Title: All Roads Lead to Rome
Series: One Heart Walking
Author: sorion
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / John Watson
Rating: NC17
Length: ~9,500
Category: introspection, character study, romance, crime
AN: Sequel to One Heart Walking
There's a case, but not much of one (again, it's mostly about the characters), since Sherlock solved it before I could get into any details (the bastard XD).
Two things are loosely based on what baka_yu requested. I say loosely, because the name isn't mentioned and they're not really in disguise XD
Summary: Now that things have changed in rhythm, a case takes them to Rome.
Thanks for all the favourites and follows, you guys! :D But it really would help me if you could leave a comment with what you liked/disliked about the story... ^-^''''
Also, uni started up again, so I don't know when I'll be able to write about the boys again. If you'd like to have one aspect about their relationship covered, leave a note in the comments, and I'll think about it :)
All Roads Lead to Rome
When John awakes, he blinks at the ceiling that is decidedly not his own, then he grins and stretches. He doesn't have to turn around to know that he's alone in bed, but he hasn't been expecting any differently. Once Sherlock is awake, his mind is out the door before he so much as opens his eyes, and while John usually quite enjoys a lie-in, today is not one of those days. Everything feels new and... kind of amazing, really.
John wasn't lying when he said the night before that the revelation about himself had thrown him quite off the loop for a while. He hadn't exactly known from the beginning, since at the time that everything had happened, he had acted on pure instinct, had thought about nothing but protecting his infuriatingly brilliant friend. Pushing them both into the water, then breathing life back into an unconscious Sherlock, only to pass out from falling debris himself and be dragged out... both of them really only surviving because they'd had each other... it didn't leave him with any time to ponder his feelings. Not even touching the other's lips had ignited any recognition, at the time.
Once John was recuperating, however... all bets had been off. John had nothing but time to remember every gut-wrenching second where he had feared the possibility of maybe having to go on living without Sherlock. He then also remembered the lips... they had been cold, wet and unmoving... but soft (a fact his traitorous mind insistently let him know). And then the eyes had opened, and Sherlock had coughed and spluttered...
John had the time to remember exactly what the feeling was he had felt in that moment. And in every waking moment since.
To his own surprise, it wasn't even the fact that he had those feelings that had shaken him so. It was the fact that he didn't know what to do with them. He even contacted Harry, actually wanted to meet with and talk to her. He scared the crap out of his sister, falling apart in front of her as he did.
And that was the moment he truly knew just how far his feelings went. Feeling something is one thing, but seeing confirmation in another's reaction... He knew that this was like nothing he'd ever felt before and most likely never would again for anyone else.
It was the moment he knew that he would stand by Sherlock in whatever way the other would allow, and he would be happy doing it. (Well... not always happy, per se – Sherlock is a terribly annoying person more times than not – but content, like he belonged.)
Things got infinitely more interesting once he realised what Moriarty's choice in his final victim meant...
John smiles, still lying in bed. The one time he'd realised something before Sherlock, the wait turned out to be well worth it.
He gets up, puts on the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he finds lying on the floor, ready to go out, but stops before he opens the door when he hears muffled voices.
Mycroft.
"Well, that was sooner than I expected," John murmurs and pushes down the handle, anyway. He knows the two Holmes brothers well enough to be aware that Mycroft doesn't have to walk in on them to know something has happened within the first glance at either Sherlock or himself. He'd also rather not know what Mycroft's first words to Sherlock must have been, earlier.
He walks into the living room and is immediately greeted with a cheerful, "Good morning, John," from Mycroft, though the other man doesn't turn around. Sherlock, who is sitting facing John fully dressed, looks disgruntled.
John has an idea as to the why... If Moriarty has known about Sherlock's feelings, and even John himself has known, then it is safe to assume that Mycroft is no different. And what with the tender bond between the brothers, Sherlock must have absolutely hated realising that his brother had one up on him. Literally on him, which for Sherlock most likely only makes it worse.
From the way Sherlock is shooting daggers at Mycroft, hardly looking at John at all, it very much appears to John as if he's right in that assessment.
"Anyone up for tea?" John asks, neutrally.
"No, thank you," Mycroft replies instantly, as if he's been waiting for that question. "I won't be staying long."
"No, he won't," Sherlock confirms.
John takes that to mean that Sherlock will be needing a very strong tea, very soon. "Alright, then." He turns to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Sherlock looks after him for half a second, then glares at his brother again. "What with all the eager and obedient foot soldiers under your command, I fail to see what you need me for."
Mycroft idly twists the ever present umbrella in his hand with the tip on the floor. (If he keeps doing that at every visit, the rug is bound to have a hole in it, soon.)
"Other matters are keeping myself and my people busy, these days. You on the other hand... are quite uncommitted at the moment."
Which translates to, 'I'm at my wits' end, and my people, much as it pains me to admit, aren't anywhere near your calibre,' John suspects. Unfortunately, Mycroft can be as unmoving as his brother.
John also knows Sherlock, and the meaning of the words couldn't have escaped him, either. Sherlock would surely brush off both the words and the meaning. Whether or not he would help anyway, John isn't quite sure.
Then, Sherlock surprises him.
"On one condition."
From the way Mycroft straightens in his seat, John isn't the only one surprised. "I'm listening." Mycroft tries very hard to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
Sherlock stares him down. "I know you've so far only shown a passing interest, but that is going to change if you want my help."
"Passing interest...?" Mycroft doesn't phrase it as a question, as if it isn't worth his time.
Sherlock's eyes flash, and his voice is hard. "I want Jim Moriarty's head on a platter."
Mycroft considers his brother. "It is very unlike you to give up one of your cat and mouse games."
Sherlock stares for just a moment longer, before his expression falters and he averts his eyes.
