Rhetta

John woke alone the next morning as well. When he rang the bell, the young man who appeared to attend him verified that Holmes was not in the house. He had gone out at some point before dawn and it was not known when he was to return. John penned a brief letter to his sister and directed it to the Blackwell house in Mayfair. He also wrote a brief note to Harriet's godmother to inform the woman of his change in residence.

After that, however, John felt uncertain as to how to spend his time. He explored the house a little, feeling a bit intrusive, but finally settled himself in the cluttered little library to find something to read. When he spied the twine and brown paper where Holmes had abandoned it the night before, he recalled the letter which Harriet had given him for safekeeping. He enquired as to where his belongings had been stowed and retrieved the book from his trunk.

The letter had simply been a letter, and not a parcel, with the direction written on the outside of the folded paper. The postmark was also from the village of Hampstead, but when John compared the two marks, they were decidedly dissimilar. Perhaps his letter had an official postmark while Sherlock had deduced that the package had not.

John tried to apply the methods of examination that Holmes had described the day prior. He examined the paper, the folds, the handwriting, but could draw no useful conclusions at all. He flicked the page aside and sighed.

"Of course, you see, but do not observe, John."

Holmes' voice from the door of the room startled him.

"Oh, you've returned."

"Do try and keep from stating the obvious, John. Now, the letter your dear Harriet received was postmarked Hampstead, perhaps even legitimately. Why would our blackmailer forge one and not the other? And why Hampstead?"

"How did you know from where Harriet's letter was postmarked?" If John hadn't been so startled, he would have been suspicious. Surely the man could not see such a thing from across the room, though that was more likely than him reading John's mind. Of course, if he could read John's mind, all he would gather of John's thoughts would be that the doorway framed Sherlock perfectly, that his tousled curls and pink cheeks ought to be from more than the wind, and that John restrained himself from rising and offering him a kiss hello. Well, restrained most of himself.

"You do recall telling me precisely where you'd hidden the letter, John; do not be dull. After you fell asleep, I examined the letter thoroughly. Quite titillating, the passages our extortionist chose to prove his claim, were they not?"

John flushed and cleared his throat.

"Did you not sleep at all, then?" Perhaps the change in subject would give John the moment he needed… no, not at all. Sherlock quirked his lip in amusement. Just that little movement gave John a hot rush of electricity up his spine.

"I rested a little after our exertions, but sleeping is dreadfully dull. I prefer to abstain until it becomes absolutely necessary. And have I not told you that despite our pretense, you have no obligation to actually administer to my health? I do find it tedious to repeat myself," Sherlock added when John opened his mouth to speak.

John closed his mouth, having nothing else to say. Finally, he thought of something. "Tea?"

Their second foray to the Three Sheep proved successful, with Rhetta appearing on the lap of a man with the bulk of a warehouse worker who bounced her on his knee to the tempo of a silly rhyme. Then he dropped a coin into her cleavage and she whisked away with a flounce to fill her cup.

Sherlock had been watching her since he'd heard the name on the worker's lips. Rhetta noticed him watching her and apparently thought he was a finer prospect than her warehouse worker, or at least a new one. She soon sidled up to Sherlock where he stood at the bar and fluttered her eyelashes. Sherlock responded positively, even though her hair was knotted and chaotic, her manner far too forward, and her half-exposed breasts marked by the fingers of at least two other men. He soon had her engaged in flirtation and she laughed with false gaiety, or perhaps she was just drunk. She smelled a bit too much like stale gin.

John tried not to watch, since he didn't want to see her pawing at Sherlock and he didn't want anyone else to wonder why he was glaring at the seemingly happy pair of them. He tossed his hat onto a table and sat down to glower into his beer as if he were simply having a bad day. The other customers left him alone.

When Sherlock left with her, John ordered another drink and let himself be drawn into a conversation with someone who needed to vent about his troubles with the wife. John lied glibly to commiserate. Around his third beer, Sherlock came back in and nudged John in the backside with his knee.

"The wife's squawking for you, John, she's like to wake the whole street."

John's drinking companion sent him off with a sympathetic grimace. Sherlock slung an arm over John's shoulder in support and led him back down the road.

"I hope you got what we came for."

"To tell the truth, it almost wasn't worth it." John felt a bit of stupid relief at the posh, biting tone. "I'd like a bath when we arrive home. How about you, John? Would you like a bath?" Those last questions were spoken with a different tone entirely.

The bath, though large, wasn't truly big enough for two. When Sherlock knelt between John's legs to face him, John had to slide down a bit and lift his legs up around Sherlock's hips to make room for the tall, lanky man. He felt a bit on display, but Sherlock approved of this positioning, giving John a playful smirk that made John laugh and splash a little water over his pale chest.

Sherlock leaned forward, gripping the edge of the tub next to John's head, and drew the sponge in slow, dripping strokes over his skin. John arched his neck as Sherlock smoothed it under his chin and down his throat. He kept the vague smile on his face, but relaxed into the gentle pleasure of the touch. John's half-hard cock stiffened a little more under the water, but Sherlock teasingly refrained from direct contact.

John hummed his enjoyment as Sherlock dripped water down John's chest, then puffed air over the wet nipples to entice them to tighten. When they did, the man couldn't help but dive forward and nip at the wet little bud, drinking in both John and the drops of water. When he pulled back, John ran his wet fingers through Sherlock's damp curls and lightly down Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock grasped John's roving hand and, kissing the fingertips, proceeded to run the sponge over and under his arm. John graciously lifted the other for the same treatment. Sherlock continued the motion over John's vividly pink scar reverentially.

"Does it still hurt?"

John took the sponge from Sherlock and placed his bare fingers on the scar.

