Chapter One: Nantes
"It's extortion. You don't do extortion."
"It's intrigue."
"It's punching. And hurting."
John circled around to stand behind Sherlock and his chair, leaning down to read the email again. "And it's in France."
Sherlock was already typing a reply. "Nantes. You wouldn't say no to a winter holiday in France, John?" He had sent the response before John had the power of speech. "Have you ever been to a boxing match?" It was almost akin to genuine curiosity. He had half-turned his head, eyebrows vanished into his curls.
John shifted his weight, mouth gone a thin line. "You've said I'm coming, haven't you?"
"Of course." Sherlock was up out of his chair, and the way he moved was contrary to his normal, careful, crane-like steps. He bobbed once, held both hands fisted near his chin, and weaved quickly out of John's sight. "I'll be needing a doctor."
Sherlock filled him in while they waited their turn through security at Heathrow. Emile Montagne was what some people might have called an old friend, but Sherlock most certainly didn't have friends (especially before John, or the skull). They'd met four years ago when Emile had been arrested in London as a part of an illegal fighting ring that Sherlock and Lestrade had busted open. The boxy young frenchman had been quite the squawker, and he spilled his guts expertly. Seventeen men were arrested on Emile's word, and with some quick work from Sherlock (and, he begrudgingly admitted, Mycroft), Emile was sent home without a prosecution.
The detective had been quick to point out, as he hopped out of his shoes and placed them in the plastic tub, that extortion was only a fraction of the intrigue of their trip to Nantes. There'd been a body—covered in contusions and with a nasty concussion to boot. Beaten to death, and beaten very professionally. Officials ruled it a mugging, but they were all a pack of idiots, regardless of country. Emile had known the man, and was asking Sherlock to look into the possibility of death by sport.
John's shoes joined Sherlock's in the tub and he pointed out that, sorry as it was, boxers had died from injuries ringside and in training for a long time without the intervention of intrigue. Sherlock smiled a tight smile, called John obtuse, and stepped through the metal detector.
Why, after all, would they be boarding a flight into France for a bit of sport?
Sherlock looked folded in half in the airline seat. John took the seat by the window (not as if he hadn't flown over the Channel before, not as if he hadn't flown across deserts and mountains a hundred years ago) and Sherlock watched the others passing about, chatting, drinking, seething in silence, with an observant eye and drumming fingertips. John didn't bother to worry about breaking the man's concentration, simply spoke over the deductions and leaned obtrusively on the armrest.
"So your friend—" He ignored Sherlock's scoff, "—this Emile chap, he thinks it was murder for money? And so he thinks it's a good idea to send you in to take a couple punches yourself?"
Sherlock didn't look away from the stewardess (paying for uni with the job, terrified that her sickly father would die when she was in the air) when he answered in low tones: "I would appreciate if you didn't try so hard to destroy our cover so soon, John."
John cleared his throat, pressed his lips together and gave a surreptitious look around the cabin. "Sherlock."
"Hmm?"
"What cover?"
"Oh," the detective intoned lightly. Then, the line appeared between his eyebrows, and he quickly shifted his gaze to the man beside him. "John, that is what undercover means. I can't waltz into the middle of an illegal fight club and tell them, 'Oh, yes, by the way, Sherlock Holmes'—"
"'World's only consulting detective'," John finished for him. He sighed, shook his head and gave in immediately. "I don't have to lie to anyone important, do I? Police?"
"How much French do you know?" Sherlock asked; his eyes had trailed away again.
"Enough to ask how to get out of a French-speaking situation."
Sherlock's lips pursed up in a private smirk. "Then you won't have the means to lie to anyone, will you?"
John had been to France. Twice.
He'd been to Paris, a family trip when he was seven and Harry was eleven. It'd been a hot, stinking summer and Harry had vomited in the Louvre. And his father got drunk and vomited in the hotel room. John had rather liked the Eiffel Tower, stepped very close to the rail and stood on tiptoe to peer over, scared his mother half to death when he tried to climb up for a better look.
