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Fic - Ways to Say Thank You - Chapter Two
idont_knowwhat
Title: Ways to Say Thank You
Author: I Don't Know What I'm Doing
Rating: NC-17
Chapters/Word count - 1 of ? /
Genre:  JohnLock, Established relationship, Humor, smut
Warnings/Kinks/Content - None

Summary: A visit from John's mum prompts Sherlock do something unexpectedly nice, in a perfect Sherlock way. Just a short 2 or 3 chapter story. Rated NC-17 for next chapter


Previous Chapter (Chapter One)


Chapter Two


A typical Sherlock plan showed in that smile, a typical plan to get John worked into such a state he would forget all about whatever bombshell Sherlock was hiding. Not a very well thought-out plan since it probably included both of them going at it bared-arsed the kitchen minutes before his mum arrived, as things tended to go with Sherlock plans.

It was also a plan that wasn't going to work, not this time, not with alarm bells going off in John's overworked worry.

John asked again, no not asked, he demanded an answer before all those wily ways wiled a finely dressed body right up against him, with hands groping down his jeans.

"Sherlock! What did you do!?"

And apparently this newly formed plan didn't include giving him an answer, even if he demanded one.

Instead Sherlock did exactly what John hoped to avoid, slinking forward closing the distance between them quickly, fingers hooking into John's belt loops. Sherlock tried to draw them together, no doubt to perform a well-aimed wiggle into John's groin. And right on cue, the ponce added a deep, throaty, "John…" in exactly the tone that would normally makes his legs go weak.

Oh he was good, but not that good. Not today.

John backed up a step, away from that inevitable hip grind, and glared daggers at the conniving bastard, the only being a seductive siren to prevent him from seeing what was in their bedroom bastard. There was a time and place for Sherlock to use all that stored up knowledge of how drive John into a writhing mess of moans. True it was most times and just about every place, but not here, not now. His temper was rising fast, knowing just what he was up to.

Ignoring Sherlock's lecherous smile, the fingers still tugging trying to pull them close, and the slight tightness in his jeans due the sound of that deep throaty voice, John growled at him. "Tell me what you did right fucking now."

Sherlock ignored him right back, biting at his lower lip, his eyes throwing promises of delightful distractions. Such tempting distractions...John silently cursed himself for having those vivid thoughts of a naked Sherlock writhing underneath him moments before, and cursed Sherlock for picking up on it all too easily and using it against him.

Sherlock reached a hand up to John's collar, playfully thumbing the damp material, acting completely oblivious to his growing irritation, throwing in another purr, "John."

"I swear to God Sherlock, don't even think about it."

He went right on in such typical Sherlock behavior John might have laughed if he wasn't about to lose his mind. A standard Sherlock "hmm?" while he continued to thumb at John's shirt, eyes showing a bit of wild. The wild John both dreaded and loved, depending on the time and place.

God damn him, it was nothing more than a means to divert. A means that would lead to an end with John's jeans around his ankles bent over the kitchen table hollering out Sherlock's name loud enough for his mum to hear from the doorstep. It was infuriating that he would pull this shit now.

Why did Sherlock have to make things so difficult? Why always with the games, always toying with him?

Why couldn't he have just said bollocks to the whole night and gone to a pub?

"Damn it Sherlock. I'm getting past you even if I have to knock you on your ass."

The wild started to show cracks, that throaty voice a lot less throaty. "But John."

"No! No you cut this shit out right now Sherlock."

For the love of all that's holy, the bloody bastard pulled out his other favorite trick, a little frowny pout.

Too much, it was too much for his stressed mind to take.

All these tricks, all these ways to keep John from discovering his secret, all too much. Christ, he didn't want to get angry, he really didn't. Not after all Sherlock had done, after spending so many thoughtful hours cleaning and clearing up the flat…oh for fuck's sake.

John looked around Sherlock to the closed door and back at that pouty lip. "You didn't?"

