Chapter Text
The plane banked left, treating John to an incredible view of a double waterfall sparkling prisms as it cascaded between lush green folds of mountainside.
"Beautiful!" John's seatmate leaned across him to gaze out the little window.
Behind them, a burst of raucous laughter came from the wedding party, who had essentially formed a sort of squashed scrum in the narrow aisle. A hovering flight attendant was looking harried, trying to herd everyone back to their seats for the descent.
"I think you and I are the only ones who've noticed the scenery, Mrs. Turner," John said with a conspiratorial smile.
"Oh, bless, they're so excited." Mrs. Turner cast a fond gaze over her shoulder, focused on the two men currently embracing in the center of the scrum. "So kind of them to invite their poor little old landlady. I do love a wedding."
"So kind of you to invite me, Mrs. Turner," John said for what felt like the hundredth time. "And poor little old landlady, my arse."
Mrs. Turner giggled and gave her cropped silver hair a little fluff. "Well, I needed a plus one, didn't I? Good thing I picked such a charming one. And with my Danny still away in Afghanistan—" The light in her eyes flickered and she shifted her gaze back to the window.
John squeezed her hand.
She patted his leg. "You're a good man, John Watson. A good friend to my boy. You deserve this trip. I know you've had a hard time of it, dear, but you deserve good things."
It was John's turn to look away.
"Maybe you'll even meet someone special at the wedding," Mrs. Turner suggested, cajoling, like the reason John was alone and miserable was that he simply wasn't giving it the proper effort, when the truth was he simply wasn't good for much of anything these days. Or anyone.
"I think you're taking the name of the island a bit too seriously, there," he said, not unkindly.
Mrs. Turner smiled with the smug confidence of the well-intentioned. "We'll see."
***
The private island's exclusive staff, wrapped in hibiscus-patterned sarongs, welcomed disembarking guests with white smiles, kisses pressed to cheeks, and icy fruit-laden drinks—complete with tiny paper parasols—pressed into hands. The air was hot and humid, but pleasantly so, and smelled of fruit and flowers. A low drumbeat thrummed under the rustling whisper of the palms.
"Oh, John, isn't it all so beautiful," Mrs. Turner exclaimed, hand fluttering to her chest.
John chuckled. "You've been saying that a lot."
"Don't pretend you aren't impressed."
"It's certainly lively."
In addition to the gale-force tropical hospitality greeting them, the newcomers were being hailed by wedding guests who'd arrived on earlier flights, and with a volume and enthusiasm that suggested a great many complimentary mango daiquiris had already been enjoyed.
John offered Mrs. Turner an arm through the chaos, admitting, "And it is beautiful, yes."
"Paul and Ravi must be beside themselves."
John didn't know either of the two grooms beyond Mrs. Turner's brief introduction when they'd boarded the plane. They were dissimilar men at first glance—Ravi, slender, shy, and spectacled, had a neat, professorial look about him while Paul in his torn jeans and faded Clash t-shirt was beefy, bearded, and boisterous—but they looked at one another with the same besotted gaze that left no question they were mad for one another.
John spotted them at the edge of the crowded garden, holding hands, chatting with a long, lean man in a slim-fitting white suit. John blinked. Beautiful, yes. The breeze ruffled the man's dark curls and his eyes, Caribbean-clear, shifted directly to John.
John stumbled over the flagstone walkway.
Mrs. Turner caught his elbow, keeping him upright with a surprisingly wiry strength. "Are you all right, dear?"
John clenched his teeth. "I'm fine."
"That was a long flight, wasn't it? We'll settle in and then you can rest your leg."
John bit back a snappish reply, because he was fine, and jerked his head in Paul and Ravi's direction. "Who is that?"
"Who…?" Mrs. Turner craned her neck, then laughed. "You don't mean Sherlock, do you?"
John frowned. "The owner?"
"Our host! Sherlock Holmes. I've read all about him. Very mysterious. The wonders he works on this island, the stories I've heard. They say he has powers."
"These stories didn't come from your tabloids, by any chance?"
"Never you mind where they came from. That does mean they aren't true. That man is a magician."
"He does dress like one."
"I think he's very handsome!"
"Hm," John said, careful not to look back.
***
"I pledge to you my honor, my faith, and my love."
It was big Paul's voice that was soft and shaky, thick with emotion. Ravi had delivered his vows in a clear, unwavering tone, eyes shining with conviction. They made a handsome pair, Ravi in a classic black tuxedo and Paul in a blue and grey tartan kilt.
John couldn't help but smile.
"I see you're a romantic, Doctor Watson."