"I see..." Mycroft says slowly. "Well," he declares decisively and stands, holding out the file in his left hand to Sherlock. "I can of course not guarantee that we will catch him, but I can make him a top priority."
Now Sherlock looks surprised. John isn't. Despite their... feud... Mycroft has always worried about his brother, and, so it seems, that now includes John.
The brothers share a long look before Sherlock takes the file.
Mycroft tilts his head slightly to the side, indicating that he is still aware of John's presence. "I'll do my part," he says. "And you'll do yours."
Sherlock neither confirms nor denies, he just leans back in his seat, but the file remains in his hand.
Mycroft, apparently happy with that answer, turns to leave. "Good day, gentlemen."
John leans against the doorframe to the kitchen when the door closes behind Mycroft. "New case?"
Sherlock clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. "Apparently."
Not wanting to embarrass Sherlock any further, John turns away and tends to their tea. "Must be an important one," John calls from the kitchen after a moment. "What with your brother practically accepting to carry out an assassination in return."
"Must be," Sherlock agrees noncommittally. "Or maybe he just likes you."
John smirks and puts their tea on a tray. "Not the brother I'm interested in." He carries the tray into the living room, finding Sherlock looking at the file grinning and puts it down.
He then kneels in front of Sherlock's chair, lays a careful hand on Sherlock's right holding the file and pushes it down to make the other man look at him. He takes the least threatening position he can think of and uses only minimal force to push down the hand, and, eventually, it works; Sherlock returns his look, if cautiously.
"Are you alright?" John asks.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock, despite his answer, is on the defensive. Yes, applying caution is definitely the right course of action.
John considers his words for a long, tense moment. "You know, I'm trying to figure out whether it is better to just let you stew over every one of the reasons why you might be slightly less than alright yourself, or whether I should make you face it head-on."
Sherlock blinks but doesn't hesitate long. Clearly, he has thought about that as well. "My mind feels more... structured than it has in the past weeks, and I'd like to believe that I am now self-aware enough to realise should I need... urging on. If you believe that I'm wrong, feel free to point it out."
John tilts his head and averts his eyes, then he nods. "Okay." He looks back. "What you just did. Asking your brother for help. It was... very unlike you."
Sherlock's jaw tenses. "It was rational."
"Absolutely, yes," John agrees immediately but holds Sherlock's eyes with his, a question hovering within the look. Sherlock has gone against his nature because of the changes and revelations the last day has brought with it, and it is the actual reason John wants to know if his lover is truly alright.
Sherlock reads John like the open book that he is and takes a deep but relaxing breath. "I'm alright," he says, indeed looking at ease.
John gets to his feet, holds himself up with one hand on an arm of Sherlock's chair and cups his head with the other before he leans in for a kiss.
Sherlock allows himself to return it, but John can clearly tell that his mind isn't all there, so he ends it gently and sits in his own chair, pouring the tea.
"So. What's the case, then?" John asks, easing them out of their... moment.
Sherlock clears his throat and lifts the file again. "Domestic murder, or at least made to look like one."
"Okay..."
"Except there is no body."
"Ah."
"The wife was found wandering along the Thames, covered in her husband's blood, claiming not to remember a thing. The authorities assumed that she must have thrown him into the water, but they haven't found anything yet."
John turns that over in his head. "Is the blood fresh?" he asks, because, well, he has learned a thing or two...
Sherlock grins. "Some of it."
"But not all of it."
"No. The blood on her hands – and the most likely to be tested first – was fresh. As was some small part of the blood on her clothes. The largest part on her clothes, however..."
"Who was he, then?"
Sherlock hands the file to John, takes out his phone and starts thumbing in a text message.
John looks at the information. Logistics in a small company. Mostly national, some of it international. The man has been known to take over the odd transport himself.
"You think he's had his hands in some smuggling?"
Sherlock hits send on his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. "No. You don't go to that much trouble to kidnap a man just to get to something he's stolen. You'd want a quick answer, you'd involve the wife, whatever else he holds dear. You wouldn't stage a murder. No, no. If they need people to think that he's dead, they need him to do something for them. Maybe to get into a place he has access to, maybe to get information he has gained or is at least able to gain. Most likely it has to do with one of his foreign freight runs, since the police are now busy combing the Thames, running a murder investigation in the country."
"Why's your brother interested in him then? That could give us a starting point."
"He didn't say."
John blinks at him. "Isn't that kind of counter-productive?"
"Not at all, no. I might uncover information he hasn't if I go about finding everything I need on my own."
John considers that. It seems silly to him, but he supposes Sherlock also has a point.
"Well?" Sherlock asks.
"Well what?"
"Where would you start, doctor?" He grins.
John doesn't much care for that type of grin but is still kind of mellow from the past night, so he feels indulgent. "I'd check out what kind of freight runs he's done out of the country, recently."
Sherlock shoots out of his seat and claps his hands. "Excellent! Get dressed, John, we're on the job."
What that turns out to mean is that John is the one to get the freight plans, while Sherlock uses his connections (Lestrade) to get to question the addled wife.
When John joins Lestrade outside one of the rooms used for questioning, Sherlock is still inside, sitting opposite the woman who is huddled in her seat.
"How long has he been in there?" John asks.
Lestrade holds out an incredulous hand towards the window. "He's been at it a full hour, and all he gets are inane ramblings. Frankly, I don't know what he's still doing. Never mind that her psychiatrist is breathing down my neck every five minutes." He glances at his watch. "He'd better get what he wants fast, because this session will very soon be interrupted."
John looks through the window, and indeed, Sherlock is just listening to the woman sitting in her chair with her knees drawn close to her body, rocking back and forth and her hand every now and again wave in an uncoordinated and jerky movement.