Sherlock's eyes were pleading again, begging him to let it go. "John…I can explain."

"No, just no please, please Sherlock, please tell me you didn't."

A simple aneurysm, why couldn't he be unconscious right now? Sherlock dropped his head not meeting his eyes and it was all the answer John needed. He had, he bloody well had.

Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and calmly said, calm but with murder behind it, "Move."

Sherlock moved out of the way with a resigned sigh, backing up to the wall.

Not giving Sherlock a chance to change his mind and attempt any more games, not letting his own mind have a chance to start begging him not to open that door, John swiftly walked down the hall. Taking one last deep breath, he turned the handle, threw the door open and immediately wished he had left the flat when he'd heard breaking glass.

This was exactly the typical Sherlock bombshell he'd come to expect. And a bombshell was pretty close to what he saw.

The bedroom looked like the aftermath of an explosion.

Everything, every fucking thing that had been cleaned from the sitting room and kitchen has been haphazardly thrown into the room. Quite literally tossed in, not placed, oh no placed in neat piles would be far too difficult apparently.

The floor and the bed were littered with tipped-over boxes of books. Broken appliances hurled into the room so carelessly he saw dents in the walls, chucked in with enough force to break apart the more fragile ones, the door to the toaster over had fallen off spraying bits of burnt toast across the duvet. Lab equipment, vials, jars everywhere. The larger items thrown in as well, there was no question of this, as the harpoon was jutting out of the wardrobe door, the samurai sword piercing the bed, slicing through the duvet.

And the papers…the mountains of papers, plus journals, magazines and notes; thrown in only to land wherever they floated down, blanketing everything.

A perfect image formed in his mind of Sherlock grabbing at items in the flat, jogging over to the doorway and just pitching them in. What the hell could he have possibly been thinking?

Clearly nothing, as no one would ever think while doing this.

The bedroom was without a doubt a completely and utter disaster. It would take hours to clean it out.

John's head throbbed. Too much…It was all entirely too much, too ludicrous, too insane to comprehend. He wanted to rant, to cry, to smack Sherlock upside the head. He could feel a rage building, every swear word he knew forming in his mind.

Then he saw it, two its actually.

The first it...In the madman's fury of dumping every sodding thing into their bedroom room, his asinine partner had taken a brief moment to clear off the debris from his night table and place his treasured skull next to his clock. He could see it, clear as day, see Sherlock gently placing it down and giving it a loving pat on the top before dashing out the room like a lunatic.

That might have been enough, but combined with the other it, John knew exactly how he was going to react to the catastrophe of their bedroom.

The other it...Hanging at a unbalanced angle right over the bed, a sharp dagger piercing it dead center, the Trivia Pursuit board had been re-stabbed into the wall. A nice spot where John couldn't never miss it. Now he saw Sherlock jumping up to stand on the bed, stabbing at it forcibly so it wouldn't fall, a pleased with himself chuckle before jumping down.

He couldn't possibly let John forget his spoiled fit at losing their last game so badly, badly due to throwing the board across the room which John insisted technically meant the whiny brat had lost the game. Wouldn't let him forget the tantrum that followed which ended with Sherlock being unable to keep his whiny mouth shut and having to sleep on the couch for a week. And couldn't let John go one day without a reminder of that very lively, romantic and enjoyable week with two bodies trying to figure out how to get comfortable on their too small of a couch and not a lot of sleep. Sherlock, who hated expressing loving emotions in words, enjoyed using that board game as a constant way to let John know just how much he did in fact love him.

In his haste to completely destroy their bedroom in an attempt to clean, Sherlock couldn't help himself. Couldn't help making sure his bizarre prized possession was undamaged and making sure his strange symbol of affection was prominently displayed.

It was all so perfectly like him, so perfectly Sherlock.

And perfect reminder of the reasons John loved his bizarre, strange and unconventionally thoughtful boyfriend.

