Distasteful Profession

Unwanted company

Sherlock made a tea arrangement with John as he was driving Sherlock home. They pulled up to Sherlock's flat and turned the engine off after putting it in Park. The two had gotten out of John's car and Sherlock led the way into his flat. The two men went up the stairs and into the newly discovered mess that was Sherlock's flat.

"Wow, you really need to..." John said, trailing off. "Rent the other bedroom," Sherlock interrupted, "Clean it up," John finished, giving Sherlock a look. "How much are you renting for?" John asked, cocking a brow to the taller man. "Why? Are you interested?" Sherlock stepped toward John with a somewhat cocky grin on his face. "Depends on how much you're charging..." John said, sizing Sherlock up. They both chuckle as they stand down and relax their momentarily puffed out chests. "I'll get the kettle warmed," Sherlock said, passing John, lingering his hand on John's shoulder as he made his way to the messy kitchen. "MRS. HUDSON!!"

John put a nearby pillow on one of the two armchairs that he thought suited him. A few moments later, someone walked back in, carrying a tray with tea and scones. She placed the cup on John's side table after smiling sweetly down at him. John smiled and nodded his thanks. "Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," She said, her voice weak and somewhat shaking with her growing age. "I appreciate it," John said politely. "Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said as he hurried to the black armchair.

"I don't know what you've done to him, but can you continue to do that?" She asked. "I only drove him home..." John muttered. "That'll do it. I hope you accept," She said sweetly, before being dismissed by Sherlock.

"Only 200 Quid a month," Sherlock said. John whipped his head around with a surprised look on his face. "Only 200 Quid a month?!" He repeated. "It appears there is an echo in the room; Yes, John, only 200 Quid," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Although," Sherlock said before John could mutter a response, "I don't fancy public shopping centres. I would require you to pick up the essentials; Groceries, materials, equipment." Sherlock finished, crossing his legs and steeping his hands together right under his chin. "And, I play the violin, sometimes in the middle of the night."

John frowned at this. "I have a kid. She won't be able to sleep, then." Sherlock frowned as well. "Well, what if I only play when she's awake during the night? I'm sure I can compose a lullaby, of sorts," Sherlock bargained. "And, whenever you're home and I'm not, you have to watch her?" John added, stretching the deal. "Risky, but... You've got yourself a deal!" Sherlock held out his and for John to shake.

John reached his hand out but hesitated as they were inches away from sealing the deal. "One last thing..." John muttered. "Child Protection Services have been in our lives ever since Mary died, so they will need a lot of paperwork and drug tests, to make sure Rosie's not in any danger, but I'm sure that won't be a problem for someone like you," John smirked as he grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock pulled away from John's hand, with an immense frown on his face. "When will those be required, exactly?" Sherlock asked lowly. John frowned almost immediately. "You-?" John started, "Shut up," "Really-?" "Shut up," Sherlock insisted. Sherlock quickly stood and began tapping his fingers against his pant leg.

"Look," John said calmly, "I can get you out of them. However, you need to at least be clean around Rosie. The first sign of you using around my daughter, and we're gone!" John promised. Sherlock quickly turned on his heel and took John's hand in his own to shake. This startled John, but he smiled and shook Sherlock's hand in agreement.

They continued to talk as they sipped their tea, but John soon got a text from the babysitter. "Bloody hell," John said, standing up, putting his tea on the table best to the armchair, "I have to go. Uhh, h-here...!" John grabbed a marker from a nearby stack of papers and walked up to Sherlock, grabbing his arm. He sloppily scribbled his number on Sherlock's skin, then rushed out of the flat with a simple yet perfect kind of wave over his shoulder.