Chapter Two

John spends the ensuing few hours working on his blog. After Sherlock's resurrection and vindication, the blog had enjoyed higher visitor figures than ever. John had even been recognised on one memorable occasion in Hyde Park and been asked to sign an autograph. John can't help feeling some gratification in the flurry of popularity, even if it is, as Sherlock points out almost daily, largely thanks to him.

"Right," Sherlock says, jumping up the stairs and into the flat once more. He was in his room for an hour of deadly silence and loud phone calls about hollow floors and priceless artefacts. Then he was off out for longer. Now, finally, he looks happy. Problem solved, John thinks. "A the trap is laid for tonight. We're meeting Lestrade in the city."

"I can't tonight," John says, putting down his laptop.

Sherlock is clearly put out by this. "Why not?"

"Because I have a date," he responds, without meeting his friend's eyes.

"A date? Well cancel it then."

"No, I'm not going to cancel it."

"John, why are you going on a date?"

"Because I want to, that's why."

"Well, I don't want you to."

"It's not your choice, Sherlock."

And then Sherlock makes the only logical jump that he can in this situation. "Is this because of the kissing thing?"

"It's nothing to do with that. Really." John shakes himself mentally, trying not to let the detective inside his head. "I am allowed to have a social life."

Sherlock grunts as if this is debateable. Then he stares at John, intently. "Feelings are funny things, John."

"What?"

He mutters something under his breath, it sounds like: "Caring isn't an advantage."

"Are we talking about your, urm, emotions now?" John ventures.

Feeling that he is being mocked, Sherlock looks up with a scowl on his face. Then he sits down on the sofa next to John. "I'm not entirely sure why I feel them at all, but I do. A chemical matter, perhaps. After 'the fall' I found I must feel your feelings too, which was really odd, actually. I felt real pain, anguish. Not only illogical but also impractical, unwarranted and dull, so very… normal."

"You're ruining this a little," John admits.

"It's true, though, don't you see?" He's seething with frustration suddenly. "I don't need you, do I? That's physically absurd! But these feelings…" Sherlock shudders and then takes John's hand looking desperately into his eyes. "In that moment, when you held me like you didn't believe I was really there, I knew you wanted to kiss me. I've seen the symptoms hundreds of times."

"Not first hand, I'm guessing."

"And so I thought I'd let you have it, because nothing else mattered but making you happy. You didn't let me kiss you though, did you? Why? Because you didn't feel that inclination? No. The same reason you hate it when people think we're a couple. Because you're homophobic."

"Sherlock," John pulls his hands free and stands up, "I'm not homophobic."

"Why, then?" Sherlock hisses in exasperation.

John clears his throat, blinks several times and nods. "You said it yourself. Feelings are funny things." He turns to make his way upstairs, to get away from Sherlock more than anything else.

"Just call it off, would you? The date? I need you tonight."

"Fine," John says.

"Fine? Seriously?"

"Of course."

Sherlock can identify 243 different types of tobacco ash. He has memorised criminal cases covering the span of history itself. He just doesn't get 'feelings'. No matter what is said, John knows Sherlock will never understand.

John doesn't want Sherlock to kiss him. He wants Sherlock to want to kiss him.

Physical contact is something that Sherlock has never shown the slightest interest in, either with John or anyone else, so John has no desire to get ensnared into whatever game Sherlock is playing with him, however charitable the intentions may be. Another sneaking suspicion is that it is all some sort of ploy for Sherlock to get something from him. John's witnessed the behaviour enough times to know that Sherlock can be the least sincere of any man.

And aside from all this, Sherlock is his friend, the only truly important friend John has ever had. He's already felt the pain of losing Sherlock once and he's not in a rush to endanger their friendship again.

No, of course John didn't let Sherlock Holmes kiss him.

"Right, what are we doing here?" Lestrade asks, as soon as they meet outside St Paul's tube station.

"Well," Sherlock begins, "I saw you in your office today and thought to myself, 'that man is bored'. I know boredom, Lestrade. It rots your brain. I thought you'd want to be in on the excitement for once."

Lestrade groans. "Don't give me that, Sherlock. Me and the wife were meant to have a romantic meal tonight."

"Oh, so I'm doing both of you a favour then."

"This is about the Henderson case, isn't it?"

"No," Sherlock says with a grin, "it's about the case of the disappearing chalice."

"What?"