And absolutely the reason John knew how to react to this mess. Starting with getting back at Sherlock for using his wanton ways to keep John from seeing what he had done.

Because what better way was there to say 'thank you for being you' then to toy with the clever detective.


A typical Sherlock plan showed in that smile, a typical plan to get John worked into such a state he would forget all about whatever bombshell Sherlock was hiding. Not a very well thought-out plan since it probably included both of them going at it bared-arsed the kitchen minutes before his mum arrived, as things tended to go with Sherlock plans.

It was also a plan that wasn't going to work, not this time, not with alarm bells going off in John's overworked worry.

John asked again, no not asked, he demanded an answer before all those wily ways wiled a finely dressed body right up against him, with hands groping down his jeans.

"Sherlock! What did you do!?"

And apparently this newly formed plan didn't include giving him an answer, even if he demanded one.

Instead Sherlock did exactly what John hoped to avoid, slinking forward closing the distance between them quickly, fingers hooking into John's belt loops. Sherlock tried to draw them together, no doubt to perform a well-aimed wiggle into John's groin. And right on cue, the ponce added a deep, throaty, "John…" in exactly the tone that would normally makes his legs go weak.

Oh he was good, but not that good. Not today.

John backed up a step, away from that inevitable hip grind, and glared daggers at the conniving bastard, the only being a seductive siren to prevent him from seeing what was in their bedroom bastard. There was a time and place for Sherlock to use all that stored up knowledge of how drive John into a writhing mess of moans. True it was most times and just about every place, but not here, not now. His temper was rising fast, knowing just what he was up to.

Ignoring Sherlock's lecherous smile, the fingers still tugging trying to pull them close, and the slight tightness in his jeans due the sound of that deep throaty voice, John growled at him. "Tell me what you did right fucking now."

Sherlock ignored him right back, biting at his lower lip, his eyes throwing promises of delightful distractions. Such tempting distractions...John silently cursed himself for having those vivid thoughts of a naked Sherlock writhing underneath him moments before, and cursed Sherlock for picking up on it all too easily and using it against him.

Sherlock reached a hand up to John's collar, playfully thumbing the damp material, acting completely oblivious to his growing irritation, throwing in another purr, "John."

"I swear to God Sherlock, don't even think about it."

He went right on in such typical Sherlock behavior John might have laughed if he wasn't about to lose his mind. A standard Sherlock "hmm?" while he continued to thumb at John's shirt, eyes showing a bit of wild. The wild John both dreaded and loved, depending on the time and place.

God damn him, it was nothing more than a means to divert. A means that would lead to an end with John's jeans around his ankles bent over the kitchen table hollering out Sherlock's name loud enough for his mum to hear from the doorstep. It was infuriating that he would pull this shit now.

Why did Sherlock have to make things so difficult? Why always with the games, always toying with him?

Why couldn't he have just said bollocks to the whole night and gone to a pub?

"Damn it Sherlock. I'm getting past you even if I have to knock you on your ass."

The wild started to show cracks, that throaty voice a lot less throaty. "But John."

"No! No you cut this shit out right now Sherlock."

For the love of all that's holy, the bloody bastard pulled out his other favorite trick, a little frowny pout.

Too much, it was too much for his stressed mind to take.

All these tricks, all these ways to keep John from discovering his secret, all too much. Christ, he didn't want to get angry, he really didn't. Not after all Sherlock had done, after spending so many thoughtful hours cleaning and clearing up the flat…oh for fuck's sake.

John looked around Sherlock to the closed door and back at that pouty lip. "You didn't?"

Sherlock's eyes were pleading again, begging him to let it go. "John…I can explain."

"No, just no please, please Sherlock, please tell me you didn't."

A simple aneurysm, why couldn't he be unconscious right now? Sherlock dropped his head not meeting his eyes and it was all the answer John needed. He had, he bloody well had.

Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and calmly said, calm but with murder behind it, "Move."

