A/N: Hello my darlings! I'm back with another lovely story for you all. I know I have several sequels I've promised you and Magic and Mischief to finish but this story idea latched on to my muse and the two wouldn't let each other go until I started writing it. And of course the idea of John being a singer spawned yet ANOTHER idea, so I'll be working on both at the same time. Not sure how often this will update because it depends on the crazy lives of me and my lovely beta old ping hai, of which these stories would not be as fabulous without.
Better Summary: Sherlock is a playboy from old money that has long since dried up, taking the cruise to see his grandmother one more time before she goes. John is a former lounge singer giving one last gig to his mates. They both are engaged to social heiresses. As they start to realize their feelings for each other, they decide to wait six months to see if it's just a cruise fling or something more. In six months they decide to meet at the Tower of London. But what happens to them when tragedy strikes? Will they find their way back to each other? Or was it never meant to be?
Sherlock Holmes did not want to be on this god-forsaken cruise, but he had promised his fiancée and brother that he would go. He had promised Irene that he would go and relax before their wedding while she dealt with the minutiae of planning the "blessed" event. And he had promised Mycroft that he would visit their grandmother in France before she left this mortal coil. He couldn't disagree with that last one. Their maternal grandmother was the only one in their family that wasn't disappointed in him. The only one to show affection to the bright-eyed boy he'd once been.
But it was the anticipated tediousness of the cruise that bothered him. It was bound to be filled with boring, dull people who would twitter and fawn over him, just because he happened to catch the most eligible woman in all of London, if not all of England. Irene Adler was the owner of several fashion establishments and had come from money herself. To wear Adler was to be in the height of fashion. He still wasn't sure why she picked him out of the sea of men that had been at that gala his brother had forced him to attend. But she had, and he had become instantly famous just by being at her side.
Mycroft had urged that Sherlock marry her before she changed her mind, so for the first time in their twenty-some-odd years of brotherhood, Sherlock did as he was bid and asked her for her hand. He was still stunned that she accepted. He had assumed she would laugh and tell him he was a good boy though not worthy of being more than her bedmate. But she had been thrilled and had started squealing and jumping up and down.
Sherlock sighed as he looked out the window of the Adler limousine that was driving him to the ship. The QE2. God, could the name be more pretentious? He supposed that there were worse things to name a ship. The Titanic or Lusitania, for example. Two sister ships built by the British that loved to sink to the bottom of the Atlantic. Sherlock's father was in the Royal Navy and disappointed that neither of his boys showed the proper inclination toward the occupation. Mycroft was far too lazy for the hard work and training it would require; and Sherlock? Well, Sherlock couldn't take orders from his own mother, let alone a commanding officer.
But both his parents were gone now. The only family he had left was Mycroft and Grandmére. He rarely saw either one. Mycroft was the only one he chose to not visit, not that that prevented Mycroft from seeing him, however. He was overbearing and overprotective. Sherlock wished he had spent more time with Grandmére but she was often sickly and Sherlock had a hard time getting out of London these days.
So here he was going on this damn cruise just to see her. He sighed dramatically once more and the driver just grinned at him in the mirror. Lestrade was one of the highlights of being with Irene. The man was clever and was completely misspent as a driver but Sherlock would be lost without him. In the two years since he had become Irene's arm candy, he and Lestrade became friends. Or as close to friends as Sherlock ever got.
They pulled up to the ship and Sherlock repressed another sigh as he waited for Lestrade to open the door for him. Once he was out of the car Lestrade patted him on the shoulder.
"Come on, mate. It won't be that bad. Two weeks of relaxation and fun," Lestrade said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly not believing the older man. Lestrade's brown eyes glittered with mirth.
"You'll do fine, Sherlock." Lestrade gave his shoulder a squeeze before letting go to deal with the bellboys taking care of the luggage. Sherlock looked up at the ship with disdain. He wanted to rail and scream and throw a fit on the dock but it would do no good. He would get on this god-forsaken thing and try not to throw himself overboard from sheer ennui. After showing his ticket to the proper person, he followed the bellboy to his assigned room.
Once the bellboy had been tipped and sent on his way, Sherlock flopped on the bed in frustration. He had been on the ship for two minutes and he was already bored. He got up and decided to check out the lounge. He changed into something more relaxed and set out for the commotion of the ship's lounge. At least there he could get some good people watching in and maybe deduce who was having affairs or some other such scandals that would make this trip at least mildly interesting.
As he neared the lounge, he heard the most incredible tenor crooning out a tune he didn't recognize. Not that Sherlock cared; the voice drew him in.
"Oh, I wish you didn't have to go," the pretty, buxom blonde murmured into the ear of her equally-blond beau.
"I know, Mary. But this gig was booked before we met, and I can't back out on the boys just because I happened to get engaged to the prettiest socialite in London," he replied.
She giggled. "Oh, John. You know that title belongs to Miss Adler, but thank you anyway." John pulled her in for a kiss. He brushed her hair out of her face and looked down into her eyes.
"The world may think that, but you are far prettier than she'll ever be. All skin and bones. Like models these days. But you…you have curves in all the right places." John nuzzled the top of her head.
