IL TRAVIATO

Chapter Two

Sherlock crossed the black and white marble-tiled floor to the concierge desk in the lobby of the Rivers Hotel, scanning and mentally cataloguing out of simple habit any changes in the brightly polished space since his last visit. The thunk of the rubber tip of John Watson's cane against the tile sounded rhythmically just behind him. "Messages?" he asked the girl at the desk. She had dyed blonde hair, a vacant expression, lived with her mother, smoked only when she was away from home, and was sleeping with a drummer.

"No, Mr March." She eyed John, who had halted a respectful distance from the desk to wait for Sherlock.

"Please have a bucket of ice and a sandwich tray sent up." Sherlock turned his head and eyed John as well. The doctor was trying to be subtle about gawping at the elaborate lobby chandelier. A plastic chemist's bag dangled from one hand. John had insisted they stop for a wrist bandage as well as a bottle of paracetamol. He'd frowned in concentration selecting his preferred brand, not satisfied the Rivers would have the proper one available. "And the starters platter. And the dessert tray. And tea."

"Yes, sir." She picked up her desk phone to call in his request.

"Come along, John," Sherlock instructed crisply, turning to make his way toward the lifts. John made a small, hesitant sound behind him. Sherlock lengthened his stride. After a moment, the thump of the cane and the rustle of the chemist's bag followed him, and Sherlock smiled to himself.

Inside the lift, Sherlock swiped his key card through the slot and pressed the button for the penthouse level. He felt John's eyes on him, but kept his gaze forward to discourage questions. His wrist was starting to throb, but he didn't have the energy to be annoyed by it right now. He had begun the ride over the Thames and across town to the hotel frustrated with having to text instructions one-handed to have the car picked up from the hotel and repaired. Once that was dealt with, though, the soft light and quiet inside the car had started to soothe him a bit. John had a calm presence and had not bothered him with idle chatter. He'd been able to lean his head back and listen to nothing but the susurration of the road beneath the Mercedes' wheels. His head was not pounding as badly and his nerves felt significantly less frayed, but he still wanted a shower and his usual clothes. And bed, once he had dealt with John Watson. He didn't want to sleep—he didn't need sleep—he just wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the darkness. I need it.

A chill ran down his spine and he shuddered.

"You alright?"

John's hand was instantly around his undamaged wrist, no doubt checking his pulse and the temperature of his skin.

"I'm fine."

The lift dinged and the doors slid open. The penthouse level had six suites, and Sherlock led John to the door farthest on the left of the lifts and slid his card in the slot by the door again for access. John hovered in the hallway and tentatively poked his head inside the room, surveying the not-completely-understated luxury of the space inside. The suite was decorated in soothing neutrals in a modified art deco style, with oak hardwood floors and a large, black granite fireplace. "So, you're…"

"What?"

"Rich." His assessment was matter-of-fact, without awe or resentment. "Bit more than a nice car."

Sherlock shrugged. "Family money. I inherited." He had no trouble maintaining a lie, but some perversity had led him to incorporate that little bit of truth into his cover identity. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over the back of one of the upholstered chairs in the lounge.

"Wow."

Sherlock followed the direction of John's arrested gaze to the panoramic night view of London through the terrace doors. The suite's spacious terrace faced south down the Thames toward the Eye and the Westminster Bridge. London was shining in the clear night, the Eye glowing blue and Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Parliament lit in gold. Sherlock walked to the terrace door and slid it open, tilting his head to indicate that John should step outside with him. The air was even cooler up here than on the ground, but it was a crisp, refreshing sort of cool. Invigorating. Maybe he wasn't so tired after all.

"Wow," John repeated reverently as he moved to the edge of the terrace and looked out across the city.

Sherlock joined him at the railing. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

John was quiet. The corners of his mouth tightened. "I love London," he finally replied. "Nowhere else could be home." He glanced at Sherlock self-consciously and shrugged.