The second had been with a girl, both twenty and broke and stupid. Took the train to Nice, realized they hadn't enough to pay for a proper room. They took a room at the hostel, shared it with an American who hadn't showered in weeks and snored. Took the train back from Nice and broke it off two days later.
Now he was in Nantes with Sherlock Holmes—Addison Darling, he had to remind himself, and he was Doctor Peter Moran; they had perfectly-faked papers direct from Mycroft to thank for that. It was raining in January, and there was a cool wind to accompany it, but it hardly seemed fit for winter to be so inviting.
They finally met Emile Montagne at a tiny cafe, tucked down a back alley between the wall of graffiti and a creperie. He was shorter than John, but built like a sturdy box. Square-chested, square-faced, square-handed. Not to say that he wasn't handsome. An Englishman might not have been able to pull it off, but Emile had a smile (and the dark hair and blue eyes surely helped) that added pounds to his charisma.
"Emile," Sherlock said at once as the man rose from his seat. "Bon pour vous voir n'êtes pas en prison encore."
John hadn't expected the words to roll off Sherlock's tongue like he owned them, as if his brain hadn't even needed to switch tracks from English to French.
Emile gave an expression that translated easily; sarcastic politeness. "Je suis enchanteé de vous voir, Sherlock." His bright eyes alighted on the detective's companion, and a new smile crawled over his features.
Sherlock broke in hastily. "Ceci mon meilleur ami, docteur John Watson."
Hearing his name, the doctor held out his hand and received a warm shake. "John."
Emile raised an eyebrow, definitely intrigued, and asked: "Petit ami?"
Finally, Sherlock grinned to match him, and easiness crept back into the rigidity that had taken his shoulders. "Soyez-gentil lui."
The frenchman gave a laugh and clapped John on the shoulder, gesturing the both of them to sit. They gladly took it, and the coffee was on Emile. He explained (in perfect English, John noted with a scowl) that the man, Henri, that'd been found dead two days back had been good friends, and they had trained at the same gym. That same gym was part of the underground and slightly less than legal fighting operation that Emile was a part of. As Henri's trainer, of course. He hadn't gotten his hands dirty for years.
Emile had been sick for the last meet and hadn't been able to make it, so the assistant trainer had stood in for him. That was the night Henri died. Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together in thought, only nodding when he urged the story forward. John had never seen him so quiet.
They were to show up at the gym with their new names and their new identities sharply when the morning came. Emile was sure that with an open slot in the roster, he would be able to slip Sherlock in with little problem. From that position, he was sure that Sherlock would be able to get all the information he needed from everyone involved, not only to find how Henri had died, but what he had been killed for. And, of course, find out where the fight money was going.
When the streetlights came on, Emile gave them the keys to the flat above the cafe. He wished them a good night and bid them a soft adieu before he was off into the night.
"So," John said, sticking his hands deep in his pockets and letting a little smile quirk to his lips, "I'm your best friend?"
He looked up, but Sherlock rarely gave him any reaction to gauge. This time, Sherlock's eyes flicked his way and his eyebrows quickly pressed together, but he soon broke contact. Not that surprised, anyway.
The smile was soon a grin. "Doesn't best anything imply there's something else to compare it to?"
And he didn't look up from his feet, but John could see Sherlock's lopsided smirk all too easily.
AN: Hi friends! I'm giving a chapter fic a try! My good friend told me that she would like me to try a Sherlock fic where there was no boykissin (extreme UST allowed, though, heehee), so here is a legitimate try at it! I still consider it pre-slash, but I hope it can also be read through friendship goggles too. Also, the fandom needs way more boxing!Sherlock. MY FRENCH IS AWFUL AND I HAD TO USE A TRANSLATOR. If there's something horribly wrong, please tell me! The fic probably won't be too long, but who knows if there are more in this silly old head of mine. Enjoy, leave some love, and as usual, STAY AWESOME!