"Oi! They want us to set up now!" called out one of the members of his band.
John turned back to Mary and kissed her quickly. "Love you! See you in two weeks!" he shouted over his shoulder as he dashed off. Mary just sighed as she watched her fiancé scramble after his bandmates.
John helped them set up and they got into their costumes. Well, more like dress uniforms. They had all met in the army and when they came back they decided that dress uniforms would make them stand out and damn did it make them look good. Seb was the only one that didn't have at least some kind of tie to the medical service. Bill was an army nurse, Mike was a surgeon, and John was a medic, one of those poor sods that were sent out to the field keep men patched up until they could to Mike and Bill. Seb was one of the lucky ones they had successfully patched up. He also played the bass like a rock god. He certainly looked like one. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark blond hair that brushed just above his intense brown eyes.
Mike was on guitar, and couldn't be less like Seb if he tried. He was a short, naturally-round man who since leaving the army had only gotten steadily more so. He had mousy brown hair and hid his brown eyes behind large spectacles.
And finally, Bill on drums. He was the red-headed stepchild. Tall and gangly, like he'd never quite grown into his long limbs. His green eyes were bright with a childlike wonder, his hair was curly and would flop in his eyes when he played.
John took the center stage and closed his eyes as the spotlight fell on him. He grabbed the mic and opened his eyes as he crooned out the first note. The crowd fell silent. He would miss that when he married Mary, the feeling of the crowd as he sang. He moved from song to song in the set; the audience became more and more involved as he sang classics and new hits.
John almost missed a note however when he walked in. He was tall, not quite Seb's height. He was lean and wore that suit like a second skin. His curly hair was darkly colored and in the dim light, it looked black. His blue eyes seemed to shear through John.
He closed his eyes and sang the rest of the song, trying hard to get the picture of the beautiful man out of his mind. As the last notes fell from his lips he could hear the pattering sounds of applause.
"Thank you, we are the Northumberland Fusileers and we'll be your entertainment for the duration of your trip. Please join us again tonight after dinner." John stepped away from the mic as the spotlight moved off him and the house lights came up. He moved to talk to Mike about his minor stumbling of the cords during the first song.
Mike blushed. "Sorry. I was just so nervous."
"About what? You've done dozens of these type of gigs," Seb said as he came over to add his tuppence worth to the conversation.
"Yeah," Mike agreed. "But these folk are posh. They ooze money just by breathing."
John laughed. "Not all of them. After all, there'll be a mix of all sorts. The ultra rich to the poor sods like us that would have had to scrape and save for months to get this trip. If, you know, the cruise line wasn't paying for our stay."
Bill laughed. "You are hardly poor now, John. Mary Morstan of the building empire is your fiancée, for Christ's sake."
Seb clapped John on the back. "Just make sure you don't get married on the same day as that posh asshole and his fiancée; otherwise you'll be just a footnote in the entertainment pages."
A low baritone rumble of laugh sounded behind them. John whirled around to see his blue-eyed beauty leaning against one of the pillars, his hands stuffed gracefully in his pockets.
"Shite!" Seb muttered under his breath. John turned to Seb and watched as he colored. He looked over at the dark-haired Adonis and made the connection. Standing before him was Seb's "posh asshole" and fiancé of the woman he'd insulted just mere hours ago.
Seb wasn't going to apologize, however. John didn't blame him. After all, those that eavesdrop hear naught but ill of themselves.
"I'm no different than your singer, if truth be told," Sherlock said as he stood up. John could feel his heart race at how graceful he appeared by doing that. It was fluid, and if John was honest with himself, sexy as hell.
Seb scoffed. "You couldn't be any less like our Johnny than if you were made that way." John blushed at Seb's nickname for him. He didn't like it but no amount of telling the tall former soldier would convince him not use it.
Again that warm laugh echoed through the now-empty lounge. "I may not be a former army medic, blond or short, but I have blue eyes, though mine are lighter. And I'm a poor, lucky schmuck that happened to have one of the prettiest wealthy women in England deign to associate with him."
"Like you've ever worked a day in your life," Seb snarled. John moved to put his hand on his friend's arm to steady him.
"That's where you'd be wrong. Yes, I've been 'classically trained' as it were, but do you know what happens to wealth when your father goes on a ten-year bender before dying from liver disease? The house and everything in it was sold when I was sixteen to pay off his debts. I worked as a waiter to pay my way through university."
"So how did you meet Irene, then?" came the voice from the back as Bill spoke for the first time.
"My brother has a government job and he didn't want to bring just any girl with him as she might 'get ideas', so he forced me to accompany him to some shindig. She was there with her father and I'll be damned if she didn't pick me." Sherlock looked surprised and a little bitter about that.
John was a little taken back by that. Who could possibly be bitter about being picked as Irene Adler's favorite? He looked Sherlock in the eyes and realized the truth. He was marrying Irene because it would bring the Holmes family back to the status it once enjoyed and Sherlock was the sacrificial lamb. John would have been bitter, too.
"Nice to meet you all," Sherlock muttered as he strolled out the doors, leaving the band to stare at the retreating back of the unhappiest, happy man in the world.