A/N: This story is very much inspired by the story "They're Just Echoes" by AGirlOfTheSouth, which you should all read, because it is lovely. I'd been tossing around the idea in my head for awhile but couldn't pinpoint how to approach it until I read "Echoes". So, thank you! I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!
It would have to be Paris.
The city of love.
John had never been and had bribed Sherlock with some quite expensive additions to his chemistry set, replacing some items that had been unfortunately destroyed – through no fault of Sherlock's own, of course – and which the detective had not got around to replacing. The thoughtful gesture had been accompanied by some travel brochures for the French capital.
They were planning a trip to France anyway, John had pointed out.
This was true. There was no avoiding it and Sherlock had graciously conceded with very few reservations. He quite liked Paris, for all that it was crowded with gawking tourists pressing in to see all of the famous landmarks and sights that they had always read about, that they had seen in pictures and on the telly and in films but not in person.
John, at least, had acquiesced to not doing all of these things – he had no desire to see the Mona Lisa amidst the crowd of visitors holding their cameras above their heads to take a desperate snapshot. He had wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and go up to the observation levels, take some pictures of the two of them overlooking the city, and then buy a cheap tourist replica. But since he'd also bought Sherlock a souvenir magnet with the Tower on it, Sherlock withheld any complaints.
Three days there, in which John had initially baulked at Sherlock showing him the Paris he knew, doubtless conjuring images of seedy back alleys, homeless people acting as informants, shadowy deals in dimly lit cellars, accompanied (possibly, just for ambiance, at least in Sherlock's fertile imagination) by a single mournful violin played by an unseen musician.
"It's not London," Sherlock had sniffed when John had voiced these concerns. "I used to travel there quite frequently with my family. The same route you want to do, John. A handful of days there followed by some time at the villa in Frontignan."
"Holmes' family holidays?" John had asked with a wicked grin. "Do you have photos? Or home movies?"
"No," Sherlock had replied coolly.
Three days in Paris, a week at the villa in Frontignan on the coast of the Mediterranean. Assurances from Mycroft that no, he would not be there for any reason, neither business nor pleasure nor anything in between. Sherlock would have felt better having such assurances from Angela regarding his brother, too, but had no real desire to speak to her. Whether or not Mycroft considered her family remained speculative at best.
So John allowed himself to experience Paris as a seasoned tourist would, not quite as a local but avoiding, at least in large part, all of those traps to which first time visitors succumbed.
This Paris, his Paris, was far more subtle, far more authentic, far more French. Sherlock moved smoothly through it with a nearly perfect accent, the kind that drew favourable response because he was not French, no, but educated well enough to speak it almost to perfection, with only a slight hint of English background. It was a delicate balance, but one that had always worked, after he'd improved his French enough to achieve it.
And because of this no one was bothered by John's hesitant attempts, seeing genuine effort instead of fumbling ineptness, solicitously switching to richly accented English for the doctor's sake.
Here they walked quieter streets, saw works of art often unappreciated by other visitors, ate in more genuinely French restaurants, sat in small cafes surrounded by French people and by other experienced tourists who were happy to keep their tourist personas to themselves, no cameras, no accosting others to take group photos, no postcards, no snapshots taken on phones being texted to friends back home.
Sherlock knew John liked this more. The large crowds annoyed him, too many people jostling for position. Occasionally, when they ran up against this in London, he would comment to Sherlock that so many people seemed oblivious to how lucky they were, able to travel freely, to have the opportunity to stand in line to see some priceless painting or ancient relic and only managed to feel irate at the wait rather than awed at the beauty.
Sherlock loved when John thought that way, but knew it was the war that had done it.
Well, so be it. There was no war here, at least not one that involved them, two Englishmen on holiday together, brushing past the locals, not quite fitting in but not quite strangers either. They stayed in a small inn, small but elegant, well appointed, meticulously kept. For all his mess in the flat, Sherlock disliked mess in other places. He tolerated his own mess simply because it was his, and whatever messes John made, because they were John's and therefore treasured.
It was three days of moving through a city so much like home but so much not, where Sherlock had always found body language more readily translated than in London, less rigid, more fluid. He found more laughter here, but John said that was because he was listening for it, waiting for it. Sherlock wondered if this were true, if his hearing was selective in London, listening for the discord that signalled cases rather than the melodies that signalled life.
No calls from Lestrade – Sherlock had promised, Lestrade had promised. John had wrangled the assurances out of both of them at the same time, fixing them with his best captain's glare, utterly subduing two men who were both taller than him, to whom he usually deferred. Sherlock had felt chastened, like a little child. Judging by Lestrade's expression, he had felt the same.
He checked his website and answered emails once a day in the morning, that was all. Nothing pressing, no requests that seemed interesting or could not wait. John tolerated this but allowed nothing more. He didn't get emails from his patients he pointed out.
It was their last night in the city, having strolled down to a nearby restaurant a short walk away from the inn. The weather was warm, the air smelling sweet, like the first of the lilacs starting to bloom from behind fences and on rooftop terraces. They walked arm-in-arm, easily, casually, John chuckling over some dry comment Sherlock had made.
The restaurant was not so small as it had seemed on the outside, but managed to maintain a quiet and secluded atmosphere, the patrons responding to the tone by keeping their voices low, so that the conversations flowed together in a soft murmur rather than a babble. French drifted past them, sweet and harmonious according to John, and there were others in there as well. English, of course, and the sharper sounds of German, the fuller sounds of Spanish, the exotic, unfamiliar sounds of Arabic.
