All is Fair in Love and War

Subterfuge

Fact: John was not gay.

He wasn't. Despite having a penchant for frumpy jumpers and being a bit of a sentimental romantic, Dr. Watson most assuredly fell under the label of "heterosexual". He'd never felt the least bit of attraction to another man. Before that morning.

Damn.

Fact: He cared about Sherlock.

Of course he did. Sherlock was his best friend. If Mike hadn't introduced them, John probably would have shot himself later that same fateful afternoon. He liked the adrenaline high he got from chasing around London after serial killers and bombers and thieves and smugglers. He (usually) liked Sherlock's warped sense of humor, and (usually) found the eyeballs on the dining table amusing, even if it was also completely unhygienic.

All of that was relatively straightforward. The problem was in the final known variables.

Problematic Fact A: John's wife died yesterday.

Problematic Fact B: John seemed to enjoy snogging Sherlock like a stupid teenager.

Those two statements had no interest in reconciling themselves. On one hand, even the thought of Sherlock holding his waist and kissing him made his cheeks burn. On the other hand, Mary had died. Yesterday. Even if John was "legally emancipated," as Sherlock probably would term it, and could kiss whomever he pleased, that did not make it right. In fact, it was an insult to her memory that he was even having this discussion with himself. John groaned inwardly, setting his empty teacup back on the table.

It was then that he got the text.

Meet me at the back of the flat. - SH

*****

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Ashley Larkin met me at the black-painted-oak-wood-veneer-covered-aluminum-door-typical-for-London, wearing a knee-length-no-pet-hair-black-skirt and a clean-white-hand-ironed-by-the-dry-cleaner-so-they-are-wealthy-enough-to-live-here-and-aren't-just-putting-on-appearances-blouse. Judging by the faint smear of tomato-sauce-with-cilantro-and-mango on her wrist, I had caught her in the middle of preparing dinner (but-it-was-too-early-for-dinner-so-it-must-be-some-slow-cooking-dish-that-took-hours-of-preparation).

"Jamie!" she exclaimed, pulling me to her. I could smell the generic vanilla-scented-with-an-alcohol-base perfume she was wearing (nothing-intimate-in-anticipation-of-her-husband's-return-but-also-nothing-indicative-of-an-affair).

In the voice I had been mentally rehearsing, I smiled and said, "Hello, love." I also kissed her, attempting to replicate exactly in reverse the kiss John had given me, only slightly-less-impassioned-because-there-was-obviously-less-going-on-in-the-romance-department-here-than-at-the-Watson-residence. It must have come off alright, because she smiled (recent-visit-to-the-dentist-to-slow-an-ongoing-battle-with-a-history-of-cavities) and drew me inside. I was dimly aware of the cab pulling away from the curb. John would follow my instructions. He generally did.

The house was austere-and-expensive-so-decorated-to-impress-Larkin's-political-opponents-with-his-wealth. The front room had a plush carpet hidden beneath an Oriental rug (not genuine: too-low-thread-count), an imported-teak-wood-coffee-table, and a real-black-leather-settee. The television was a 130 cm Japanese model, and a high-end one, at that. All this and more my eye took in in 0.37 seconds.

"Were you going to change before dinner?" Mrs. Larkin asked, relinquishing her grip on my arm.

"I thought I might. I haven't had a change of clothes all night, after all." I kept my tone casual, with just a hint of annoyance appropriate to one who has been stuck at work on overtime.