Silence.
You could hear a pin drop. John swallowed audibly, his cobalt blue eyes flicking hesitantly to Harry. His sister murmured something to him in Italian; something that she had undoubtedly picked up from their travels. Since fifteen, they had travelled from place to place; making their own way after their parents had died. Their language was coarse and Harry was occasionally (read, constantly) violent. The bartender them both a glare that could only be described as dangerous. Again, John swallowed ; his eyes wandering carefully around the crowded table. Never lingering too long on one person for fear of repurcussions.
The heat was descending upon each of the people; he could see that much. The sweat forming on their brows then sinking down, down, down their faces. It was considerably hot for so early in April; and each of the players were feeling the heat worse than those around them. A tense atmosphere surrounded them, fingers drummed on the table and against wooden stands in time with heartbeats. John could hear the roar of his blood in his ears as his eyes moved back to his cards; refusing to betray anything; his heart pounded in his chest, in his head, in his throat, in his fingertips. John had little doubt that many around the table were in the same situation. He could feel Harry's eyes on him; practically boring into the side of his face; John bit his lip for a long moment.
A soft sigh left his lips and he leaned back in his seat.
"I'm sorry, Harry." He murmured softly; turning to look at her. Harry seemed confused, then her soft eyes hardened, and she stood up threateningly. John blinked up at her. She cursed at him in what he recognised to be French; the people surrounding them eyed them suspiciously.
John stood swiftly, settling his right hand on Harry's arm - which she brushed away with a flick of her wrist.
"No, no!" He slid in between her curses, looking her in the eyes with a newfound determination. His sister fell silent. "I mean I'm sorry because we will not be visiting the Lake District. At least not for a very long time." He paused and offered her a mischevious smile. "We'll be too busy in America." He stated, his voice growing louder as the sentence ended; and he threw his cards down onto the table with a triumphant grin. "Full house boys!"
He felt Harry's arms surrounding him in a tight hug, drawing him closer. John fell into it. His arms found their way around his sister and he lifted her with a grin; her patting him back harshly. The blond ignored the slight throb in his shoulder that it created. Neither of them noticed the first punch as it was being thrown; one of the other players grasped his friend's neck and dragged him closer, yelling at him in a language that John couldn't understand. It was too quick, too fast and everything around him seemed unimportant.
The small blond reached over and grasped up the tickets as he let Harry go - stealing them up from any nosy fingers. The yells around him were undoubtedly deafening, but John couldn't bring himself to care whilst the tickets were in his fingertips. Harry and John exchaged another grin before a whistle was sounded over the brawl.
"You're wrong." The bartender looked oddly gleeful as he stared at the two. John raised an eyebrow slightly; it was clear from the expression that he felt nothing but contempt for them both - but aside from Harry's language, he couldn't figure out what they'd done wrong. The people around them began to fall silent one by one - the yells and violent actions dropping from the air and then the silence quickly became overwhelming. John breathed slowly, in and out. In and out. Calm, quiet, like it should be. "Titanic go to America. In five minutes."
For once, neither John or Harry spared a thought as to the bartender's thick Italian accent - neither of them bothered to wonder whereabouts he'd come from in Italy, or whether they would be able to go there in the future. Instead their movements became unclean and fast - extremely fast. It was barely a flash as John picked his bag up from the floor, opening it wide as Harry began to quickly brush all of their winnings into it. The chimes of coins falling to the bottom echoed in the silent room and then everything became quickly chaotic. Voices raised again and the sound of the whistle sounded once, twice, three times more. But to no effect; everything was manic and lost. The whistle was merely drowned out.
His feet pounded on the cobblestones - and he glanced behind him every now and then to make certain that Harry was behind him. Her face was puffy, but she looked as excited as he felt. The ship's horn sounded repeatedly; letting them know it was about to leave. People milled about; thousands of them; all trying to wave goodbye to loved ones, friends, family. It would have been touching; perhaps it should have been - but to John, for the time being, it was merely an annoyance. His bag banged against his back and he felt it hitting various people as he shoved his and Harry's way through the crowd. It was oddly desperate; hands shoving and pushing, arms flinging out in front of him, legs reaching out to trip him over. Eyes staring at them harshly as they pushed their way through; trying to get to the ship awaiting them. John's breath was coming in short sharp pants, and his heart was pounding so hard that it was physically painful - but he ignored it in favour of getting to the Titanic.