"No, I…understand." He'd been away from home. Not just a doctor—an army doctor, Sherlock had realised while John was examining his wrist. Invalided home, apparently, given that limp and a tremor that occasionally shook his left hand. The limp…Sherlock frowned. Something wasn't right, there.

That the man was in financial need would have been obvious even had he not asked for money for his return across town. His jeans, brown brogue shoes, and blue jumper were all clean and neatly-kept but sadly worn. He was living in a low-income area and he was clearly hungry. Tired. Worried eyes. Burdened.

He'd run toward Sherlock's unfortunately-situated car. So the limp was psychosomatic.

Damaged.

Not working as a doctor, or he would not be living on such meagre means.

Interesting. That helped to explain why Sherlock had not found him immediately irritating as he did most people. Why he still did not find him irritating. He had a kind face, which was typically quite irritating. Kind-hearted, perhaps, but also calm, competent, and undemanding. Steady, but not dull. Something Sherlock did not encounter often in his line of work. And ethical, it seemed. In spite of his apparent need, it had not occurred to him to ask for money until he was assured of Sherlock's well-being and even then he had requested a very small sum from a person presenting the overt trappings of affluence.

Sherlock guessed his age at perhaps 37 or 38, but his face was lined with the patterns of both laughter and distress and his blond hair was already greying. His hair smelled nice. His musculature was on the fit side of average. Sherlock suspected he was slimmer at present than he might be had he a more comfortable budget.

His hair smelled nice?

Sherlock scrolled abruptly back to that thought and frowned as he took a step away from John. There was no need to smell his hair. He wasn't a crime victim.

He was saved from further self-admonition by a polite knock from the hallway. Sherlock returned to the sitting room as his suite's designated butler entered, rolling in his requested room service order on a cloth-draped trolley. The diminutive, mature woman gave him a warm smile. He almost returned it, almost allowed himself to feel the warmth, before he reminded himself that it was likely the same smile she bestowed on all her guests. He nodded to her politely instead. The grey skirt, black blazer, and white gloves of her uniform were smart and subdued while her short hair was dyed a defiantly cheerful shade of strawberry blonde. Husband was away, and likely had been for some time. Liked playing scratch cards. Planning to retire soon.

"Good evening, Mr March. Would you like these on the dining table?"

Sherlock inspected the three silver-covered platters and pot of tea and pondered whether he should have ordered something stronger than tea. Wine? Beer? Brandy? "Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Feeling peckish?" John asked from behind him, as he slid the door to the terrace closed and stepped inside.

"No, I'm not hungry. It's for you." Sherlock gingerly squeezed his wrist as he watched Mrs Hudson begin setting out the serving ware and platters. "You brought the ice?"

She bent down to retrieve a bucket from the lower shelf of her serving cart. "Just here, Mr—oh, dear, have you hurt yourself?"

Her expression was disproportionately dismayed, and as she seemed on the verge of fussing over him, he volunteered, "It's alright, I've a doctor at hand."

Her glance at John was more assessing this time. "Well, sir, I'm relieved to hear it."

"Er. Mrs Hudson, is it? Hello." John bobbed his head awkwardly and still managed a charming smile. He held the chemist's bag out as if the sight of it would reassure her. "Yes, he'll be taken care of."

She eyed the bag and then looked at John's face again and her eyes twinkled. "I'm sure he will, sir." Smiling to herself, she returned her attention to arranging the tea service.

John peered around her at the veritable mountain of food on the table and then looked at Sherlock, registering his recent words. "Wait. That's for me?"

"You're hungry. And it's better than pub food."

Sherlock took a moment of pleasure from the look of bewilderment on John's face.

"How…"

"Please," Sherlock casually waved John's surprise away with his uninjured hand. "Your stomach was rumbling practically the entire way here." He adjusted the position of one of the forks on the table. "And you were walking in the direction of the pub when I…encountered you."

John raised his eyebrows at the trays. Approximately thirty options from duck spring rolls in plum sauce to baked brie pastries with apricots to hazelnut tiramisu were laid out for his gustatory indulgence. "I'm not that hungry."

