Chapter Two: Cover
The flat was on the third floor, and a cat had lived there some time in the last year. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully as he stepped across the threshold, peeling his gloves off and stuffing them safely in his pockets. John peered at the sad little flat with a growing frown as Sherlock found a closet to hang his coat in.
"Oh, for God's—" John's exasperation trailed off, stepping into the single bedroom and staring at the single bed. "Sherlock," he called with an edge in his voice. Where'd the man gone so quickly? John stalked for the kitchen only to find that it was a kitchenette, and that it didn't contain Sherlock.
The man appeared from the infinitesimal bathroom, the look of displeasure mirrored unknowingly on his face. "Yes, what?"
"One bed," John fumed, crossing his arms. "You didn't think to ask ahead for a twofer?"
"Does Emile look like the kind of man who keeps regular company?" Sherlock stepped by him easily to the bedroom, doing a quick sweep (for what, John didn't know or ask).
"We could get a hotel," John suggested, pressing forward to stand in the doorway.
"No, we couldn't," Sherlock replied easily, flopping down on the bed with no further ceremony, and pressed his fingers together at his lips.
"What? Why not?"
Sherlock made an unimpressed noise in the back of his throat. "Art of disguise," he murmured as if having repeated it constantly. "If we were followed from the gym and we stepped into a hotel, how long do you think our cover would last? Tomorrow night?" He looked over at John's unmoving face. "Blending in, John."
When Sherlock didn't move from the bed, John finally turned on heel and stalked back out to the sitting room, muttering about the sofa and his abused neck. The doctor pulled stale-smelling sheets down from the linen closet and threw them down unceremoniously.
"Hair," John said when he returned to the door of the bedroom. Sherlock didn't look up. "You'll need it cut."
The entire top half of Sherlock snapped up to attention, consternation boiling on his face at the effrontery. John almost broke the frown and laughed.
"You're going to sweat," John began, leaning on the door frame, "and your hair's going to get in your eyes. And then they're going to beat you to a fine pulp because you can't see a damn thing. Come on." He rolled off toward the kitchen at the last, gesturing for Sherlock to follow.
He didn't, at first, but at the sound of John rummaging through the kitchen drawers, he levered off the bed and followed cautiously. John's muttering reached a crescendo and he gave a flourish of "Gotcha!" when Sherlock stepped in like a child expecting a punishment. John held the scissors close for inspection, and finding them good enough, took Sherlock by the shoulder and pressed him down into the nearest chair.
Sherlock's fingers fidgeted. He stopped them. "How short?"
John measured the length of his own hair, then shrugged. "A fair bit. Don't worry, I'm not cutting your ear off, I've done this before." He looked as though he couldn't have been happier. "Art of disguise, Sherlock."
Sherlock frowned deeply as the dark curls were snipped off one by one, falling down his shoulders and pooling at his feet. He looked as though he were losing a dear friend. He did a fair job of not showing it, but even John couldn't miss the clutching and re-clutching of long-fingered fists at his side.
"Christ," John said in a burst of laughter when he stood back to examine his work. When Sherlock's pitiful frown deepened, John was quick to hold his hands out in surrender. "No, no, not the hair, it's just... you're so damn skinny without all that hair on your head." He observed everything he'd cut off and, smirking, glanced back up. "What do you think, lost a stone or two?"
"Shut-up," Sherlock hissed at last.
He spent six whole minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, running his own fingers through his hair, silently bemoaning its loss for the sake of the case. John chuckled to himself until he'd fallen asleep.
"Addison," John said, trying not to giggle for a second time.
Sherlock's eyes ticked over in annoyance.
"Addison's a girl's name." He turned the laughter into a cough, smiled in a friendly way to a young couple passing by arm-in-arm.
"What does it matter?" Sherlock murmured, though clearly not pleased with all the amusement John seemed to be getting out of it.
They'd fallen into their parts—easily, on Sherlock's part, who could have been an actor if the detecting hadn't worked out for him, John thought; with more difficulty for John's part, who wasn't used to deception over a long period. Even if John's character needed less adjustment than the detective's, who most definitely looked like a different person when John finally woke in the early hours.