The sun was beating down on their backs - their jackets and their bags slung over their shoulders carelessly. John ran into cabs, hopping through one of the cars at one point with Harry hot on his heels. Shouts of 'Oi' could be heard over the din, but both ignored it and neither got caught. At another point, John slammed into the shoulder of a large cart horse, dropping his bag and jacket on the floor. Quickly, he stooped to collect them up, then ducked underneath their legs - an act that he would likely later regret and think of as completely stupid. Harry, however, followed without bothering to apologise for nor question his actions.
John could see the bridge over the small bit of sea; he could see them preparing to shut the door and draw it back and away. He made a run for it - leaving Harry behind for a moment as he ran in order to make sure that he could catch them. He was travelling surely faster than he ever had before; and he was certain that he would have heartburn at the end of it. Still, he ran. He ran like his life depended on it; waving the tickets in the air to try and get the officer's attention.
After a moment, one turned and looked at him, seeming to study him for a long moment before holding up a hand to halt the proceedings to a man inside the ship - who stood, one hand on the iron frame, leaning out slightly to get a good look at the two. John panted as he came to a stop in front of the uniformed officer at the bottom of the ramp; handing him the tickets before turning to look back at Harry. For a moment, his heart stopped, thinking that she had gotten lost in the crowd, but then she appeared. Hot, sweaty and flushed - very much similar to him. The officer looked them over sceptically for a moment, then sent them up the ramp.
It jogged and jumped beneath their feet - their footsteps creating the most dreadful clamour. They ignored it as they ran up the ramp; John's fingers closing tighter around the tickets; making sure not to drop them. After all, it would have made the whole venture pointless had he done so.
The officer at the top of the ramp was waiting for them patiently. He raised an eyebrow, and then extended his hand for the papers. With about a foot of ocean between them, John leaned over as far as he could to make sure the papers were safely inside before handing them to the officer. The man looked them over, then turned and offered them a smile.
"Welcome aboard." He stated, stepping back so that they could jump over the gap and inside; tucking their shoulders in for good measure until their feet were safely inside the slightly swaying ship.
Sherlock stepped out of the dark cab into the bright sun; feeing it burn his eyes for a moment as he blinked furiously against the flare. Mycroft was fiercely conversing with Sherlock's fiancé about something or other. Probably the upcoming wedding that would be held in America. A soft sigh left Sherlock's lips and he reached into his pocket to pull out his cigarettes, removing one from the packet before looking at Jim.
His fiancé turned to him before raising a well-shaped eyebrow.
"That's not good for you, you know. I'd like you to stop." Sherlock rolled his eyes and held his cigarette out more pointedly at Jim; who huffed, then reached into his own pocket and drew out his matches whilst Sherlock slipped his packet away. He struck one, then carefully lit Sherlock's cigarette; closing one hand around the end as he did so. Then Jim drew his hand away and shook the flame out, dropping the match to the floor carelessly as Sherlock pulled the cigarette to his mouth; taking a long drag before shooting his fiancé a pointed look.
"And once we're married, I'm sure you'll have as much control over me as you wish to. For the time being, I will enjoy my freedom." Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh exaggeratedly; then a clipped drawl entered the conversation.
"For once, could you try to behave?" It asked. Sherlock just smirked, turning away from the two to look up at the ship that loomed in front of them.
"I don't see what all of the fuss is about. It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauritania." He commented casually; placing his cigarette between his lips before looking down. Delicate, pale fingers straightened his jacket, his shirt and then pulled his cufflinks gently so that they were better suited to his outfit. He didn't care so much for presentation; however, both Jim and Mycroft did - therefore, he had to seem presentable also. Sherlock was Jim's 'decoration' for the rest of his life, after all. The thought made him roll his eyes and he took another long drag from his cigarette.
Jim Moriarty scoffed behind him and Sherlock once more rolled his eyes. Though he did do a brief, subtle check around to make sure that nobody had heard the scoff that came whenever he thought that Sherlock had said something stupid. Which, truthfully, Jim always seemed to think. Sherlock would call the rest of the world dull and ordinary; Jim would target him specifically. Mycroft ran his tongue over his lips and then looked to Sherlock before shaking his head in... disappointment? Bastard. Ice blue eyes watched as his brother's normally well-combed and well-kept hair flopped from side to side like it was tired of being held together. It reflected his brother entirely; the other hiding behind a constant mask of indifference even as they struggled through financial trouble. Jim Moriarty, Sherlock's current fiancé had been their saviour sent from God - apparently.
