It started with the violin.
After being woken up at three in the morning for the fifth consecutive night by badly played Mozart which immediately switched to Hebrew Melody when John padded to the living room, John knew something was horribly wrong.
It had been two years since he had moved in with an obnoxious, brilliant, tempestuous as day follows night fallen in love with the same man. All this time of living together had informed John that the violin was Sherlock's emotional barometer. So the signals the only consulting detective in the world with his melon sized brains had chosen to send clairvoyantly instead of speaking out loud were precisely this- I am melancholy.
Now for a man like Sherlock Holmes who thought that a serial killer was the equivalent of a Christmans present, boredom could only stem from an acute lack of brain-food. In Johnspeak-cases.
Correction-Interesting cases.
And interesting by Sherlock's impossible standards. So no woman found dead in the boiler (obvious, her paramour did it, check his wallet, it'll have blue paint splashed on it), no man found dead in a room with the windows and doors locked from the inside, no burglary at a jeweller's shop(the manager's assistant orchestrated it).
John had tried every method known since the start of time to keep a consulting detective occupied. Her had begged for cases on his blog, he had hounded Lestrade till a murder or a theft , he had turned to his last resort-Mycroft.
Mycroft, thou shalt not disappoint me.
Two texts later, a fat brown package was delivered at 221Baker. As John blew the dust off the covers and sifted through the sheaf of papers, he realized that they were all cold cases from around the world. The most outrageous crimes with tantalizing clues but no one found instead of letting the folder rot on the dining table, where it would be in Sherlock's plain sight and subjected to his deductions and hence would never be touched(Mycroft sent this. John? Did you put him up for this?),John did what every sensible man who has been the partner of an insufferably clever consulting detective would it in plain sight. So as Sherlock entered the loo in the morning, he found Case #1(murder of the Lebanese ambassador's second-in-command) taped to the mirror. He found Case #2 placed precariously on his cylindrical flask and Case #3 in the pocket of his Great Big Coat.
Two can play at this game. John found all his case booklets in the exact same place he had left them three days later. They looked untampered with except for the untidy scrawl at the bottom of each one of them which ran along the lines of If the wife owns a pearl choker, arrest her or the equally cryptic The neighbour's dog walker did it.
So today morning, John had an idea when he was in the shower. Sherlock was snoring in the next room.
Sherlock needs a change of situation.
After thinking it through thoroughly, John marched out with nothing but a towel tied around his waist and sat down with his laptop.
Italian cities,he typed into the search bar.
Before Google could throw up any results, his phone pinged loudly.
Wise decision. When do you want to leave?MH
John frowned. Planning a trip to Italy and packing for it would take two days at the least. Convincing Sherlock could take would have to plan his assault carefully.
This Saturday.J
Today was Tuesday, which gave him a clear four day window to prepare for any and all calamities.
Angelo's . You cannot ask for a better
John could kiss Mycroft right now. Or not. Just thinking of it gave him a bitter taste in the mouth.
Brilliant. Thanks.J
John had always nursed a secret fascination for Italy. This infatuation had started because of one of his girlfriends who was Italian and kept going on about her grandma's tiramisu and the napoleoni you got in that café in that street in Rome. She had dumped John because he hadn't liked the linguini at some Italian place which she liked a lot.(It was run by her uncle)But as you would imagine,that lady had left behind in John an arduous desire to see who better to do it with than Sherlock Holmes?
Cue Sherlock entering the kitchen sleepily in his pajamas and moaning about tea.
Tea was made,kisses exchanged and John had to leave for work.
After a long tiring day of locum work, John came home to find two trays full of chocolate pudding and something white floating in them.
Sherlock baked?
"Don't touch it. I am checking for are bones by the way." He added seeing John's look of incomprehension.
John's anger went from mild irritation to apoplexy in a few ,instead of letting it show and ruining the effect, he decided to push it aside and ask Sherlock , on a date.
"We're going out tonight,Sherlock"
"Is it when two people who like each other go out and have fun?"
"It's a date."
So that evening found them sitting in their usual table at Angelo's with two candles instead of the usual one(it's even more romantic) and being plied with wine by the Italian Cupid was over their panna cottas that John decided to plonk the Lonely Planet guide to Italy on the table and announce, "Sherlock, we're going to Italy"
Sherlock was too busy stuffing his face with the panna cotta to listen.
"What?"
"You and me. Italia.",John ,well, he Italianised the word Italia and spoke it like Angelo.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Well, what is the point of going to a foreign country when we can be here in London?"
"Sherlock, London hasn't been very nice to you for the past few weeks. No gruesome murders, no cryptic spraypaint clues, a change of situation should do you some good. And plus, its Citta Eterna."