"There's a medieval chalice that is to go on show in St Paul's cathedral that is currently being stored in a small crate in a locked store room in the crypt. Did you know that?"

Lestrade looks at John to share his bemusement. "How would I know that?"

"Geoffrey Clay does."

"Clay? The Geoffrey Clay?"

Suddenly the doctor is feeling the one left out. "Geoffrey who?"

"Geoffrey Clay," Lestrade explains. "You say it, he's done it. GBH, murder, robbery, forgery. He's young but already more successful in his career than I am in mine."

"Well, that's not saying much," Sherlock suggests.

"Seriously, you think we could near this get this guy?"

"Well, yes, with one of us standing one end of the tunnel and one at the other."

"The tunnel?" Lestrade and John chime in unison.

"It's a perfectly simple deduction to make. Two shop owners lured away from their shop with nothing inside their shop missing. The assistants in these shops wanted to be alone for long periods of time there. Mr Wilson mentioned frequent visits to the basement. You saw the state of the assistant in Henderson's shoes and trousers. They spoke of months of dirty labour. The noise of digging isn't out of place in central London. What did the two places have in common? Both were within a few yards of a major monument likely to hold artefacts in basements with ancient foundations."

"Honestly?" Lestrade looks at Sherlock in distain. "Is that it? My wife is going to be…"

"Why not the pawnbroker then? Why are we here?" John asks. "You obviously think it's going to be tonight."

"Simple. The police are snooping around Henderson's now. One of the baboons may just stumble across the massive tunnel in the basement. And the chalice will be on display tomorrow."

"You make some extraordinary leaps there, Sherlock," Lestrade points out.

"No, it is your failure to look beyond the every day that has prevented you from ever meeting Clay before. Tonight is your chance. He's nothing if not a showman."

Lestrade shakes his head, as if this is all barmy, but finally says, "Fine, what's the plan?"

"Right, I will go down to the crypt and wait for Clay to appear. Lestrade, you stay above ground and keep the curator entertained. We don't really want civilians involved, not with Clay's reputation for shooting them in the head. John, you get into Henderson's and block off Clay's exit route, just in case he scarpers."

"Alright, but what are you going to do if Clay does by some miracle appear?"

Sherlock smiles. "Oh, I borrowed your gun, by the way, John."

The crypt of St Paul's Cathedral. Sherlock wonders if it's heinous or comforting, the luxury afforded to the dead. As they walk briskly down deeper, Sherlock considers if it had been a good plan to leave John at Henderson's unarmed. A solider, he reminds himself. Good instincts.

"I thought he was joking to start with," the curator witters. "Then he sounded quite mad."

"Not as mad as you would be on losing that cup," Sherlock points out.

The curator is looking contemptuous as he opens the door to the storeroom for Sherlock.

"You know, we could just move the chalice, if it really is in such danger."

Sherlock hushes him then says in a muted tone, "Where's the fun in that? Lestrade, stay here and be quiet."

He makes his way down the stone steps alone. The room is lit by a single dim bulb strung from the ceiling. He was right. The floor is ancient stone flags. Easily lifted and removed.

A figure is standing in the centre of the floor, hands on hips.

Sherlock has drawn the gun before his mind has consciously decided it must be Geoffrey Clay.

"You're late," the man says, raising his arms in surrender. "I could have been and gone by now."

"Why didn't you?" Sherlock responds. He steps forwards and can make out the smirking, rat like face of Henderson's shelf stacker.

"Curiosity," Clay says.

"Killed the cat."

John must have been missed. Hiding. Waiting. Asleep?

"They warned me about you, you know. There are so many whispers about you, Sherlock Holmes. It's wise to listen to whispers in my line of work but I knew the truth. I knew that all you are at the end of the day is a man and a man can always make mistakes. Do you want to know what your mistake was today?"

"Letting you blather on for so long without shooting you?"

"You didn't think I'd be expecting you."

.

"John."

.

His hands are bound behind his back and a cloth has been bound around his face. A man with startlingly red hair steps from the shadows, pushing John forwards, holding a pistol at his temples.

"Mr Duncan Ross."

"Someone's done their homework. Shame it doesn't make a difference. You are going to let us take this," Clay informs him, "or he will be shot in the head. Hate to put it so crudely but I find that clarity is best in these matters."

"Oh, please!" Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Hostage? That is so-"

"Effective?"

"Pathetic, I was thinking."

"Well, never mind. Put the gun down please."