John's head whipped around at the deep and rather disappointed voice in his ear and he found himself almost nose-to-nose with Sherlock Holmes, who had apparently slid silently into the seat next to him.
Sherlock's eyes were just as startling several inches away as they had been from yards away. Okay, probably more.
"It's a lovely ceremony," John said, keeping his own voice politely low, although Sherlock hadn't bothered. They were in the back row, at least. John had thought it best to leave the closer seats to friends and family.
"Dull."
"I…excuse me?"
"Dull," Sherlock repeated a little more crisply.
A woman in the row in front of them glanced over her shoulder, frowning a bit. Sherlock gave her a ludicrously simpering smile.
"I'm dull?" John whispered, irritation edging into his tone. "Or the ceremony is dull?"
Sherlock flickered him a considering look. "I was in this particular instance referring to the ceremony."
"But you did this." John waved a hand at flower garlands and ivory chiffon draping.
"It's what they wanted."
"Oh. So you just followed instructions."
"No."
John shook his head, confused. "You didn't follow their instructions."
"There were no instructions. I don't take instructions. They simply asked for the perfect wedding."
Paul's hand shook as he fumblingly retrieved a gold ring from his sporran and slid it onto Ravi's finger. "I give you this ring, as a symbol of my commitment and enduring devotion."
"Well," John said, "you seem to have provided that."
"As I said. Boring." Sherlock brushed a fleck of absolutely nothing from the crease in his white trousers as his attention started to drift away from John.
"My friend thinks you're a magician," John blurted.
Sherlock's eyes, cool and amused, shifted back to John. "Ah, yes. Science can seem like magic to a primitive mind."
"Primitive?" John frowned at the arrogant curve of Sherlock's mouth. "You're calling my friend primitive?"
"It's astonishingly simple to read what people want." Sherlock looked John up and down and smiled again, like he'd just learned everything about John he'd ever need to know. "You're all so transparent."
John flushed.
At the front of the lawn, Ravi and Paul leaned in for a kiss. The officiant beamed and shouted over the rising cheers of approval, "May your days be filled with joy!"
The guests leapt to their feet, applauding thunderously.
When John looked around again, he was alone.
***
John was headed back to his bungalow when he heard the scuffle just off the path, and of course he didn't hesitate.
There were four of them. Well, three, if you didn't count the one who had apparently passed out while pissing on the bougainvillea trellis. Sherlock, sporting a livid red mark on one cheekbone, had the tall one in the powder blue suit in a choke hold. The ruddy-cheeked blond was too busy reeling with laughter to present much of a threat, so John went for the wiry one aiming himself at Sherlock's blind side. John buckled his leg with a kick to the back of one knee and took him down with a jab to the nose as he reeled, careful to pull his punch enough to avoid doing any significant damage. This was his only suit, after all—shabby as it was, he didn't want blood on it.
Powder Blue slid to the ground with a sigh in front of Sherlock as though he'd simply decided to have a nice little sleep in the grass.
John sniffed and swiped at his nose with the back of one hand, waving at the prone revelers with the other. "Were they so transparent you didn't see them coming, then?"
Sherlock scowled. "There may have been a…slight miscalculation regarding the inebriation timetable."
Laughing Boy had subsided into hiccuping giggles and taken a seat in a truly unfortunate spot next to the bougainvillea.
"You're a party planner and you don't know how much people like to drink at weddings?"
Sherlock frowned at him. "Party planner?"
"Don't you have security around this place?"
"Party planner?"
"Assistants?" John toed at Wiry, who groaned. "Medical staff?"
"I fulfill fantasies. Fantasies all you vacant idiots don't even realize you have. Fantasies I am the only one in the world who is able to reliably deduce. I provide a psychologically and logistically complex set of services resulting in life-altering experiences. I am not a party planner."
"All right, then. You're not a party planner. " John pursed his lips and eyed Laughing Boy's tipped champagne flute and tangled lei.
"Yes, fine. This particular fantasy did technically involve a party."
John grinned.
Sherlock glared at him. "Shut up."
John grinned all the wider.
Voices rose nearby, just around the curve in the pathway.
"Oh...bugger." Sherlock's eyes flashed, ever-so-briefly, with dismay and he started simultaneously dragging fingers through his disheveled hair and scrubbing at a green smear on the sleeve of his white jacket.
John hid a chuckle, turned, and walked toward the voices, raising his. "Believe me, you do not want to come this way! Someone had a bit too much piña colada and roast pork, if you know what I mean."
A young woman in pink wrinkled her nose at him and said, "Ew," but she pulled her companion away by the elbow toward an alternate path.
Sherlock's head was bent over his mobile when John returned, his thumbs a blur of motion on the keypad, issuing instructions for staff to collect the unfortunate guests at his feet, John presumed.