And just as Lestrade has predicted, the psychiatrist appears after another two minutes and accompanies her patient out of the room, shooting a glare at Sherlock who remains seated until the two are out of sight. Then he grins widely and leaves as well, joining John and Lestrade.
"You have a liar on your hands, Inspector," he says without preamble. "A very, very skilled liar, but a liar nonetheless."
Lestrade gapes at him. "You're saying that was all an act?"
"Obviously. Is she going to be transferred to a mental ward?"
Lestrade blinks, thrown off track. "Well, yes. You think she'll try to dash?"
Sherlock's eyes dart briefly to the side. "She'll want to know that the operation went over without a hitch. Then she will dash." A delighted grin blooms on his face. "And extra surveillance won't keep her from doing it, in case you were considering doubling security."
Lestrade crosses his arms. "So we have a criminal here, and we can't stop her from escaping? Is that it?"
Sherlock chuckles. "I'd like to see you try and get past her psychiatrist's report..."
Lestrade rubbed his face.
"I can't get you Mrs Andrea Morrison – her name as fake as her marriage, by the way – at least not right now. The operation she'd like to bring to a successful conclusion, however, is a different matter entirely, as well as her husband's disappearance."
He turns to John for the first time since leaving the room. "John?"
John is caught off guard, but only hesitates a second. "In the last three months, the only time he left the country was for a cargo run to Italy less than a week ago."
"Then we will be going to Italy," Sherlock declares, walking ahead. "I hear it's lovely this time of the year."
John sends a helpless look to Lestrade who waves him off, but the moment he's following Sherlock, he can't help but grin. Italy is nice this time of the year. Not that he expects seeing any of the sights...
Only hours later, they settle on the train from the airport in Rome, and John leaves through a city guide he insisted buying while they had been waiting to board their plane in London.
"Where is our hotel again?" he asks.
Sherlock's lip twitches, but he doesn't turn to look at the map. "We will be taking a taxi from the Stazione Termini."
John looks up. "Why didn't we take a taxi from the airport then? Since we'll be needing one, anyway?"
Now Sherlock looks at him. "The airport is thirty-two kilometres from the centre. You're the one who's always worried about money."
"Oh." John returns to look at the map. "Thank you." All this... considerate behaviour is kind of making him nervous; very, very warm and fuzzy, but also nervous.
Sherlock for his part takes out Mr Morrison's freight plan again. Suddenly, he holds out his hand. "May I?"
"Hm? Oh." John hands him the city guide, and Sherlock trades it for the freight plan to have both hands free, then takes out a pen and starts scribbling on the fold-out map. He circles places and follows the streets. Once he's finished, he holds it out to John and points with his pen.
"He did his computer hardware deliveries to Via di Portonaccio," he points at it, "and Via Condotti, here."
"Okay..."
"He had to have come along here," he follows the roads again with his pen. "And the hotel he was staying at is here at the Via Capo d'Africa. It's a tourist spot, right behind the Colosseum. He didn't exactly have a lot of reasons to stay there. It's decidedly impractical and expensive. He had to leave behind his truck somewhere else. They will hardly accommodate freight trucks for an overnight stay."
"Wait, wait." John's mind is still on something Sherlock has said early on. "Capo d'Africa? Isn't that the name of the hotel we're staying at?"
"Of course it is."
John rubs his face. "What was that again about saving money?"
Sherlock shifts haughtily. "Not when it concerns the case, John."
"Of course not." John shakes his head. Why is he even surprised, anymore?
"I did book a double, if that appeases you."
John shoots him a suspicious look. "And?"
Sherlock smirks. "I may have told them we were on our honeymoon."
"What?" John only just managed to hold back a shriek, and it came out as a indignant hiss, instead.
"If you give people something to notice about you, they are less likely to notice anything else... Very basic rule of hiding, John."
John huffs. He's kind of amused – and Sherlock knows it – but that doesn't mean he doesn't have valid concerns. Concerns he finds himself care less and less about. "I have a condition," he finally says.
"I'm listening."
"Once the case is over, we're staying another night to take care of that honeymoon you spoke of."
Sherlock grins. "I booked three nights. That should do it."
John blinks. Sherlock has planned this. Well, not the trip to Rome, per se, but... He can't help it, he has to grin back and takes Sherlock's hand in his for a moment, ignoring the scandalised look they get from an elderly woman across the aisle.
Sherlock squeezes John's hand, once, then lets it go again to continue with his scribbles and scanning the map. "I've never been one to ignore what I want," Sherlock says, already sounding distracted with whatever his brain is getting from the routes and probably time frames to go with them.
John chuckles. "No. No, you're really not." When put that way, John shouldn't have been surprised.
Eventually, they manage to check into their hotel with minimal fuss. They are, however, very much noticed, as Sherlock has predicted, and offered sincere-sounding congratulations on their happy union. There is even a bottle of champagne in their room as well as a heart shaped flower arrangement.
Sherlock inconspicuously tips the porter rather generously with a polite, "Per lo sforzo," while John is thankfully busy looking at the room and holding back a silly giggle.
The door closes behind the porter, and John sits on the bed and lets out the giggle, anyway. "So, now what, Mrs Watson?"
Sherlock grins. "Now... we'll have to do some shopping. We need to fit in tonight."
John raises his eyebrows. "Fit in?"
Sherlock throws the freight plan next to John on the bed. "According to this, the truck didn't go home, and I am going to question Mr Morrison going anywhere after that, as well. He must have stayed, here, then. Not at Via Condotti, that's where the tourists like to spend the large amounts of money." He leaves through John's city guide. "So it must be the night club where he made his other delivery, at Via di Portonaccio. Former factory building, now one of the largest nightclubs." He holds open the city guide at the right page and points at it. "Even if there were someone in this hotel who knows about the goings-on because of Mr Morrison's stay – which I doubt – two men on their honeymoon asking for a taxi to take them there will be nothing out of the ordinary."