Addison Darling was as little like Sherlock that Sherlock must have been able to pull off. The short hair certainly helped; his bony face stood out even more starkly, shadowed with a day and night of stubble. He wore a drab hooded sweatshirt over a wife beater, and he was smiling. On Sherlock, it had a tendency to look frightening; on Addison it was positively inviting. Even the way he walked was different, a lazy sort of grace with a hunch to his shoulders that almost made him look shorter. It was a wonder he hadn't affected an accent.
"Don't shave," Sherlock had said tersely from outside the bathroom door, and John had frozen with razor in hand.
He'd frozen again when he passed Sherlock on the way to his bags, head titling in unbelieving shock. "What in God's name are you wearing? It stinks," he'd added, turning sharping to face his friend. And Sherlock had laughed. This was clearly going to take some getting used to.
"Peter," Sherlock said as they strode down the sidewalk from the cafe. When John didn't immediately look up, Sherlock added in a growl: "That's you, John."
"Right, sorry," he answered sheepishly.
"Peter, I need you to stick to Emile when we get to the gym." He pulled John into the bus stop when the doctor didn't halt his steps with him.
"What for?"
"In case I miss anything. Someone he speaks with, anywhere he goes where I don't follow."
"No," John said flatly. Sherlock's practiced facade was gone in an instant, old annoyance and confusion sitting there. "No, I'm not as good as you are. I'll miss something important, or—"
"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't trust you," Sherlock snapped over him.
"All right," John cut in defensively. "Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do."
"Fine." Sherlock shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his sweatshirt. The frown didn't fit the new personality, and the discrepancy was jarring. "Thank you."
He was Addison again by the time the bus swooped in to pick them up, grinning boyishly as he flashed the bus tickets he had bought yesterday.
The gym was six stops and fourteen minutes from the flat, and they hadn't spoken on the way. But John had noticed (he noticed more than Sherlock gave him credit for, most times) that Sherlock hadn't reached for the phone he hadn't brought. John had both of them in his shoulder bag. He knew Sherlock would need it, better to be ready when he asked. The gym itself was squat and brick and fairly ugly, but nondescript. The perfect spot for a den of iniquity.
It was close and hot inside, and three large fans were whirring and circulating the damp air. All the equipment was old, at least five years and worn well. The salty smell of sweat was everywhere, even with only seven men in sight. Two of them were in the ring, muted gloved punches echoing, one hammering away at a fraying punching bag. One of them was Emile.
Sherlock unzipped the sweatshirt and gave John an encouraging nod. John adjusted himself, settled his shoulders, and took powerful steps forward. This was his thing, his one thing, that Sherlock has asked him to do.
So he threw his arms wide and smiled. "Emile!"
Emile turned, and to his credit, he may have been an actor on the side. His eyes shone with bon mots and he mirrored John's stance. "Peter! You're late, you son-of-a-bitch!"
They caught each other in a brotherly embrace, and Emile's palms slapped hard on John's back. The frenchman grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and steered him toward a small group of men, who all instantly began to size John up as he was shoved into their ranks.
"Il est le médecin extraordinaire que je vous parlais." And then the next was, thank God, in English. "Doctor Peter Moran, these are my good friends. Work associates. We train the boys here, train them into excellent fighters."
"Hello," John offered his hand, and it was shaken three times. He took in as much detail as he thought he could remember for Sherlock. Prunier, tall and angular, maybe fifty years old by the cataracts; he had old scars on his knuckles, calluses when he shook John's hand; a smoker's voice. Mongeau, stocky and younger, but older than John; shock of white hair at his temple, maybe from an accident; had a lisp. Brousseau, dark and quiet; hardly acknowledged anyone but the men fighting in the ring; a light band on his finger where a ring might've been once.
There was a bout of laughter from behind them, and the four men turned. The two boxers in the ring, leaning languidly against the ropes in a mutual break, were talking in what could only be interpreted as a mocking tone. They were pointing at the long, pale, irrefutably skinny man who was taping his knuckles while he sat on the bench near them.
"Addison Darling," Emile intoned to the group. "Incredible reach, powerful swing. He has just come from England with good Doctor Moran, come for a bit of sport." John pressed his lips together anxiously, but he smiled plainly when Sherlock glanced up. "I invited Peter up for a tour, he could not resist bringing his boy along."