Sherlock subtly rolled his eyes.
"I need a better argument than that. Its mere existence does not substantiate or necessitate a visit."
"How about calling it a "romantic getaway"?"
Sherlock snorted into his pudding.
"Ok, how about us going to Piazza Navona and going to that fountain thing where you drop coins?"
"Boring"
"How about going to Naples and eating Neopolitan pizza?"
"I am sorry. But gastronomic considerations do not ignite an urge in me. Plus, Angelo's pizza is good enough."
"How about we go to _, the city of luthiers. It's full of violins."
Sherlock visibly brightened up at the prospect.
"Or, or we could go to that villa in Tuscany that Mycroft said he owned and, and…"
"And soak in the banality of doing nothing ?" Sherlock was giggling now. "Dolce fa niente, Giovanni?", slipping into perfect Italian.
John threw his napkin at Sherlock.
"You wait. I'll get you"
Alright. So the dinner hadn't exactly gone according to plan. But this was Sherlock you were dealing with. You had to have plan B.
And John was no knew whatever reason he came up wit,Sherlock would counter his argument masterfully and he could kiss his plane ticket goodbye. And hence, Wednesday night found the world's only consulting detective and his long suffering partner on the couch snogging like teenagers. Feverish groping and sex ensued.
My clever Plan B. I should get a Nobel Prize for thinking this up.
Sherlock was an extremely tactile creature and craved human affection more than a Labrador John's oh-so-clever plan to get Sherlock to agree to a trip to Rome was precisely this- cajoling, cuddling, kissing and lots of if it still didn't work, the complete and brutal denial of the same.
Easy-peasy.
It went off like Thursday morning.
"Sherlock, you should start packing. We fly out on Saturday."
"Where?"
"Italy, you git.I asked you a thousand times remember?"
"I also remember asking you for a suitable enough reason"
"Sherlock, just do it for me"
"John, I will not be emotionally blackmailed into this trip."
"I am not emotionally blackmailing a self-proclaimed stupid do you think I am ? Wait, don't answer that."He held his hand up."Sherlock, this trip is for you . You haven't got a single case lately. London feels so morbid with the rain and you really could use a trip. Who knows maybe we could catch an Italian serial killer?"
"Nope.I like rain. I love London."
"Fine. Have it your way then."
Plan B, subsection A , clause 1.
John had banged the door loudly on his way out.
Truth be told, Sherlock really wanted to go. He had always wanted to go to. It was one of those inexplicably irrational desires people just wanted to give John a hard time about it. And he also wanted to know how John strategized his attack.
He caved when John refused to come within a one metre radius of Sherlock. Sly bastard.
So here they were on the plane to Rome drinking wine and deducing embarrassing details about their fellow passengers and giggling. Sherlock was in his trademark bespoke suit and John was in his bluest button down and blue, Sherlock said, brought out his eyes and the denim made his arse look cuter.
The things I do.
John pulled out their itinerary and read it out.
Verona, for 1 day
They were standing outside Juliet's balcony. Metaphorically speaking. John was dressed in his staple jeans and Tshirt whereas Sherlock was looking like, well , not Sherlock. The suits and the Great Big Coat had been given up in favour of cotton TShirts and had had a hard time keeping his hands off Sherlock when he beheld the transformation. They both wore matching aviator sunglasses. On their walkaround in Verona, more than one city belle had stopped dead in her tracks to gape at them. John had turned an uncomfortable beet red BUT Sherlock had just executed a blindingly brilliant smile at the girl in question. She had actually swooned.
"Never pegged you for an exhibitionist."
"Need an audience John. Need an audience."
So here they were in Casa di Giulietta and all the couples around them were having an endorphin frenzy, teenage girls were flailing at the thought of Romeo, people were quoting Shakespeare at each other in a lovelorn fashion. In short, it was exactly the kind of place you don't want to be caught dead alone alive.
'Tell me John? Why are we here?"
"That's Juliet's balcony. This is supposedly romantic."
"John. Who is Juliet?"
Oh dear.
"Sherlock please tell me you have heard of Romeo and did you assume we were going when I told you about coming here this morning?"
"I thought we are going to your Italian girlfriend's place. You said, and I quote , "Sherlock we are going to Casa di Giulietta."Which translates to Juliet;s house. I just assumed Juliet was an erstwhile paramour."
"Then what the hell are we doing here anyway? Let's get the hell out of here. All the mushtalk is nauseating."
He turned on his heel and Sherlock followed him after a moment's hesitation.
"John. What is mushtalk?"