Sherlock moved out of the way with a resigned sigh, backing up to the wall.

Not giving Sherlock a chance to change his mind and attempt any more games, not letting his own mind have a chance to start begging him not to open that door, John swiftly walked down the hall. Taking one last deep breath, he turned the handle, threw the door open and immediately wished he had left the flat when he'd heard breaking glass.

This was exactly the typical Sherlock bombshell he'd come to expect. And a bombshell was pretty close to what he saw.

The bedroom looked like the aftermath of an explosion.

Everything, every fucking thing that had been cleaned from the sitting room and kitchen has been haphazardly thrown into the room. Quite literally tossed in, not placed, oh no placed in neat piles would be far too difficult apparently.

The floor and the bed were littered with tipped-over boxes of books. Broken appliances hurled into the room so carelessly he saw dents in the walls, chucked in with enough force to break apart the more fragile ones, the door to the toaster over had fallen off spraying bits of burnt toast across the duvet. Lab equipment, vials, jars everywhere. The larger items thrown in as well, there was no question of this, as the harpoon was jutting out of the wardrobe door, the samurai sword piercing the bed, slicing through the duvet.

And the papers…the mountains of papers, plus journals, magazines and notes; thrown in only to land wherever they floated down, blanketing everything.

A perfect image formed in his mind of Sherlock grabbing at items in the flat, jogging over to the doorway and just pitching them in. What the hell could he have possibly been thinking?

Clearly nothing, as no one would ever think while doing this.

The bedroom was without a doubt a completely and utter disaster. It would take hours to clean it out.

John's head throbbed. Too much…It was all entirely too much, too ludicrous, too insane to comprehend. He wanted to rant, to cry, to smack Sherlock upside the head. He could feel a rage building, every swear word he knew forming in his mind.

Then he saw it, two its actually.

The first it...In the madman's fury of dumping every sodding thing into their bedroom room, his asinine partner had taken a brief moment to clear off the debris from his night table and place his treasured skull next to his clock. He could see it, clear as day, see Sherlock gently placing it down and giving it a loving pat on the top before dashing out the room like a lunatic.

That might have been enough, but combined with the other it, John knew exactly how he was going to react to the catastrophe of their bedroom.

The other it...Hanging at a unbalanced angle right over the bed, a sharp dagger piercing it dead center, the Trivia Pursuit board had been re-stabbed into the wall. A nice spot where John couldn't never miss it. Now he saw Sherlock jumping up to stand on the bed, stabbing at it forcibly so it wouldn't fall, a pleased with himself chuckle before jumping down.

He couldn't possibly let John forget his spoiled fit at losing their last game so badly, badly due to throwing the board across the room which John insisted technically meant the whiny brat had lost the game. Wouldn't let him forget the tantrum that followed which ended with Sherlock being unable to keep his whiny mouth shut and having to sleep on the couch for a week. And couldn't let John go one day without a reminder of that very lively, romantic and enjoyable week with two bodies trying to figure out how to get comfortable on their too small of a couch and not a lot of sleep. Sherlock, who hated expressing loving emotions in words, enjoyed using that board game as a constant way to let John know just how much he did in fact love him.

In his haste to completely destroy their bedroom in an attempt to clean, Sherlock couldn't help himself. Couldn't help making sure his bizarre prized possession was undamaged and making sure his strange symbol of affection was prominently displayed.

It was all so perfectly like him, so perfectly Sherlock.

And perfect reminder of the reasons John loved his bizarre, strange and unconventionally thoughtful boyfriend.

And absolutely the reason John knew how to react to this mess. Starting with getting back at Sherlock for using his wanton ways to keep John from seeing what he had done.

Because what better way was there to say 'thank you for being you' then to toy with the clever detective.


Chapter Three

I added the story that gives the background on Trivia Pursuit board, called The Threat. It explains in more detail why this 'it' is quite treasured for both of them.


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