John hesitated, hovering.
"Well, I'll just…leave you to it," he finally said.
He hesitated some more. Sherlock didn't look up from his mobile.
"Okay, then," John nodded, turning away.
"John?"
"Yes?"
Sherlock spared him the briefest of glances. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," John said, and was a little surprised to realize he actually meant it.
***
The reception was apparently to be an all-night affair, judging by the noise still coming from the main grounds. Curious, and feeling like stretching his legs, John left his murder mystery cracked open on the bungalow porch swing and excused himself to Mrs. Turner, who waved him away with a mellow smile.
The music, a sort of hip-hop/island fusion, heavy on the throbbing drums, was louder as John emerged from the tree-covered pathway to the reception area. Multi-colored lights were strung amongst the trees and torchlight flickered closer to the ground, but the grounds were almost empty of people, except for—John smirked—a fair number of athletic-looking men and women with two-way radios and staff shirts patrolling the perimeters.
A dance floor, dining tables, fire pit, and a thatch-roofed outdoor bar all showed signs of heavy use, but aside from a few lingering drinkers and dark-corner nuzzlers, no one was around.
Still, John heard voices. Or…not voices, exactly.
Moaning.
Which is when he turned around to find Sherlock standing directly behind him, grave-faced and once again impeccably-groomed.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson."
"It was John earlier, wasn't it?"
"Good evening, John."
"Er…where is everyone?"
Sherlock inclined his head in the direction of the pool. "I expect they're at the orgy."
"Oh, right." John blinked. "Wait, the what?"
Sherlock's brow crinkled. "You're familiar with the concept."
"Of course I'm familiar with the—are you saying there's an orgy?"
"Yes."
"Happening? Right now?"
"Yes."
"In…the pool?"
"It's been re-purposed for the evening's entertainment."
John moved cautiously towards the…yes, those were most definitely sex sounds…until he could see…everything. Absolutely…everything. Every single bit and bob of everything. The pool, empty of water and filled with cushions and towels and a…creative variety of toys…writhed with slick bodies. At the center, on a raised platform for all to see, Ravi and Paul had a place of honor. And they were making enthusiastic use of it.
"Is that…?"
"Mm, yes, a lubricant fountain," Sherlock provided.
"Of course."
Sherlock pointed. "And the slides, slicked. The diving board, for obvious reasons, is off limits."
"Right. Obvious reasons." Realizing he was staring open-mouthed, John tried to look away, but he wasn't sure where to look. Not at Sherlock. Definitely not at Sherlock. He fixed his eyes on a nearby banana tree, then frowned and hastily looked away from that as well.
"And this…this is what Paul and Ravi asked for?"
"No. But it's what they wanted. Their true fantasy."
"They…certainly don't seem to object." He felt keenly aware of how close Sherlock was standing, curls ruffled once again by the jasmine-scented breeze, except this time under moonlight. Sherlock's hands, John noted, were quite large. Long-fingered.
"You'll be wanting to join in."
"Me?" John's voice came out a bit more high pitched than he'd intended.
"You are a wedding guest," Sherlock said neutrally.
"No. Er…no. I prefer my intimacy a bit more…intimate. Thanks. I mean, not thanks like you were…offering…" John cleared his throat. "But don't let me, you know, keep you, if…"
Sherlock gave him a disdainful look. "The conductor does not wade into the pit."
"Right." John swallowed down a nervous giggle. "So…are they always like this? The fantasies?"
"Like what?"
"Well. You know." He shifted against the growing tightness of his trousers, eyes drifting helplessly toward the dais. "Sexual."
"Sometimes." Sherlock gave him an odd, searching look. "Problem?"
"No." John shifted again as a particularly extended moan drifted up from the pool. There was just so much…movement. Rolling and grinding and sloppy slapping sounds and…fuck. He needed to get out of here right now. "No problem. It's all fine. But I do think I'll just…be going."
Sherlock's gaze flicked down John's body, taking in his awkward, arousal-hiding stance. He lifted an eyebrow.
"Good night, then, John." And then he winked. "And welcome to Fantasy Island."
***
"You're quite sure I didn't miss anything last night, John?"
"Not a thing, Mrs. Turner," John reassured her as he handed their bags over to the porter.
"Everyone looks so relaxed," she sighed, looking around approvingly at the other departing guests. "I wish we could stay longer. Oh, there's Ravi!"
She called out and Ravi turned and waved, detaching himself from Paul to come over and give her a hug.
"You look very happy, my dear," Mrs. Turner patted his cheek.
"It was brilliant," he said, bright-eyed. "Everything was absolutely perfect."
