Captain John Watson was, as it turned out, an appalling bad dancer. The little man had the strangest tendency to try and lead, despite being a half-foot shorter than Sherlock and completely unaware of the correct steps. Sherlock, strangely, didn't mind. The fight for dominance was unlike his squabbles with his brother or the quiet pettiness of court; instead it was…fun.
Fun? That wasn't a word with which Sherlock often found himself familiar. And yet here he was, spinning around the ballroom with a pint-sized soldier trying to squash his toes with every step, and he couldn't stop himself grinning.
It would have been alarming, if he weren't too busy enjoying himself to consider it.
In fact, it was with distinct displeasure that he handed Captain Watson off to one of Mycroft's pawn-handlers only thirty minutes into their acquaintance. He was "needed elsewhere", the poor man, probably for a quick jaunt around the press junket. Sherlock despised the Country's journalists and their willingness to dictate Mycroft's every word so long as he sufficiently lined their pockets. It was Mycroft that had leapt on the idea of turning Captain Watson into a legend. And if Sherlock was any judge (and generally he was) the hero himself found the whole thing as loathsome as Sherlock did.
Watson, flushed from dancing and smiling up at Sherlock apologetically, shrugged and said, "Thanks for the dance, mate. Er, Your Highness. All good things come to an end, as they say." He cleared his throat, and then nodded and shuffled off with Mycroft's man, peeking back at Sherlock once and seeming- what, embarrassed? Why?- when he noticed Sherlock was watching him go.
Sherlock found his own reaction to the man fascinating. The city was filled to the brim with broken men-at-arms, wounded from war and brimming with heroic pride. Why should this one be any different? Was he different? Yes, of course, that was hardly a question. Sherlock disliked almost everyone with whom he came into contact, and yet he found his time with the captain had been completely insufficient. He wanted- needed- more data. More time. Just…more.
He shook away the thought with a small, unhappy laugh. It didn't matter, really. Watson was one of Mycroft's pawns, willing or no, and Sherlock wouldn't be permitted anywhere near the man again, he was sure. Sherlock allowed himself one wistful glance at the scuffs on his shoes (left from Watson's ever-clumsy feet) before banishing all thoughts of the man from his mind for the rest of the evening.
x
Night fell. Sherlock was infinitely glad for the silence of his rooms, not because he savored the quiet (in actuality he found too much quiet rather hateful) but because it signaled the beginning of his time. Mycroft could steal his days and fill them with rubbish all he wanted, Sherlock was in no position to prevent that, but Sherlock's nights were all his own. Mycroft had never tried to stop him; perhaps he was clever enough to realize that too short a leash would make for an ornery dog.
Oddly, Sherlock found no peace in his old resentful ruminations as he tugged on his cloak and armed himself with the small dagger he'd had since childhood. Tonight this part of his ritual failed to satisfy. Perhaps because his thoughts refused to stay in line; they wandered, slowly at first but soon more rapidly and fervently, to Captain Watson. Why should Sherlock care what the man was doing at this hour? He was near twenty years older than Sherlock himself. Undoubtedly he was sleeping. But that thought didn't help at all; Sherlock found himself, as he fiddled with the clasp of his cloak in front of the mirror, wondering if Watson's face was so expressive in sleep as it was in waking. Would Sherlock be able to read his dreams in the lines of his face?
Idiotic. That's what Sherlock was being. And sentimental, which he considered a much graver crime. He made a derisive noise at his reflection and turned away. Enough thinking about something he couldn't have. It was night, his time, and he intended to use it.
x
Sherlock had been breaking out of the palace for years. The entirety of his life, practically. He'd never had any difficulty before.
Which is why it was doubly surprising to find himself clattering into a small but solid form in what had always been a very abandoned and empty corridor. He made a certain undignified sound that might have been "oomf" and landed, a bit sorely, on his bottom, the cold flagstones stinging on contact.
"Sorry!" Sherlock knew that voice, and once he'd been disentangled from his hood he was mildly gratified to see his initial estimation had been correct. Captain Watson. The poor man blundered on, his cheeks pink. "I didn't mean- I mean I didn't see you there and- right, sorry. Let me…here, I'll help you up."