John takes and stares at the guide, then at Sherlock. "You're taking us to a gay club."
"Yes, hence the shopping," Sherlock confirms, already rummaging through his suitcase. "This is not my usual attire, nor does my collection of camouflages include it." He quickly eyes John up and down. "Could be interesting."
John in advertently blushes, and he clears his throat. "We could go for the underwear trick Moriarty used."
Sherlock huffs and straightens. "Please. I do insist on some bare minimum of taste." He grins and holds out his hand. "Shall we?"
John does take the hand and lets himself be pulled up. "Just so you know, I'm not going to hold your hand for the whole of our shopping trip."
Sherlock chuckles but lets go of the hand and instead holds open the door and lets John exit before him with the hand on the small of his back this time, all the while grinning widely.
John blushes again. "Stop it. I'm not the girl in this relationship."
"Of course you're not," Sherlock answers a bit too readily. He doesn't do so because he questions John's statement, he does it because...
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" John accuses him.
Sherlock laughs again. "Making you fluster is rather entertaining." He turns to grin at John. "And now that I have the means to do so..."
"You're going to be insufferable," John finishes for him.
"You can make me laugh, it's only fair."
They look at each other, both grinning.
Finally, John sighs. "So. Shopping."
"Yes, let's." They walk out the front door in sync.
"This trip is going to be insanely expensive."
Sherlock smirks. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I will charge Mycroft for every last bit of the expenses and our collective services."
John giggles. "And will you charge him for our extra day in Rome in springtime?"
"Actually... I'm estimating that the case will be closed by early tomorrow morning."
"Two days in Rome in springtime," John corrects himself, grinning. "And you don't think he'll protest?"
"Do you think he will?"
John thinks for a moment. "No, you're right. He won't." They walk side by side for a moment longer. "And you won't climb the walls of boredom within hours of the case closing?"
"I intend to conduct in-depth research on your person," Sherlock says, making John snort.
"And once you have the results of your research...?" There is a hint of insecurity tingeing John's voice. That is an open question that bothers him. What happens when the novelty wears off? Sherlock needs constant stimulation, constant challenges…
Sherlock stops walking and turns to look at John. "Did you ever notice that I'm never bored when you're around?"
John frowns and blinks. "Uh..." At first, he thinks it should be easy to remember Sherlock being bored, but then he realises that it's harder than he thought to come up with examples. Sherlock regularly complains about being bored, but that is usually when John returns from wherever he's been that is not in Sherlock's general vicinity.
"It only just occurred to me on the flight here that you keep my mind busy by making it do something it ordinarily wouldn't do." They continue walking, but more slowly. "And you have done so from the beginning."
"Why? I mean... what am I... doing?"
Sherlock ponders his answer for a long time before he gives it. "There was that film you were watching the other day. The one with the man in the black coat with the sunglasses..."
"The Matrix?"
"Yes, that one. The characters were able to look at the code that makes up the world, including people. Understand?"
John, surprising himself, does understand. "You're saying... that's how you see people?"
"Yes!" Sherlock sounds excited at having been understood so easily and decides to use metaphors more often. "There are visual signs and codes that make up a person, and I read them."
"And once you've read the person... it... drops out of sight." He imagines Sherlock seeing the world as rows and rows of green, glowing signs, falling down a screen and disappearing at the bottom. It would frighten John terribly; it must be just as frightening the other way around.
"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock agrees, but he looks like he's not all that happy at having to confirm that to John. "There are... glimpses of people I know well. Like Mrs Hudson or even Lestrade. My brother, unfortunately, seems to be part of my own code, very annoying, and I don't have to decode him to read him at all." He takes a deep breath. "You however..."
"Me...?"
"First, I read you, then I placed you where you would be useful... and then..." He shakes his head. "I'm not entirely certain what happened, but then I could see you. All of you."
"When was that?" John is genuinely curious how he managed that feat.
"I changed part of your code. Just by you being you and me being me."
John doesn't follow, now. "What do you mean?"
"Nobody could have made you lose your limp. But we could. You and me. Me, because I wanted to take you along; you, because you needed a reason to forget it."
John works through that, still half-way in the metaphor and suddenly snickers. "There is no limp."
"What?"
John just shakes his head. "Sorry, reference to that film you were talking about. No, I get it, though," he says, actually feeling like he does, on some truly weird level. "You changed the code not by attacking the code itself, but by changing the dynamics within it."
Sherlock blinks and considers that. "I suppose that works."
"You never really thought of yourself as part of the system, did you?"
"Introspection isn't my strong suit, John. But you make me into a code. That never happened before, and it's very intriguing."
"So I'm keeping you from getting bored because I'm an anomaly, and because I make you more interesting."
"Us, John. You make us very interesting, indeed. After all, we made quite a few changes to each other's codes, if you will…"
They look at each other, and John wonders when they stopped walking. He doesn't remember.
"You are an incredibly weird man, Sherlock Holmes, and I truly love you very, very much."
Sherlock's eyes glint in a curious and tentative way.
"That just needs saying every now and again," John continues.
For a very brief moment, it appears as if Sherlock is blushing, but that might just be a trick of the light. He clears his throat anyway. "Shopping?"
"Yes, shopping," John agrees and starts walking again. "Though I have no idea what one wears to a gay club."
"I made arrangements ahead of time."
"Now why am I not surprised?"
"Because you're interesting."
Neither looks at the other, but they both grin and continue walking.