In anticipation of their destination the next day, Sherlock ordered a Muscat from Frontignan and they lingered over the bottle long after their meals had been finished and cleared away, enjoying the company, enjoying the faint music in the background. Piano when they'd entered, soft strains of some forgotten Classicist, then violin later on when the pianist had finished or taken a pause.
Other patrons came and went, no one rushing, and Sherlock found himself enjoying the pace that would have chafed in London, that would have signalled the beginnings of boredom even if he attempted to distract himself by analyzing the other diners, the passing pedestrians.
"Fancy dessert?" John asked.
Sherlock twisted his fingers absently on the stem of his wine glass.
"Mm, yes, I think so," he replied.
The front of the restaurant was occupied by a small shop with a bakery display case, highlighting the delectable desserts, enticing passers by with the promise of something sweet, some small treat that they surely deserved. John had lingered a moment before they'd gone into the restaurant, smiling at the possibilities, assuring Sherlock that he was going to have something for dessert no matter how good their meal was, no matter how full he might be.
"Shall I ask for a menu?" Sherlock enquired. He had done most of the translation that evening. The waiter, although deferential and apologetic about it, spoke poorer English than John spoke French.
"I'll go look," John said. "It'll help me decide. Plus that way, you won't have to read off all of the descriptions for me."
"They do have English menus, John. They did give you one."
"It's more fun if you read it," John replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But no, I'll look. What do you want?"
"You choose," Sherlock said, surprising himself slightly, surprising John by the telltale way the doctor's eyebrows twitched upward. If it wasn't those biscuits with chocolate on – whatever they were called – he was somewhat out of his depth when it came to sweets. Mycroft had always been more partial to those than Sherlock.
"I'll be right back," John assured him. "Get another bottle of wine."
Sherlock nodded as John slipped away. He refilled his husband's glass and ordered a second bottle when the waiter returned, telling him also that John was choosing desserts.
"Bien sur," the waiter replied. "Je reviendrai."
Sherlock nodded and the man moved away smoothly, leaving the detective alone. He hesitated a moment, then pulled out his phone – no cases, no email, as promised. He checked the status of the trains for the next day, pleased to see no current delays throughout southern France, then checked for souvenir shops in Frontignan. They would have magnets there as well.
Sherlock tucked his phone away, noting a couple leave their table, part of the ebb and flow of other diners. The waiter returned with a new bottle of wine, uncorked it easily and professionally and refilled Sherlock's now empty glass with not a single spilled or missed drop. He left the bottle on the table with a nod and vanished again, all grace and efficiency.
Sherlock saw the maitre d' seat someone else and glanced over his shoulder, looking for John. He could not see his husband but his view of the bakery was incomplete and John would linger, trying to make up his mind.
He returned his attention to the restaurant, eyes skimming across the other patrons, passing by a particular set before stopping and jumping back, sudden awareness of familiarity jolting him. Across the room, a nearly forgotten face, dark hair now tamed when it had never been so before, dark eyes wiser when they had always been mischievous, laughing, expression more tempered, more accepting when it had always been insouciant and almost-but-not-quite insolent.
But the laughter was still there beneath the surface, time had not stilled it, only mellowed it. Around the eyes, those dark eyes, fine wrinkles created by a lifetime of smiling, of laughter. Dark eyes framed by darker lashes, the same colour as his hair, hair that had always been soft, smooth, always tussled by Sherlock's fingers running through it, tugging on it, gripping it.
And recognition on that familiar face that was only slightly changed by time so that he seemed to have settled into his looks, less sharp, more sophisticated.
Recognition and surprise.
Sherlock felt the same flash through him, shocked by the sensation, shocked by the encounter.
Of all the places.
It would have to be Paris.
Sixteen years, eleven months and ten days since he'd last seen Charles Chauvière and three years, seven months and eighteen days since he had last thought of him. Before he and John were married. Something about the salesman from whom Sherlock had purchased their rings had vaguely reminded Sherlock of his former lover, but in passing only and he'd given it – and Charles – no more thought.
He looked better, Sherlock thought. Somehow, despite the fact that he'd always looked magnificent, he looked better.
Happier.
A simple gold band on his left ring finger. Two menus at the table, two glasses for wine, a bottle of white being delivered in a silver ice bucket.
He saw Charles note the band on his own finger as well and then the view was momentarily obscured by the waiter pouring the wine. When the server had moved away, Charles picked up his glass and raised it, only slightly, to Sherlock.
Sherlock picked up his own and did the same, then took a sip.
And John was settling back down in front of him, smiling.
"Decided," he said and Sherlock's eyes slid back to him, a smile on his own lips as well.
"And what have you decided?" he asked.
"You'll see," John replied mysteriously with a glint in his brown eyes.
Sherlock glanced past him again and saw Charles smile, not the same kind of smile, not that teasing, playful smile that did not entirely take the world seriously, that hinted there was some joke to only which he was privy. A calmer more mature smile.
Approval and satisfaction.
Sherlock returned it, the same expression on his own lips, in his own eyes, and then refocused easily on John.
"I hope you've made a wise decision," he said.
John grinned.
"Believe me, Sherlock, there were no bad decisions there."
Nor here, Sherlock thought, sipping his wine again. Nor here.