Sherlock just turned away from them both again; trying to block them both out as best the could - an expression of pure contempt settling on his features before it changed itself into something unreadable out of habit. If there was one thing he did not wish to show, it was his feelings and emotions towards the whole situation.
The brunet had no wish to marry Jim Moriarty. He had no wish to enter into a marriage of convenience, where Jim would receive not only the Holmes' country mansion and their treasures (or lack, thereof); but also their youngest son. He had no desire to enter into a marriage where he knew he would be roughly treated; an object for pleasure, for personal enjoyment and for benefit. Sherlock knew that he was considered relatively attractive - and this would only be beneficial to Moriarty through their standing looks. Nobody would care what was going on behind closed and locked doors provided that Sherlock kept his mouth shut. Something that Sherlock was not prone to doing now; nor wished to do in the future.
"I will accept you being indifferent to most things, Sherlock; but not in the context of Titanic." Jim stated; his voice hard and leaving no room for argument. And yet, it was a tone that Sherlock strongly felt that he had to counter. "It's over a hundred feet longr than the Mauritania and far more luxurious."
Then the large hand was felt on his arm; fingers curling themselves around Sherlock's thin bicep in order to get a better hold. The firm grip held him steady and stopped him saying anything besides giving a small nod of agreement; his eyes flicking to look up at his brother for a brief moment before going to his fiancé again. Sherlock dislodged his arm from Mycroft's grip harshly; withdrawing it and placing it at his own side - his eyes flickering almost hesitantly between Mycroft and Jim. Slowly, he took a step back, so that he was ever so slightly further away from the other men.
"Fine." Sherlock responded after a long moment of tense silence; the steady thrum of the people around them dying out as all three stared at each other. Mycroft cut it by asking the porters to be more careful with their luggage whilst loading; moving over to discuss with them about their rooms and where each box should be taken.
Sherlock watched as Jim approached; coming far too close for his liking. The cigarette slipped from between Sherlock's lips and fell to the floor, and he straightened slightly in order to gain a better sense of control; despite knowing that he had none with Mycroft and Jim collectively. Jim's hand came up and touched his cheek - a thumb brushing none-too-gently across his cheekbone, pulling his skin along the bone as Sherlock's eyes widened slightly.
"I trust you'll come to me tonight." He purred; Sherlock blinked down at him. Itwasn't a question; more of a statement, a demand for his company.
"And if I'm tired from our journey?" Sherlock inquired; trying to keep his voice low, calm and reserved for the sake of his brother overhearing. Jim was... overpowering in a way that Sherlock neither wished to describe nor look into. "Or if I don't want to?"
A small, almost pleased smirk came over Jim's lips; much resembling a cat who had 'got the cream', as it were. Sherlock forced his expression to stay the same. Sherlock swallowed and willed himself to push all the thoughts of repulsion away.
"Then I will come to you. And I will make your life unpleasant tomorrow."
The conversation was all swiftly forgotton as everything was moved from the cab onto the ship - the loading bay at that moment reserved for the first class only. Sherlock moved towards the ship, hesitantly peering over the edge of the dock at the waves lapping gently at the stone. It had a calming effect and he allowed himself a brief respite from Jim Moriarty. Even if it could only last for a few minutes, he would be satisfied. Inhaling deeply, he turned to look at his brother; finding him and Jim ready to board. Their backs were staight and their suits fitted and elegant; clearly a presentation of their wealth to the people still stood at the side of the ship, waiting to board. Sherlock looked back at them with a sigh before following after his fiancé.
There were no crowds. Not for them, at least. For the time being, they were the only ones crossing the bridge up to first class. Mycroft and Jim strode comfortably; Sherlock felt constricted by everything. His forced marriage, overly-fitted clothes; his own choices were of no consequence. 'For the good of the family'; after the way they'd grown up, he supposed they had no idea how to live any differently. That didn't mean that Sherlock was happy with the way that he was being married off in order to support their desperate need for china cups and ornate furniture. Before stepping aboard, Sherlock risked one more look down at the sea; allowing himself to imagine the waves washing over him before he forced himself to step aboard - smiling back at the officer who had taken his ticket, then asked for his name; as was customary, and as how both Mycroft and Jim had done. He did not allow himself to look around for the time being; feeling that he would rather steady his feet first. Both metaphorically and literally.