Sherlock's preparations turn out to be someone in a clothing shop who owes him a favour (seriously, is there any country in the world where Sherlock hasn't been piling up favours?) and is all too happy to assist the happy couple in blending in.
John looks at Sherlock being fitted and marvels at the effects the subtle changes have. The trousers are black and fitted – no flashy material like leather or the likes – just a stylish back cloth, hugging his lean legs and hips. He is very happy that the vendor (the very same owing Sherlock a favour) chooses a dark purple for his shirt. It's a different purple than the one Sherlock already owns, it leans more towards the blue, and it buttons only halfway up, the collar simple but unusual enough to attract attention.
Sherlock of course appears entirely uninterested in the changes, and pulls at the sleeves observing the material clinically, finally nodding. That is, John believed Sherlock to be uninterested, right up until the moment he turns and sends John a look that speaks of all manners of things unsuitable for times when in public. It speaks of what has happened the night before, in their own sanctum, back in London, back in 221B. Back home. Their bedroom. Oh, Lord.
Sherlock smirks, then straightens and turns to a decidedly knowing looking vendor. "John next, I think, Luca."
"My pleasure," Luca replies very nearly without any trace of an accent and waves John closer.
John draws a shuddering breath and steps closer, pushing all thoughts of ripping the expensive new clothes off his lover. "I won't be as easy to work with, I'm afraid," he mumbles.
Luca gives him a once-over and chuckles. "You will find that you are very wrong about that, my friend."
Sherlock stands by and watches, closely. John – unlike Sherlock – gets dark jeans and a just as tight, long-sleeved, burgundy t-shirt.
Luca walks around him, studying him from head to toe. "You might want to do a little something about your hair..."
Sherlock pushes off the wall he's been leaning against, walks closer to lean in close to John's ear. "I did tell you that there's a difference."
John smiles benignly, and since he can find no reason not to do it, he turns his head and kisses Sherlock. No more than a small, quick kiss, but it feels so good to being able to just do it. "You've made your point."
"So have you."
"Hairdresser, then?" John asks, flexing his shoulders in his new wardrobe. "We have enough time until that club opens."
"We do."
"Or did you want to sneak around before?"
"No. There will be no need for that. Things will only get interesting once the guest of honour arrives." He smirks.
"Do I even want to know?"
"Mrs Morrison."
John stares at him. "The woman who won't break out of prison until later? That one?"
The smirks widens. "The very same."
John nods his head in a I should have known gesture and sighs enduringly. "Hairdresser," he repeats, feeling... uncomfortably unfinished in his attire. He leaves the plans and musings to Sherlock.
They're having dinner after their stop at the hairdresser's, both now sporting 'product in their hair', and according to the looks they're getting, the whole make-over is working. John suddenly discovers a newfound respect for his sister.
"Please tell me I never stare at people the way we're being stared at right now. While they all try to act like they don't, no less." He adds the second thought after a heartbeat.
Sherlock doesn't seem fazed either way. "Your perception is probably a little off because you're unused to the situation. Not everyone is staring or even interested."
John gives him a look.
"There is a little more than usual, I'll give you that. And no," he adds, "you don't ever stare like that."
John thinks about Harry again, and how she had wavered between amused and worried at his confession. He thinks about her coming-out and just how badly that had gone.
"Maybe you should tell your sister about the change in our relationship. I'm sure she would like to know," Sherlock says, casually.
John blinks, not even hesitating at the unexpected deductions anymore. How Sherlock knows what he was thinking about, how he knows that he has spoken to Harry. He... truly is becoming a part of Sherlock's particular brand of program. "You're right," he agrees and takes out his phone, typing a text message. "I kind of forgot."
"Can't imagine why." Sherlock smirks.
John returns it, but doesn't look up from his typing. "You are so full of yourself."
"And rightfully so."
John's smirk widens. "I'd argue with that, but you know me well enough to know I'd be lying." He hits send and feels better immediately to his own surprise. Like his own, personal little coming-out. Merely admitting an interest in a man feels curiously different from saying out loud (or typing, in this case) that the relationship between his friend and himself has changed. John wouldn't even be surprised if that was something Sherlock has seen coming as well.
Then a thought occurs to him and his head shoots up. "You're eating," he states, wide-eyed.
"Astounding observation."
"You never eat when you work." Granted, it is a light meal, but still.
Sherlock merely smirks and demonstratively puts another piece of chicken in his mouth. After swallowing, he takes pity on John. "Relax. The case is closed, we just need to watch it unfold, now."
John blinks. "You solved it?"
"Of course. It wasn't hard. Once more, the only truly interesting thing was that my brother insisted I take the case. He either missed the implications or – and this is decidedly more likely – he wanted me to make sure that everything unfolds as planned. Or..." he contemplates another angle, "he'd like to get his hands on Mrs Morrison, but that's his job and not mine."
"Why would he want you to help along a crime?"
Sherlock smirks again. "Not a crime, exactly, though some... shady parties will undoubtedly profit."
John just keeps looking at Sherlock.
"Scandal, John. It's an invaluable currency, nowadays." Sherlock's face glows with excitement. "And so beautifully executed, too." He twirls some of his pasta around the fork. "Mycroft probably just wants that politician out of the picture, and deduced that in light of my current... situation... I wouldn't mind bringing a conservative politician to fall who feels his very young and very male lover needs hiding from the public." He huffs. "He should know better. I care neither about politics nor about scandals."
John tilts his head. "And yet, here you are, solving a puzzle that hardly needed solving, and adding some holiday time, too." He watches Sherlock chew and decides that he's probably safe to tease him a bit. "Maybe Mycroft deduced correctly that you'd do it for me..."
"You care."