Sherlock took his hand and climbed to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went. He eyed Watson curiously, taking in the tiredness around the eyes and the rumpled state of his hair, combined with the fact that he was dressed in night-clothes and, to Sherlock's amusement, barefooted. "Captain Watson," he said, allowing a trace of his amusement to show in his voice, "the clock has chimed twelve. I would have expected you to be in bed."
"Sleep does not come easy to me," Watson said, the formality of his tone suggesting the topic was not one he cared to pursue. "And you, Your Highness? You seem to be dressed for…" His eyes narrowed subtly. "Are you…are you sneaking out of the palace?"
Whatever Sherlock had expected him to say, it wasn't that. The boldness of his question forced an honest answer from Sherlock's lips unbidden. "Yes," he said, and then blinked. "I, um. Yes." By the Gods, what was happening? Sherlock flipped his hood back up, wincing at his lack of eloquence.
It was Watson's turn to look amused. "No kidding," he said, fighting a smile. "Right. Well…I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"
No threats to turn him in, no unwanted questions or veiled promises of blackmail. Who was this man? "You could come," Sherlock suggested, shocking himself for the thousandth time that day. "If you wanted."
Watson whistled. "What, and risk this little operative of yours? Recon is no place for an old man," he grinned.
"It's nothing like that," Sherlock said, strangely flattered. "I just wanted to take the air."
"I know you Holmes men," said Watson, wriggling his bare toes against the cool floor. "The air won't be enough for you. Soon you'll want the land and sea, and the heavens after that." He glanced up at Sherlock, suddenly aghast. "I'm sorry, Your Highness; I've spoken out of turn."
"No, it's-" Sherlock paused, thrown. No one had ever spoken to him so bluntly. "It's fine," he said, truthfully. The man was filled to the brim with surprises, it seemed.
"Right, well…" Watson rubbed the back of his neck. "If we're going outside, I'll need to change clothes."
Sherlock smiled, wide and authentic. "I think my schedule will allow for that, Captain."
x
The captain's chosen style of dress should have appalled Sherlock, for all that he'd grown up wearing the finest silks and dressed by the finest tailors, but there was something pleasant about his simple trousers, his cotton jumper, and the practical boots he wore and which Sherlock recognized as military-issue. As he turned to close the door Sherlock recognized the subtle but apparent bulge of a firearm nestled against the small of the ex-soldier's back and he couldn't fight off the grim satisfaction the sight gave him. London, in all her dark beauty, had never frightened Sherlock before. But that didn't mean she never tried.
They made quick work of their journey, reaching the palace walls almost as quickly as though Sherlock had been alone. John seemed bemused but acceptant of their route, the quick dash through servants' quarters and the occasion leap from one rooftop to the next. He took it all in stride, following Sherlock with a nimbleness that the young prince respected. And of course, the reward for their labors was sweet. Even the air felt different, Sherlock thought, once they'd made it outside.
London, for Sherlock, was a very different place than it must have been for the common man. For one thing, he only ever left the forbidding walls of the palace at night. Aside from that, Sherlock wasn't keen on the typical modes of transportation. In the country they still used horse-and-buggy, or whatever ancient automobile they could piece together and suit up to run on vegetable oil or waste by-product, but in the city it was all rail-cars and light-shuttles, everything moving too quickly for Sherlock's tastes. He wanted to savor the city, to comb through her unplumbed depths. Zipping around at nearly the speed of light was for business-men and tourists, not disguised princes with the sunrise as a curfew.
"Gods' breath, it's good to be home," Watson sighed, looking at the city like a lost lover.
Something deep inside Sherlock stirred awake and he struggled to squash it down. "You've been out since your return home, surely? Or have they made a prisoner of you yet, Captain?"
Watson laughed. "I wouldn't go so far as to suggest that, Your Highness."
"Call me Sherlock." Impulsive. Possibly dangerous, if it became habit. But Sherlock was beginning to find the last remnants of formality between them stifling. If they could share this, the city and her beauty, then that was cause enough to drop the titles and simply be men.
The captain seemed to consider for a moment. Then he smiled, the movement small and almost shy. "All right, Sherlock. I'm John."
"John." There was an awkwardness to this. Sherlock had never tried to be friendly, nor had he ever desired a friend. He wasn't sure what to do next. Thankfully, the city seemed to be the answer. "Come. I'll show you what you've been missing, my dear fellow captive."