Mirror Mirror

Chapter 4

 Lestrade and his team took the files from Sherlock and thanked him for his assistance. Sherlock saw John kept stealing furtive glances at Lestrade watching his every move as he, quite professionally, took down the information and processed the arrest. Throughout the proceedings, he never acknowledged that he knew John or Sherlock in any capacity at all other than reputation. He thanked them for their service and ushered them back out to the lobby. "I might have another case for you detective," he said. "I'll contact you with the details in the next day or two."

Sherlock exchanged numbers and then led John out of the precinct. Lestrade had assigned them a car to take them home, and John was infinitely grateful he wouldn't have to walk any further.

During the ride home, he slumped against the window and thought about what had happened after he'd stepped on the electrical cable. He'd had some kind of vivid hallucination about leaving his body, moving through a tunnel and slamming back into himself. Only when he woke up, his body felt odd. Since the pub, he'd run his hands over his belly only to find a clearly defined six pack of the like he hadn't had since his military days. He'd caught a glimpse of his face in the men's toilet at the precinct and marveled again at the beard covering his jaw and upper lip. It looked good on him. Had he lost weight? His face looked much more defined than it had just this morning. Hell, maybe he could do a little research on electric weight loss therapy and hair growth. If he could find the secret of what had happened to him, he could market it and make millions.

But whatever had happened to him had left him drained. His head rested against the window of the car as he tilted his whole body away from his flat mate. Everything about Sherlock suggested he wanted time to think and process the evenings events in his own way, so he gave him some space.

They finally arrived at Baker Street, and John had just enough reserve energy to climb the steps to the flat. He toyed with the idea of making tea but decided not to bother. He hung his jacket on the peg by the door remarking how well it fit him and how much he liked it, and Sherlock hung the odd trench coat next to it right in the spot he usually kept the Belstaff.

"I'm knackered, Sherlock," John said barely able to keep his eyes open. "I'll see you in the morning." He turned and headed up the stairs to his room.

"John," Sherlock's deep rumble stopped his ascent. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To bed," he said and continued climbing. Nothing else Sherlock could say would keep him from face planting into his bed right now. Sherlock moved to the foot of the stairs and watched him climb saying nothing else. He got to his door and pushed it open. Nothing tonight could have prepared him for what he discovered in his usually neat bedroom.

His usually neat double bed was now covered in a black silk bedspread, and his ordinary feather pillows had been replaced with opulent, round bolsters. Each of the four posts of the bed had all manner of restraints attached to them along with long coils of rope looped around each one. His sturdy desk and wardrobe full of clothes had been replaced with a tall wooden cabinet. One door hung open slightly, and John could see an assortment of dildos, but plugs, whips gags and other sex toys he'd never seen before.

John's brain spun, and he gibbered out a small cry of confusion. "What the bloody fuck have you done to my room, Sherlock?" he shouted to the offending items. He needn't have bothered shouting because the detective had followed him up the stairs and now stood quietly in the door. He'd gone still and simply stared at him, observing his every move.

"Is this your idea of a come on? Are you trying to tell me something?" John asked. He'd thought about having sex with his mad genius flat mate so many times in the past, but of course, he'd never acted on his desires. The room was the stuff of his daydreams. He'd wanked off the fantasies of Sherlock tying him up for years. But in the two years he'd been at Baker Street, he'd never imagined that Sherlock would ever want to do something like this with him.

However, faced with the reality of his wildest fantasies, John suddenly grew terrified. Something was dreadfully wrong with his world right now. He'd been hiding his head in the sand ever since leaving that pub, but if nothing else offered proof that he'd fallen through the rabbit hole, this room full of sex toys did. He snapped.

"Get out, Sherlock!" he shouted and pushed the detective across the threshold of the door and into the hallway. "I'm going to bed, and I'll address all this in the morning." He shut and locked the door in Sherlock's face and crawled into his silky bed with his clothes still on. As he pulled the black sheets up around his shoulders, he allowed all of his confusion to wash away, and he dropped off to sleep.