"About taking down a hypocrite? You bet." He averts his eyes. "And maybe you can separate... us... from the political situation, but I can't." He sighs. "I'm actually surprised at how much I can't. And here I thought I was supportive before."
Sherlock looks at him until John raises his head again. "You were and are supportive, that much is obvious even to me, and I can hardly be accused of overtly accommodating other's needs. Naturally, your view would change," he says softly. "The outside view is as needed as the inside view, and now you are one of the few who have both."
"What about you, then?"
Sherlock shrugs. "I don't believe that being on either side is useful to me." He pauses. "But you're right, of course."
"About what?"
"I'm on your side." He shifts. "And I suppose Mycroft would know that," he allows, grudgingly. "As far as he ever knows something."
John smiles, and they return to their dinner.
They exit the taxi in front of the night club, and John asks what he hasn't dared to before while they could have been overheard by the driver. (For some reason or other, John is weary around cabbies.) "So... how is that scandal supposed to work?"
"Jewellery, obviously."
John is about to roll his eyes when he remembers something about Morrison's second delivery. "The two deliveries are linked?"
"Very much so," Sherlock confirms. "I did a little tabloid research earlier." He holds out his phone. "It looks like our politician made the mistake of crossing several influential business families..." he smirked, "... one of them being the family of his lover. They also do not approve of his covering everything up."
"If the affair is secret, how do you know who a man is nobody knows about."
Sherlock smirks. "I had an idea that it might be something along those lines, once I saw the two delivery addresses. Then I... contacted someone who would know."
"How many people do you know around the globe anyway?"
Sherlock strides past the main entrance and towards one to the side immediately. They're being awaited.
"Massimo," Sherlock greeted and held out his hand.
Massimo took it. "Sherlock, good to see you."
"This is Doctor John Watson."
Massimo takes his hand, too. "John."
John nods.
Massimo turns to Sherlock, again. "He is here. In the back, like usual." He opens the door wider and lets them both enter.
"Along with the hardware that has been delivered on Monday, has there perchance been an additional smaller package with a certain recipient?"
Massimo clears his throat. "I can of course not confirm any such deliveries," he says, a small smile playing around his lips. "I can also not confirm the presence of journalists and photographers who might print tomorrow that a purchase of some jewellery – like, say, a ring – by a certain recipient has taken place."
"And said photographers will not be lying in wait to take a picture of the wearer, of course?"
"If they do, my good friend, then I know nothing of it." Massimo shows Sherlock and John to the main area and waves them through. "If there is anything else, please do not hesitate to let me know."
"Thank you," Sherlock says, guiding a hesitant John through the door with a hand on his back, the pounding music already vibrating through their bodies.
They are overlooking the main dance floor from an advantage point one story up, standing at a railing, but still far enough away for words to carry, and Massimo is used to making his voice carry in less optimal circumstances. "And I do hope you will enjoy your stay regardless of politics." The mischievous smirk on his face indicates that he will be enjoying the evening particularly because of the mentioned politics.
Once the door shuts behind them, John clears his throat and leans closer to Sherlock. "Exactly why is your brother interested in taking down this politician?"
"There is a vote coming up. I assume he wants it to go in a certain direction, and taking out a weak link is the easiest way to accomplish it."
John nods. "A ring, then?"
"Yes. A very particular, very expensive ring. Bulgari has sold it a week ago to an unknown buyer, and since then, someone obviously must have leaked to the press who the buyer was. All they need to complete the scandal is the person the ring was intended for."
"So... where do the Morrisons come in?"
"The Morrisons... are both fake. Mr Morrison works for Mycroft – not a very convincing cover, I might add – another reason for my brother to be interested in his disappearance. He had access to both Bulgari and this club; he was the only on in a position to leak all the necessary information to the press and orchestrate tonight by using his contacts he undoubtedly possesses due to his work for Mycroft. He had to do so without anyone knowing where he has disappeared to to keep up his cover as 'Mr Morrison', since he very clearly has been involved in his supposed wife's undoubtedly numerous plots. Mrs Morrison is his target where my brother is concerned, but I don't think she was supposed to find out."
"And she did?"
Sherlock smirks. "Oh, she is much too smart for my brother."
John can't help but snicker. "Too smart for you to catch her, or just smart enough for you to want to let her go?"
Sherlock huffs. "The latter of course." He smirks again, the indignation quickly forgotten. "For now."
John shakes his head. It is a nice change of pace, for once seeing Sherlock puzzle without anyone being in mortal peril. Interesting enough to keep them both on their toes, harmless enough not to interfere with the... mellow mood.
"She is not my problem. In addition..." he pulls John closer with an arm around his waist and finished the sentence close to his ear, "... there are other matters that require my attention, and since Mycroft only hired me to find his wayward employee, that is what I did."
John shivers when Sherlock's lips brush over the spot just behind his ear, and his eyes flutter and fall closed.
"Feeling this level of attraction is entirely novel to me..." There is a quizzical quality to his voice.
John pushes him away, slightly, so that he can look at his face, only to discover that the expression is as curious as the voice. John's lips quirk, amused. "Your emotions are currently lying on the operating table and you're dissecting them, aren't you?"
That startles a chuckle out of Sherlock. "They are a right bloody mess, that is true."
John leans in to press a small, slow kiss on Sherlock's lips. "And what are they doing when I do this?" Another kiss.
Sherlock shudders. "They are... reacting." He returns and deepens the kiss for a moment. "They react even more to your reactions." He runs both his hands through John's hair. "That I can be the one make you look like this..." He shakes his head, incredulous, then smirks a superior little smile. "I suppose it's only fair, since you are the one to do it to me in return..."
Now the wondrous expression is on John's face. After a short moment, however, he decisively takes Sherlock's hand. "Okay." He clears his throat. "I'm in one of Europe's most famous gay night clubs with my first male lover of less than twenty-four hours," he pulls at the hand and directs them towards the stairs leading down to the dance floor, "... we might as well."