"Il est trop maigre," one of the boxers hissed, elbowing the bruised man beside him.
They laughed again. Sherlock gave a tight, facetious smirk.
"Am I?" Sherlock asked, bouncing immediately to his feet, completely in control of the gangling limbs at his side. "Care to take a try?"
The boxer who'd spoken chortled to himself, and at once cocked an eyebrow when Sherlock didn't back down. "Voyons vous essayez."
The part of John that was still locked somewhere in Baker Street wants to jump forward and stop him from doing something stupid, but this was the plan. This was the way Sherlock wanted to do it, completely involving himself in the situation until the information presented itself. Integration, infiltration, investigation. So John settled for biting his lip and worrying.
Sherlock was up and over the ropes in a quick arc, bouncing once as he hit the ring. He didn't have his gloves on. John physically restrained himself from planting his face into his waiting hands. To be fair, his opponent unlaced his own gloves and tossed him to his sparring partner, who had vacated the ring with a rat-like smirk.
They didn't waste a second. The boxer opened with a straight punch aimed at Sherlock's ribs, and if John hadn't been watching, he'd have sworn the detective straight-up teleported three steps back from his attacker. As it was, his long crane legs bent, and he bobbed softly away from the swipe, left and back, and he was suddenly halfway across the ring. His feet shifted, and he bent at the knees, hands fisted near his face. He was smiling, that smug bastard.
His arm was too long by far, it cracked in effortlessly for a jab right under the boxer's eye. And again, a second with Sherlock's off-hand, and it scored another hit. The boxer took it well, recovered, and countered with a series of jabs that glanced off Sherlock's well-placed blocks. And Sherlock took two long steps, two quick steps, and he was backed up against the ropes. Smiling.
Someone cursed in French near John's shoulder, and he saw that Prunier's eyes were shining, following each hit with a bob of his head. The others seemed just as involved. Even Emile seemed impressed.
Then, it was a flurry of movement that John almost didn't catch. Sherlock moved in like a bird—sharp punch to the ribs, solid jab in at the man's ear, and with a third, strong, fluid motion as he moved into the space he had made with his fists, a full-on uppercut through the boxer's jaw.
The boxer took the full force, was pummeled back into the ropes, and shook it off quickly before Sherlock could step in again. He got off two jabs to Sherlock's unguarded middle, but it was a last-ditch effort. The boxer was already worn from his sparring partner's hits, and Sherlock's jabs—quick but forceful, at an impossible range to counter—were wearing him thinner. Even John could see that. And he didn't know a damn thing about boxing.
It was over quickly. John hadn't even seen Sherlock's final blow, but soon the French boxer was waving one hand in surrender, leaning one arm heavily over the top rope to hold up his slackening body. Sherlock took a wide step backward, observed the ruin he'd brought, then gave a light, polite bow. With a sweeping of his legs, he was up and over the ropes again.
John took his cue. "Ah, Emile, you've met Addison." The friendly hand on Emile's shoulder felt strange, but he left it there for effect. The crowd followed their lead and stepped up to Sherlock's perch on the bench. The fight had been over quickly, but the adrenaline was obvious in the bright gray eyes, the heaving chest.
"Addison's quite the boy," Emile declared, shaking Sherlock's grubby hand. "I've been thinking of taking him under my wing, so to speak." The look he gave to the others was heavy, and John filed it away.
It was the doctor in John that spoke: "Christ, what've you done to yourself?" when he saw Sherlock's red and swelling knuckles.
Emile took the hint. "We'll leave you to look at that, Peter. I've some discussing to do with my associates."
They had hardly gone five feet before John was digging into his bag for the pitiful medical supplies he'd been able to get his hands on. He settled for a not-so-cold compress.
"Not five minutes I let you alone," John muttered, pressing it to Sherlock's hand.
"Thank you," Sherlock breathed, chest still heaving.
"For what?"
He grinned so wide it seemed painful. "The haircut."
AN: Hi again! Hopefully these chapters will get put up quickly, but with christmas in a few days, it may be a few before I get another up. Also, there was a question posed as to whether slash will creep up into this story, and I can assure you I won't let it happen. My friend explicitly asked for no slash, so I attempt to write nonslash! Hope y'all enjoy, leave some love and STAY ESPECIALLY AWESOME!