"It aches sometimes," John answered, guiding Sherlock's fingers in a lazy sketch around the wound. "The scar on my thigh is more prone to painful spasms because the muscle wasn't sewn back together properly."

Sherlock let his hand drift down to John's thigh. That scar of which John spoke was hidden by the dimness of the room and the depth of the water. He could feel it though, a thick ridge across otherwise firm muscle and lightly haired skin. Sherlock dipped his other hand below the water line to mirror the exploratory touch on John's uninjured leg.

Sherlock found that John enjoyed his touch nearly everywhere, but he still tensed when his fingers crept towards the tight ring of his arsehole. And that was a shame, because Sherlock was a bit fixated on breaching that forbidden orifice. But all Sherlock had to do was slip a finger into the crease of John's muscular buttocks and John would tense from head to toe.

"I'm not ready, Sherlock." John squirmed into a more upright position and tried to move his legs so he wasn't quite so splayed in front of Sherlock.

"If I gave you my word that I would use nothing bigger than a finger for the next seventy-two hours, would you let me touch you there, John?" Sherlock kept his voice low and breathy, something that had proven to turn John's eyes dark with desire. "I need for you to trust me, John. I won't hurt you. I won't force you. But you have to be willing to let me show you how good it can feel. If you don't like it, I promise I'll stop."

Not waiting for a reply, Sherlock ducked his head down and captured John's breath in a series of playful, humid kisses. After a few teasing swipes of Sherlock's tongue, John's hand cupped the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled the man closer. The kisses intensified until the bathwater began to feel chill in comparison to their inflamed bodies. Sherlock drew back and wondered how much latitude John would allow him in this state.

"I've a brilliant idea."

And that was how John ended up sprawled face down on Sherlock's bed, naked as the day he was born and gleaming with sweet almond oil. Sherlock started the rubdown with the scar on John's shoulder, then moved slowly outward and down. By the time he leaned back to admire his handiwork, all that delicious bare skin glowing softly in the lamplight, John was relaxed and pliant beneath him.

Or he was from Sherlock's perspective. No telling what was hiding between John and the sheets.

Sherlock pressed his lips down John's spine, counting the vertebrae with his tongue. His hands slid over shoulder blades, down the ribcage, and swept back up the pert rise of arse. John was too relaxed to protest or tense. Sherlock tried to tamp down his elation and devoted all his amorous attention to the firm globes in his hands.

Or mouth. He couldn't quite resist taking a chunk of flesh between his teeth and biting down every so lightly. John's breathing stuttered, but he did not object. Sherlock pulled back and shifted, parting John's legs so he could kneel between them. Sherlock was utterly fascinated with his view. His hands skimmed over the flesh, thumbs just brushing into the crevice. After a few moments, John even shifted his hips, clearly feeling the need to reposition his erection beneath him.

"You are so magnificent like this, spread out before me. This is what I wanted the first moment I saw you, John, your bare back curving down at your waist, flaring out again into such delightful buttocks. I wanted to touch you like this, feel your body under my fingers and tongue. I wanted to squeeze you and open you and know every inch of your body."

Sherlock's long fingers stroked over John's arse and down the backs of his thighs. Each caress edged closer to sensitive areas until the very tip of Sherlock's thumb brushed against that tight, hidden pucker. John did not tense, at least not in displeasure. Sherlock continued his gentle exploration, listening carefully to the tempo of John's breaths fluctuate.

"Sherlock," John rasped a few minutes later, "that is most certainly not a finger."

John did not move to make a physical objection, though, and Sherlock laughed, warm breath huffing against tender skin.

"But it is not bigger than a finger, as I promised."

John may have uttered something about contracts with the devil, but Sherlock ignored his half-hearted grousing and instead set about to make John groan in a more appreciative manner.

It wasn't until the next morning that Sherlock finally got around to telling John what he'd learned from Rhetta.

"I casually mentioned painting this fine house in Mayfair and all the sordid goings on between the fine lady wife and several recognizable gentlemen while the husband was at his club. Rhetta asked if I could provide any proof, because if I could, she might know someone who would pay generously for such information. I told her as I was going back tomorrow, I might be able to rustle up some correspondence, since the trysts have to be carefully orchestrated to avoid notice. It wasn't like any of the servants would talk, since either the master or the mistress would fire them without references, either for the knowing or the telling.

"She told me to be at a certain pub at a certain time and I'd know the man when I saw him. The very picture of a man who buys and sells secrets, she said. It was clear that our Rhetta enjoyed the cloak and dagger element."

"Sherlock, if she told you the name of the pub and the time the man will be there, how could it have almost not been worth it?"

"She felt she needed to get terribly close to whisper these secrets to me, John." Sherlock shuddered. "I prefer more straightforward, financial-based transactions when I deal in information. Much quicker and more reliable when my informant wants something I'm willing to give."

"So do we approach the man at the pub, then?" John asked, moving the conversation along so he wouldn't have to examine why he felt such internal clamoring over the memory of that woman hanging all over Sherlock.

"I think not. It is possible he would recognize you through his dealings with your sister. And if I approach him, it will make my face known to him as well, a circumstance I'd rather hold in reserve. I suggest we approach the pub early, take note of the arrivals and departures, perhaps have a drink in a dark corner to observe any clandestine meetings. If we can identify our man, we follow as best we can to discover his identity and location."

A/N: Finding this picture was simply dumb luck today and inspired me to finish this chapter. It in no way inspired the bathtub scene, nor has anything to do with the Regency era, but I thought I'd share because, John and Sherlock nekkid in the tub! :) art/Sherlock-BBC-Friday-i-m-in-love-290237695