"I didn't know what you'd like," Sherlock shrugged.

John stared at him.

What?

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat delicately. "Would you like a fire on tonight, Mr March?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock waved her toward the fireplace. Admittedly, hospitality was not really his area. He lifted the lid of the teapot to sniff at the tea and looked at John, who was hesitating again, watching him with a strange expression. "Problem?"

"No, it's…" John cleared his throat roughly. He glanced at Mrs Hudson and away again. "It's good. Thank you." He hooked his cane over the back of one of the dining chairs.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Mrs Hudson asked. The fire had begun to glow.

Sherlock shooed her away distractedly.

"Thank you...Mrs Hudson," John called after her as she moved away, and was rewarded with another one of her warm smiles.

They stood without speaking until they heard the suite door close softly behind her.

"Your wrist." John held out the chemist's bag. "I'm meant to be tending to your wrist. Not…having dinner." He cast a forlorn look at the starters tray and pulled the bandages, medical tape, and paracetamol out of the bag. He held out his hands to Sherlock. "It has to be hurting. Let me see."

Sherlock looked down at John's hands and shook his head. He was feeling strangely affected by these gestures—Mrs Hudson's kind little smiles, John's soothing ministrations. Further proof something was wrong with him, some undeniable and worrying frailty to be rooted out and burnt away. Later. "It can wait a few more minutes. Eat first."

John hesitated, clearly torn between temptation and his belief it was his duty to insist on Sherlock's immediate first aid. As if on cue, his stomach issued a loud growl.

"It can wait," Sherlock repeated firmly, dropping his wrist so his body obscured it from John's line of sight.

"Yes, I…alright. If you're sure." John licked his lips and reached for a plate. "Aren't you having anything?"

"No." For a few moments he watched John, whose eyes were shining with anticipation now as he examined the desserts platter. "I'll be back in a moment. Make yourself at home," Sherlock instructed, satisfied, and stole away to his bedroom while John's attention was focused on a blackberry pavlova.

John woke slowly, pulled out of a hazy dream of huddling by the fire in his uncle's cabin on Loch Tay, listening to his family singing horribly off-key Christmas songs. He groaned contentedly and stretched his legs, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He felt relaxed and warm and he could see the firelight still flickering orange against—

"Shit!" John struggled to transition his sprawl across the sofa to a sitting position. His legs were tangled in his blanket. When had he gotten a blanket? He'd still heard the shower running when he finished dinner and he had only closed his eyes for a minute while he waited for March. He checked his watch. It was half two. "Shit. Sorry. I'm so sorry."

March was slouched in a burgundy upholstered wing chair opposite John, watching him through half-closed eyes. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He was dressed for bed—a loose dressing gown over a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His feet were bare. His dark hair had dried in loose curls. He was holding a flannel wrapped around a plastic bag of ice chips against his neatly bandaged wrist.

"You talk in your sleep."

"What?" John wriggled and tugged his legs free of the blanket at last, trying to work his way back toward dignity. "No, I don't."

March raised one eyebrow. "'Nana, the pudding's on fire again!'" he proclaimed in an accurate impersonation of John's voice.

"Well. Fine. I talk in my sleep." John groaned and rubbed sleep from his eyes. At least it hadn't been a nightmare. God only knew what he might have said then. He looked around. The lamps had been turned off, leaving the fire as the only source of light. The dining table had been cleared. His cane was now leaning against the end of the sofa. "Look. I'm sorry for...this. I'm going right now."

"John," March sighed. "There's no rush. It's fine."

"No," John shook his head. March's laptop was lying closed on the floor next to his chair. John's skin prickled. How long had he been watching him? "You've not gone to bed yet because of me. You don't need to…I don't know…sleep? You should be resting."

"No, I...it doesn't matter." March dropped his eyes with a frown and shrugged. "I don't sleep much."