Sherlock chuckles, but his eyes already roam over the other dancing people, trying to imagine himself copying their movements. "I am not sure I will be any good at this type of dancing." Merely following classic steps comes easily to him, all he has to do is memorise them. This, on the other hand...
John remains resolute. "I'm told it's like sex with your clothes on." He peeks at another clubber wearing decidedly little of that. "More or less." He pulls Sherlock close. "Do you remember the way you moved above me? Because I do..."
Sherlock does. Very much so, and after a moment of hesitation, he applies the same undulating movement along the length of John's body. Except that this time, instead of using their breathing and heart beat to guide his rhythm, he finds that allowing the thrumming bass of the music to do the same is precisely what is expected of him. He also finds that it is... immensely satisfying. It is even more so once John responds in kind, his expression as close to having sex as it would ever get in public.
After a couple of minutes, John laughs exhilaratingly. "You..." he points a finger at the strip of bare skin on Sherlock's chest, "... are very good at this." He is also quite surprised at how easily he himself is being pulled into the music and the dancing, neither of which being what he usually favours.
And, because nobody cares and many of the other dancing couples do the same, he pulls Sherlock into a deep and passionate kiss.
Despite Sherlock being carried away a little, and the reactions of his body becoming harder to ignore (curse them), he is still keeping an eye on the entrance, waiting for Mrs Morrison and/or the lover of the unnamed politician. And just as his hands decide to wander and cup John's ass, he sees her and for the barest of moments freezes.
The moment is enough to get John's attention. He looks up in askance.
"Mrs Morrison," Sherlock mouths and turns so that John can see her.
John raises an eyebrow. "She looks decidedly like someone who is most definitely not in shock." And she is also no alone, accompanying a young man through the crowd. John blinks. "That's the ring?"
"It would appear so." Sherlock turns again so he can watch how another man greets Mrs Morrison with a kiss and takes over the duty of bringing her charge to a guarded door. "Enter Mr Morrison."
"Shouldn't your brother be informed?"
"I texted him hours ago when and where he can pick up his lost employee," he answers, disinterested. "He's probably outside right now." He doesn't care about his brother or even the scene that is undoubtedly in the process of taking place backstage... he is much more interested in Mrs Morrison who with a small smirk heads towards a side door that Sherlock knows leads to a corridor used for deliveries and then to one of the emergency exits. He smirks, grabs John's hand and drags him towards a different exit.
"Where are we going? The press probably already have their pictures and everything is in motion..."
"Oh yes, it is. I have a feeling Mrs Morrison doesn't expect the press to get another picture with the lover wearing the ring." He grins.
"What?"
They slam open the emergency exit door and walk around the building towards the other side, waiting just out of sight. Sherlock peeks around the corner and signs John to wait.
They don't have to wait for long. After a mere five minutes, Mrs Morrison appears as expected, well hidden in the dark from the main entrance where there is still a long line of people hoping to get inside. She tightly grabs the strap of her handbag and is about to head for a parked car when a hand on her arm holds her back.
"Mrs Morrison," Sherlock greets her with a dangerously amused smile on his face.
She startles for no more than the fraction of a second, before she smiles, charmingly. "Mr Holmes. So nice to see you again."
Sherlock immediately categorises her regular speech pattern that confirms what his earlier analysis of the fake shock has implied. American. Jersey. Slightly diluted accent: lots of travelling. Used to money... Used to having to get it herself. He holds out his hand. "The ring," he demands, unmistakeably.
The charming smile turns even sweeter. "Surely you would not deprive a girl of her compensation."
Sherlock's responding smile is decidedly shark-like. "I highly doubt that you did not receive advance payment for your skilled services." The side of his face turned towards the main entrance begins to flash in whites and blues, and her eyes widen fractionally. "They might not be able to keep you for long, Mrs Morrison, but it would be such a bother if they were to catch you again, after you've only just escaped their clutches, wouldn't you agree?"
She scowls at him, but shoves her hand into her pocket and all but slams the ring into Sherlock's waiting hand. Then the smile is back. "I will be seeing you again, Mr Holmes. Do try to be on your guard, I prefer the challenge." She gives Sherlock and John a slightly amused once-over and leaves with her car.
John crosses his arms. "You actually just let her go."
Sherlock shrugs. "It really would have been no more than a bother to her."
"And yet, she gave you the ring, anyway."
"You think it wouldn't have been confiscated had she been captured?"
"Ah. Right. There is that, I suppose."
Sherlock grins. "It also gives her a reason to try and get it back..."
John stares at him. "Please tell me you don't intend to keep it."
Sherlock just looks at him, incredulous. "Why ever not? It has not been stolen. My guess is that the politician tried to do damage control and demanded it back, or the lover has tried to get rid of it in a huff. Either way, it has been paid for, and I have been given it."
John just keeps staring and opens his mouth repeatedly, no sound coming out.
Sherlock smirks and holds out his hand. "Shall we?"
Now John stares at the hand.
"There is, after all, a honeymoon suite waiting for us."
That on the other hand is something John's brain has no trouble processing. He huffs a laugh, shakes his head and takes the offered hand. "You do have a point, there."
When they are heading towards one of the waiting taxis, they catch a glimpse of Mycroft standing next to some police cars. He notices them as well and gives them a brief nod.
With that, Sherlock considers his involvement in the case as terminated and focuses on what lies ahead of them (and hopefully under him, soon).
They all but tumble into their room, wrapped around each other in a kiss and slam the door behind them.