John raised his eyebrows. "So you were…pleased with Sherlock's," he glanced cautiously at Mrs. Turner, "enhancements to the reception."
"We knew we wanted to share our love," Ravi grinned, cheeks flushing a bit, "but we didn't realize how badly we wanted to share our love. Sherlock Holmes is a genius. We wanted to thank him in person, but," he looked around and shrugged. Sherlock was notably absent.
Mrs. Turner frowned curiously after Ravi as he dashed off to enthuse at another departing guest. "What was that about?"
"Oh, just…wedding stuff," John said blithely. "Probably."
"Hm."
"Doctor Watson?" A young man in one of the island's trademark sarongs appeared at John's side. "Mr. Holmes requests a moment of your time, if you please, in his offices at the cottage."
Mrs. Turner's eyebrows shot up. "And what's this about?"
"I…I have no idea. Is there a problem?"
"If you'll follow me, sir?"
"Er. All right. Why not?"
The "cottage" turned out to be an enormous and ornate, white-painted, red-trimmed, rambling Queen Anne style villa with a tall bell tower jutting up near the center. Inside Sherlock's private offices, however, the island aesthetic fell away, replaced by an actually slightly shabby, completely disorganized, cluttered and curiously homey space. Sherlock was sat in a modern leather desk chair, which he turned to face John as John walked in. Sherlock's island aesthetic had fallen away, too. He was wearing a simple, fitted, plum-colored button-up, not a trace of white. He rested his elbows on his desk and tented his fingers in front of his chin.
"John."
"Looking for someone to sacrifice to the volcano?"
Sherlock frowned at him. Whether it was for speaking out of turn or for his admittedly feeble attempt at humor, John wasn't sure. "There is no volcano."
"Then what can I do for you?"
"John." Sherlock repeated, as though his name was an important opening line. "As you are aware, my work is deducing and fulfilling fantasies."
"I've just seen Ravi. He seemed to be a quite…satisfied client."
"Of course he is," Sherlock brushed the interruption aside. "I've already explained—I know what people want. Which is precisely why I've called you here this morning."
"Sorry?"
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "Because I know what it is you want."
John flinched, thinking immediately of his every stray glance at Sherlock's mouth, his hands, his beautifully-fitted trousers. "But I didn't come here for a fantasy."
"No. You came here to escape London, where you are having difficulty fitting in and finding occupation after your release from the army, particularly as you were invalided out. You are not close enough with your family to turn to them for support. You are without friends as well, excepting Mrs. Turner, as you don't make friends easily and have left the few you had in…was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan," John murmured, eyes narrowing.
"Have left the few you had in Afghanistan behind. Your injuries, both physical and psychosomatic, along with the tedious sympathetic expressions you are subjected to on a daily basis have eroded your confidence. Your army pension is inadequate to maintain a life in London without immediate supplement. In short, you are at a personal, functional, and financial loss with very little to return to in London." Sherlock paused for a breath and looked at John, waiting, perked up like he was expecting a pat on the head or a saucer of milk. "Am I right?"
"Yes. Well done. Correct on all counts. And ta very much for that display of skill, but it really wasn't necessary." John leaned in and lowered his voice. His face had gone tight during Sherlock's speech. "I was actually already impressed by what you can do."
"You were?"
"But you got one thing wrong."
"There's always something…"
"Hearing all that out loud was not actually my dream come true," John snapped. "If that's what you think I wanted, you got it wrong."
Sherlock's face fell. "Oh. I have to spell it out, then."
"Spell what out?"
"John, I find my staff in need of fortification with a particular combination of medical and security skills. Skills you happen to possess."
John squinted at him and said, very slowly, "You don't mean…"
"Obviously, I do." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm offering you a job."
"A job."
"Yes."
"A job. Here on this island."
"I need an assistant." Sherlock sighed, a quick, impatient gust of breath. "You are a doctor."
John squared his shoulders. "And a soldier."
"And you're good."
"Very good."
"That confirmation, incidentally, really wasn't necessary." Sherlock smirked. "I was actually already impressed by what you can do."
John stared.
Sherlock shook his head as though John was being remarkably obtuse. "So that's settled. You'll accept the position."
He would be out of his mind to accept. Sherlock Holmes was an overly-dramatic, vain, obnoxious, petulant, plush-mouthed madman. Beyond that, John didn't know a thing about him, what he really did here on this island of his—was it even his island?—or what he might ask of John under the terms of this employment. There had been no mention of compensation. He didn't know how he would live. And it hadn't escaped his notice that Sherlock hadn't actually asked if he would take the job. He would be completely out of his mind to accept this position.
John's smile bloomed. "Oh, god, yes."