Something in the tone of his voice struck John as forlorn and familiar. John quieted and really looked at the man. The low light deepened soft, dark smears of fatigue under his eyes. His features were held in a guarded balance of tension and emptiness. John knew that look far too well. He had seen it every day in the army—men and women who were crying out, screaming out underneath their stone-still faces for simple reassurance that someone could still hear them.

He'd seen it on his own face in the mirror.

There was a large, well-padded ottoman between the sofa and March's chair, and John took a seat on it, scooting forward so he was within arm's reach of March. He took the bandaged wrist in his hands and inspected it, setting March's ice pack aside.

"Swelling's gone down. How's the pain?"

March shrugged again.

"You've done a good job."

"It's not my first time," March said with a wry twitch of his lips.

John looked at him searchingly. He hadn't needed his medical assistance, that much was clear. Yet he had brought him to his room. Fed him. Watched him sleep. "So why am I here, exactly?"

March looked down at John's hands on his wrist in puzzlement, as if the question had not occurred to him.

"Was there something else you needed?" Perhaps he knew why he was here. John took a deep breath and held it, and followed his instincts. He let his fingers drift upward on March's arm. The skin was warm underneath his fingertips, soft, the veins pronounced to John's delicate, sensitized touch. He felt March go utterly still, his pulse starting to pound. Simple reassurance. Comfort. Just comfort.

He blew his breath out slowly, and March's eyes widened.

The room was so quiet John could hear his own heartbeat, the soft slide of his hand under the fabric of March's dressing gown sleeve. He stroked the softer skin of March's inner elbow with the pad of his thumb, his fingers curling lightly around the taut muscle of his forearm.

"It's alright," he whispered. He wasn't sure if he was saying it to March or to himself. Just comfort. Not alone. Let me. Please.

The silence stretched painfully. March seemed frozen. He looked…alarmed.

"Oh, God." John tore his gaze away and hastily withdrew his hand, mortified. He'd read the situation all wrong. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? He was just…wrong. "I'm sorry." His voice shook. "I've made a mistake." He leapt to his feet, shoving the ottoman back with his leg, and turned to fumble for his cane.

March lunged forward with a sharp, incoherent sound of protest and grasped at John's arm with his good hand. John took a clumsy step backward as March pushed into in his space, but the hand sliding up to his shoulder and around his neck caught him by the back of the head, steadied him.

Pulled them together.

March's mouth was on his in a hard, sloppy, and overwhelming kiss. Off-balance both mentally and physically, John clutched at the front of March's dressing gown as the kiss grew more fervent and even less controlled. Their teeth ground together, and he grunted an inadvertent little sound of surprise and pain when his lip got pinched in between.

March flinched, glaring down at John's mouth as though it had malfunctioned, and he started to pull away.

"Wait! No, just…wait."

March's eyes flew to his and they stared at one another, two animals each deciding whether it was time for fight or flight.

John touched the tip of his tongue to his lip, checking for the taste of blood.

March watched the small movement warily, with a stillness full of energy.

"Come back," John coaxed, his voice low and rough.

March exhaled sharply. His fingers dropped from John's hair and hooked around the back edge of his shirt collar, twisting it and the wool knit of his jumper tightly into his fist as he bent his head to John's once again.

The next kiss was softer, slower, but more certain. Their heads found the right angles to tilt and the kiss built in waves of exploration and retreat, the rhythm of the tides in the volatile world born between the bodies of two strangers. John melted into March's arms as their tongues curled and slid together in luscious harmony. He dragged his fingertips down March's chest and around his waist beneath his dressing gown. When he slid his hands underneath the hem of his t-shirt to the hot, bare skin underneath, it was March who made a sound like he was in pain.

John drew back, breathing harder now. March looked wild-eyed. His mouth was open and wet. His hand was still fisted in John's jumper like he needed him. His desire flaring, John pressed his hips forward insistently, rubbed himself against the other man's thigh so March could feel his own need. Let me. He shifted his gaze deliberately, questioningly toward the door to March's bedroom.

"Yes," whispered Gabriel. He took John by the hand and led him to his bed.