John pulls Sherlock's shirt up and over his head – still present enough to not rip it (that would have been a shame) and gasps once more of that tantalising skin is revealed. "This is an interesting way to work off a case high." He rips off his own shirt.
Sherlock smirks. "I could get used to it." He walks John backwards to the bed, pushes him onto it, and, finding the bouncing decidedly inviting, climbs over him within the blink of an eye. "To be fair, though, this case didn't require all the higher thought processes. You however..." He doesn't think that this requires further explanation and devours John's gasping mouth.
John winds his arms and legs tightly around Sherlock's body, and returns the kiss with everything he's got. Suddenly, he gasps and laughs into the kiss. "How is it that you get to be on top both when you're topping and when you're bottoming?"
Sherlock chuckles onto John's lips. "Would you like some control back?"
John pretends to consider that. "Not right now," he says, but then runs a possessive hand into Sherlock's hair, firmly holding onto it. "But don't get used to it."
Sherlock's shark-like grin is back, and John understands why Mrs Morrison agreed to hand over the ring immediately. Sherlock leans in and brushes his lips over John's cheek and jaw. "I'm absolutely counting on you covering all the angles in time." With that, he first licks over John's lips and then into his mouth to claim it once more.
John decides that his has been a point well made and enjoys the ride.
Sherlock loses no time to rid both of them of their remaining clothes – John making more or less helpful kicking motions.
His slow and thorough ministrations on himself the last time had had several goals: one, they were supposed to physically prepare him for penetration; two: John had to get more used to the sexual situation without having to participate actively; and three...: he needed to know everything there was to know so he could apply it to John.
The latter is very useful to him, now that he has John writhing beneath him, his slick fingers working into the willing body, while the other hand firmly pumps his dick in time with the fingers. He remembers the location of the prostate, remembers the effect it was having on him, and he now carefully brushes it, receiving the most delicious reactions. He discovers that John is also very sensitive right behind the first ring of muscles and lets his fingers twist and turn and ignite all of the nerve endings they encounter.
Once John is a trembling, incoherent mess, having four slowly fucking fingers within him, and he starts thrashing his head back and forth, Sherlock pulls away and looks around. He will need... something. The angle isn't quite right like this...
He grabs a pillow and urges John to lift his hips. "This should make it easier," he explains.
John waves a shaky hand and makes a grunting sound, indicating that he doesn't care what the hell Sherlock is doing, as long as he keeps going. And then Sherlock is on him, and in him, and it's perfect, and... John can't for the life of him say why he's never done this before.
Sherlock desperately tries to keep reading John, to detach his body far enough from his emotions to prolong this, but the sensations rip away his control, shred by torturous shred, leaving only John as his anchor.
John for his part forces his eyes open so that he can watch Sherlock coming undone, again. The man looks entirely different from the last time, as if the very core of his being needs to acclimatise to the loss of control each and every time, anew. Sherlock looks young, so, so young, with his eyes losing focus; sweaty curls sticking to his forehead; the gasping, rosy lips in the pale, overwhelmed face... And the sounds, God, the sounds he is making.
Then the otherworldly eyes open, staring helplessly into John's.
"John," he whispers.
All John can do is cling to Sherlock with his arms and legs, loosening one arm enough so that he can cup his cheek. Love you', he mouths. 'Love you... love...'
"Sherlock..."
And Sherlock loses it. He loses himself, loses any sense of his surroundings, loses his mind. All but John, and the world goes black.
When Sherlock slowly returns, he is being held, tenderly, and a hand is running up and down his back. He lifts his head and is greeted with the most gorgeous smile that he returns... until he feels that at least one part of John isn't yet satisfied and is poking him insistently. The smile falters, and he tries to push himself up.
John refuses to let him go, however, and pulls his head into the crook of his neck. "Shh. Just stay a bit."
Sherlock's muscles go slack again, and he breathes into John's neck, mouthing the skin. Being who he is, it doesn't take him long to regain his mental faculties, and he rolls slightly to the side – just enough to firmly stroke John with his hand while still being held. John's insides twitch, and Sherlock slips out with a slight wince, but he doesn't stop and instead adds firmer kisses, licks and bites to John's neck, feeling moans vibrate along the throat.
It is mere minutes before John to shudders underneath Sherlock and releases a breathy moan.
Sherlock gives the dick a parting stoke, smirking at the little jerk John's body reacts with, and possessively licks the hickey he has created. His eyes flash at the mark, and he ventures another sharp bite.
John chuckles. "What does my neck look like?" he asks, still breathing harshly.
"Like you belong to me," Sherlock growls.
John hums and runs a hand through Sherlock's hair. "Okay then..." he replies sleepily.
After too short a moment, Sherlock rolls off John and stumbles (gracefully) into the bathroom to clean up, returns with a wet cloth to make sure John would be comfortable for sleeping, climbs back into the bed... and they fall asleep before the smiles on their faces manage to disappear.
They're having breakfast around noon, sitting at the small table in their room, feeling almost as if they were at home (Sherlock hides behind a newspaper, and John generally smiles at the day).
Sherlock mentally prepares for a mostly boring day of pounding the streets along the generic tourist-y spots. He doesn't necessarily mind roaming a new city, it gives him a feel for the people and the way they function and are likely to react and helps him categorise Mediterranean cultural behaviour. The areas designed for tourists, however, are meant to entertain while being disguised as being educational and making sure that people leave money behind. Tourist areas aren't real, they're artificial. He supposes he can trot along and keep his eyes on more hidden codes, and...
Sherlock blinks and looks up in askance when John pushes down his newspaper and hands him the city guide. "Yes?"
"Well, there you go, then," John just says.
Sherlock tilts his head.
"That's Rome. Decode it for me."
Sherlock takes hold of the small book and a slow smile grows on his face. He really does love this man.
FINE
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