Baker Street Boys

42

//SMUT WARNING//

Sherlock smiled, a feeling that he couldn't quite place bubbling in his chest, and held out the slip of paper that he'd written his number on just before John had led him from the hall. 'Call me, John Watson?'

John looked at the paper in disbelief. 'You wrote that in the hall. Bit pre-emptive, don't you think?'

Sherlock smirked. 'Nah. I'm irresistible.'

1

'I think it's adorable.' Jim wiped his mouth, grinning widely at the scowl that seemed permanently fixed to Sherlock's face. 'Look at them. So happy.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Mycroft has too many secrets. I, personally, cannot believe he invited Lady Smallwood.' The middle-aged woman sitting next to her husband on one of the back tables was laughing, though her eyes had been fixed on Sherlock's brother for the majority of the reception. 'Her husband would kill him, and so would Graham-'

'Greg.' Irene took her seat on Jim's other side, hair ruffled and lipstick slightly smudged. 'That Anthea is a demon, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me about her before?'

Sherlock waved an arm dismissively. 'Irrelevant. Didn't know her name.' He pulled his tie and glared uncomfortably at the top table. 'Is this nearly over? And why am I not at the top table? I'm far more important than those stupid people.'

'One,' Irene said mildly, 'Those stupid people are your brother-in-law's mother, father, sisters and daughters. Two, you refused to sit up there. You threw a whole fit about it.' She narrowed her eyes. 'Are you high?'

'No, I'm not high.' Sherlock glared at her. 'The rehabilitation programme was far too much hassle for me to go through all over again.'

'Glad to hear it.' Jim, who was carving something into an apple with a wickedly sharp knife that clearly did not belong on the table, stood up. 'Excuse me a moment.'

'He's clearly up to something,' Irene murmured, and Sherlock shrugged, still watching Lady Smallwood: his left arm was itching, just where the needle had penetrated his vein, and he felt itchy and tight and hot. 'He can do what he wants.' He groaned and put his head on the table, curly black hair splaying all over (including Irene's plate: she surreptitiously moved it, wanting to save the potatoes). 'I need a distraction-'

'Hiya.' The voice was polite, low-pitched and decidedly common. 'D'you need anymore wine?'

As Sherlock's head shot up, Irene let out a short but genuine laugh. 'Truly,' she said to the bemused waiter, 'Your timing could not have been better.' Still laughing, she stood up. 'I'll see you later, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't even bother rolling his eyes, fixing his gaze on the waiter and batting his eyelashes. 'Good morning.'

The waiter blinked, taken aback by Sherlock's intense look. 'It's- it's two fifty-four.'

'Semantics,' Sherlock drawled with a wave of his hand as he eagerly scanned the waiter. 'Twenty-four...training to be a surgeon...one brother...abusive father...lover of romance novels and...aspiring novelist. Quite a collection.' He watched the waiter closely, expecting a whitening of the face, or a clench of the jaw, or even a punch in the face (it had happened before- Sebastian Wilkes had almost broken his nose).

What he did not expect was an impassive blink of the eyes.

'So...no wine?' The waiter asked again, this time in a bored tone.

Sherlock blinked twice. 'What-'

'Wine.' The waiter spelt it out slowly, head tilted to the side. 'Alcoholic beverage. Often made in France. This one probably is, the groom is a tad pretentious-'