Sherlock drops it instantly. It clatters to the floor and he kicks it across the slabs towards Clay. His heart is clambering. He wishes it would stop. It's hard to think about when it races like that. Then he realises, this is John's heart racing, not his own. He's not in peril, John is. This is how John is feeling. When did John put his heart into Sherlock's chest?

The man holding his John is chortling while Clay stoops to pick up the gun. John's eyes are wide but his brows clenched together. Sherlock doesn't have the clarity of mind to work out what he's trying to tell him.

"Just let him go," Sherlock hears himself say.

"Who's being pathetic now?" Clay giggles. He's picking up the small crate and stuffs it into a backpack. "Well, we better be off."

The man throws John to the ground. Sherlock has to force his feet to stay standing where they are. He wants to hurt that man. He doesn't know who Duncan Ross really is, but he will find out and Sherlock will hurt him.

"Don't think I won't come after you," Sherlock says as the two men begin to climb back down the hole in the floor.

"Oh, yes, good point. Better give you something else to worry about."

Sherlock watches as if in slow motion as Clay aims the gun at John's struggling form and squeezes the trigger.

"NO!"

.

"John." He unties John's hands, his fingers working fast and effectively. Clay forgotten. "John." He wrenches off the gag. "John. Talk to me. John! Are you ok?"

John staggers slowly to his feet and rests his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. "I'm ok. I'm ok!"

"Are you sure?" Sherlock grasps him by the shoulders.

"I'm sure. He missed. Calm down."

"John, it's me. It's me."

"What?"

"I know, whatever the reason was, I'm sorry. It was never your problem. I'm the problem."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"The kiss. Kissing!" he cries in frustration. "I always knew why you didn't."

"Look, it's really not important."

"Well, I think that it is, alright?"

"Alright then."

"Alright?"

"Yes, fine, alright. Just, is this really the time for this conversation?"

"Yes," Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth.

"Ok." John holds his hands out in a calming motion.

Sherlock scrubs his own hands through his hair before he begins, as though attempting to shake his thoughts into order. Then he rounds on John again. "You are the only one who makes me laugh, who I laugh with, genuinely. Did you notice that? Did that ever become apparent in your tiny little brain? Why would you think I couldn't have other feelings too that I only feel with you?" And before John has time to process this comment, let alone to protest, Sherlock has grasped the breast of his jacket, wrenched him forwards and forced their lips together.

The feel of Sherlock's mouth is dry and warm, like terracotta tiles or flowers that have lost their petals. They taste like rich vanilla. The kiss ends as abruptly as it began with Sherlock releasing his grip and Watson gasping at air. He had forgotten to breath.

Sherlock's eyes pierce John. "Lestrade," he whispers.

John clears his throat. "Urm, no, my name is John Watson."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Lestrade. He's coming down the stairs. Don't you use your senses?"

"Forgive me, Sherlock. You were rather monopolising my senses a moment ago."

John catches the smallest of satisfied smirks glimpsing across Sherlock's face before D.I. Greg Lestrade bursts into the room.

"What happened? What's going on?"

"Nothing." Sherlock and John answer simultaneously.

"I heard gun fire."

"Oh, that," Sherlock says. "Nothing to worry about. He tried to shoot John. Pretty poor shot, as it turns out. But he did get away with the crate in the end."

"He got away? Seriously?"

"Yes, he got away. We will no doubt be faced with Mr Clay sometime again in the future, once he's had time to plot his revenge."

"With the crate?"

"Yes, with the crate."

"Shit." And then after a moment. "Fuck."

"It was, however," Sherlock says, with a smile, "the crate I filled earlier with the counterfeit chalice."

"Well?" Sherlock demands, the next day. He's in front of his microscope wrapped only in John's bed sheet.

John doesn't look up from his crossword. "Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing?"

"Do you want to tell me?" he responds with a smile.

"It's obvious, John, that I want you to ask."

John sighs and puts down the newspaper. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Oh," Sherlock says, turning his eyes back to the microscope, "I'm examining hair pigments."

"Ok then. Why? Hang on, whose hair?"

Sherlock smiles to himself as if John's hit the nail on the head.

"That's my hair, isn't it? How did you get –" He takes a deep breath. "Oh never mind." John picks up his cup of tea and ignores the beautifully insane man with a microscope at the kitchen table.

.

"It's grey, by the way."

"No, it's not!"

.

.

The End.