stretching into its second week), the fewer nights Sherlock stayed in. John knew that Sherlock wouldn't have an alibi.
And he didn't feel like waiting around for Mycroft Holmes to get a call in and clear up what he considered to be his younger brother's messes. He'd had a nice pot of tea on his mind until Adams had collared them (and Sherlock being so kind as to deign to help the force, for once). John never lied, except when he had to. And most (if not all, he thought with an annoyed twitch of a smirk) were for the sake of Sherlock Holmes.
"Listen," John said suddenly, leaning to slap his palm down on the table, perched and angry, "it's none of your business what we were doing at three in the morning,"
Sherlock knew how not to express emotion (like surprise and curiosity), but he betrayed the high quirk of a single eyebrow and nothing more. DI Adams at once looked affronted by the intrusion, and while his eyes wanted to stay fixed on Sherlock, he was forced to choose the loud and indignant doctor.
"Doctor, if you know something about Mister Holmes' whereabouts, I think you'd better speak up."
His mask didn't fall an inch; if anything, the resentful lines of his face deepened and the muscles in his jaw went tight. Sherlock knew the tone of voice (Sherlock, what the hell is this all over the bread?) all too well.
"We were in bed," he said tersely, harshly, practically spitting fire, and yet completely straight-faced. "Together. Having a filthy shag." He cocked his head and gave an acerbic smile. "Happy you asked?"
Appropriately, Sherlock's cheeks flushed a hot red color.
"Sorry," John said when they were finally freed back out into the cool outside air, breath fogging like a dragon's. "But I didn't want to spend five bloody hours waiting for your brother to put a call in." He laughed to himself when his flatmate didn't look him in the eye. "Probably not the lie you would've picked, was it?"
"No," Sherlock said quickly, his eyes still not rising above John's neck. "No, it's..." Then, there was a strange new light in his eyes, which he finally locked with John's. "It's fine."
John raised his arm for a taxi, and he swore that he could feel Sherlock's eyes. He didn't turn his head, hardly even looked up when he held the door open for his friend.
Two minutes from Baker Street, John felt the seat beside him shift heavily as Sherlock moved his weight considerably. There was a brief protest of springs, and suddenly one of Sherlock's long, spidery legs had moved across John's lap. The doctor hardly had time to open his mouth before Sherlock was sitting on top of him, hunched over in the small amount of room afforded to them. Their noses brushed when the taxi jostled them.
John's jaw waggled, but it was his eyes that were by far the most interesting part. Eager. John's hands clutching to Sherlock's arms quite suddenly (keeping him in place?), John's blood beating a hard pulse against Sherlock's fingers at his neck.
"Lying to the police," Sherlock began, light and chiding. His smile curved like a cat's, and so close. "Clearly I've been a bad influence on you, John." His eyes ticked away, thinking. John followed them helplessly. "I suppose it doesn't have to be a lie," he continued plainly, easily. "In case there's another murder I shouldn't want to be held accountable for."
And when his eyes came back, there was a burn in them. Blue and gray and on fire.
John nodded, half-breathless, half wondering if this was some bizarre experiment. He could deal with experiment. "God yes," he muttered finally.
The cabbie shouted something at them (mostly in jest, there was a laugh in his voice; surely he'd seen worse) and one of them managed to find enough change to throw in his general direction. John may have shoved his hand into Sherlock's pocket for a fiver. Sherlock didn't seem to mind.
It was only half an hour later (half an hour full of hands and hot skin and panting) that John's phone buzzed with a message received.
adams got earful. at my mum's, don't want to hear about you two shagging. leave me alone.
GL
AN: I can't stop writing Sherlock. You can't stop me. I have no idea where these fics come from, they're just living in a hollowed-out part of my head and boykissing. I am not complaining. Anyway, continuing with my ficobsession, and I hope you lovely people don't mind! It's also very late/early, so if there are any problems, let me know and I'll get on it! I love writing because I get such lovely feedback from you wonderful readers! Enjoy, leave some love, and STAY AWESOME!