A/N: The Webley revolver was the standard issue gun for British military from 1887 to was a stream ship called the 'Sudan' but I took liberties when describing it.'The Secret Adversary' is a real novel by Agatha Christie
P.S. Hello you three! Sendai, Bells, & NotKing thank you for reading all my stories! You have no idea how happy it makes me.
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The next two days passed quietly.
Lestrade and Mycroft were busy making plans for the trip. Even with the Holmes' money and influence it would still take about a week to make all the needed arrangements. Sherlock was surprisingly absent. John sighed in relief when he could go back to examining artifacts and translating in peace.
John tried not to show it but he was practically a ball of frantic energy. He was so excited at the possibilities of what the mummies could hold and passing the time with only books was a sorry substitute.
The hair on the back of John's neck stuck up. He was being watched. Supposing it was Mike or Molly, John turned with a smile. "Um?"
John's eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock. "What do you want?"
"Kayfa ḥālak. (How are you?)" Sherlock walked into the room like he owned it. He sat on the stool across from John.
"Al-Hamdulillāh. (Fine, thank God)" John couldn't keep the surprise from his face. Then irritation quickly replaced it. "If you speak Arabic, why did you make that scene at the market? I have to live here you know."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be dull, Captain. I didn't speak Arabic then."
In Arabic, Sherlock the proceeded to tell John how he had spent the last two days learning the language. "It's more difficult than I first calculated and therefore I have deduced that I will be fluent by the end of the week."
He wanted to yell. Accuse Sherlock of being a liar. People do not learn conversational Arabic in the span of two days. John opened his mouth to accuse Sherlock when he caught sight of the purple bags under the young man's eyes. John looked harder, and saw that Sherlock looked drawn- as if he hadn't slept since John had seen him last.
"You really did, didn't you? It took you two days, and it took me a year." John wanted to ask him so many questions but there was only one that stuck out the most. "Why?"
Sherlock readjusted his eyes. "Hmm?"
John sighed. The boy was a walking zombie from sleep deprivation, John knew instinctively that Sherlock would never admit to it though. "Why did you learn Arabic?"
Sherlock's eyebrows bunched up in confusion. It looked as if he hadn't even considered the question. "You know it." He voice was oddly soft.
John licked his lips. Realizing what he was doing, he quickly drew it back into his mouth. He had no idea what to say to the boy sitting across from him. John wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or overwhelmed. "I'm going to make some tea. Do you want any?"
John stood up, the stool scrapping hard against the floor. He didn't bring his eyes back to Sherlock as he left the room. Only later, as John was staring that the kettle like it held all the answers did he realize that Sherlock had never answered his question.
John brought in two cups of tea to find Sherlock asleep. His head was laying on his crossed arms. John snorted affectionately. Idiot. John placed the tea down near Sherlock's head. He had meant to go back to his side of the table, but John found that he wanted to examine the sleeping boy's face.
Asleep, Sherlock's features were less stern but no less sharp. Dark lashes framed the purplish tint under his eyes. There was a softness to his mouth; no longer drawn in a tight line. It really was a cupid bow of deep red and John could see that they were cracking only slightly from the desert air.
His neck was stretched out and it was all milky skin. John's fingers twitched with a desire to glide a touch over it. Releasing a shaky breath, John knew he had been staring much longer than he should have.
John walked back over to his side of the table. He had intended to go back to his work but he found his eyes lingering back to the boy across from him. All John could see was a mess of dark curls and an elegant nose. Lost in his thoughts, John rested his chin on his palm.
Sherlock began to spend most of his time in the library section of the museum. Molly skittered around the brooding boy who had taken up residence in her domain. She occasionally blushed when Sherlock wasn't looking and whether or not Sherlock noticed he chose to ignore it.
Sometimes Sherlock would come banging into John's office to demand an answer as to why the library lacked a certain book or just complain in general. John tried to take it in stride, but by the time the brat left, John was usually silently counting to ten to try and calm his temper.
For his part, Mike tried to stay the neutral party who would listen to John rant and make Molly tea when it looked like she was close to crying. The end of the week couldn't come quick enough.
John didn't even bother trying to hid any of the relief that he felt when Lestrade walked into his office at the end of the week. The curator let out a laugh at the relieved face that John made. "Oh, god. Please tell me you're here with good news."
Lestrade didn't even try and keep the knowing smile off his face. He had spent a week with a Holmes brother too. "Yes, thank god. We leave tomorrow."
"We?"
"I expressed a desire to accompany you and Mr. Holmes agreed." Lestrade said. "You're not the only one who needs a little adventure in their life."
John finished packing. He stared at the Webley revolver laying on top of his clothes. Although he cleaned it regularly, it had been more than a year since he had carried it on his person. While it was true that he felt more comfortable with it, the Webley reminded him of his time in the army. John sighed. The metal of the revolver was cool against his skin and John was transported to days and nights spent in constant fear.
A dull pain started to pulse in John's bad shoulder. He brought his hand up to rub at the offending scarred skin. John hoped he wouldn't need the revolver but looters were a real threat. Best to have it. He placed it in the holster near his right hip.
The steam ship was called the 'Sudan' and John wasn't the lest surprised to see how decadent it was. Maybe they wouldn't be sleeping in caves after all. It would take about three days to reach the site by ship.
Mycroft bowed his head when he caught sight of John. "My dear Dr. Watson, how nice to see you again. I do hope my brother hasn't been too trying in my absence."
John couldn't place why the comment irritated him. It was the truth, Sherlock was a nuisance, but the way that Mycroft talked about his own brother made John bristle and want to defend the man. "Quite the opposite. Holmes is a very bright boy who knows his archeology and ancient Egyptian well. In fact, he's now fluent in Arabic."
Mycroft smirked. "I'm pleased to know that."
He looked anything but. However John knew when to drop a conversation, so he gave a tight bow to Mycroft before going back to his business. Lestrade caught his eye and cocked his eyebrows in a silent question. John shrugged too tired to explain.
With the help of servants, the luggage was aboard in a matter of hours. John stood at the railing as the Sudan started to move south down the Nile. The city dissolved into the distance and John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The sound of the steam engines were soothing and John tried to block out everything out other than the sound of them and the waves. The stream stack released a whistle of steam.
John made his way down to his cabin. It was small but comfortable. There was a water pitcher and basin for his washing and a plush reading chair next to his bed. The Sudan was equipped with electric lights and John knew Mycroft had spared no expense.
Flopping down onto this bed, John closed his eyes and waited for someone to knock on his door and tell him lunch was ready.
Later that afternoon, John was up on the decking reading. It was uncommon for him to read fiction but he had been wanting to finish his novel for sometime. John heard a snort of contempt from above his head. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. "What? Not a fan of Agatha Christie?"
"Her stories are shockingly common and lack any thought."
Sherlock's bored tone grated on John's nerves. "Well, us 'common' folk enjoy a good mystery every once and awhile. By the way, have you even read one of her books?
Sherlock sniffed. "Why would I bother? I read a book of fiction once and found it to be appalling."
"You made an assumption? That's not very scientific of you." It took all of John's willpower from a smirk creeping onto his face.
"I never assume. It was a logical conclusion." Despite Sherlock's confident tone, there was a hint of distress. "If plebeian hordes enjoy it, that why would I? Mycroft never reads."
"Do you follow your brother's example?"
"No!"
"Then pull up a chair." John had no idea what he was proposing. Suddenly he had an overwhelming urge for company, even if it was from Sherlock.
The boy hesitated for a moment before pulling up another deck chair. He sat down at John's left side. "It's only because there's nothing else to do on this wretched ship. Mycroft refused to let me experiment and I have already finished translating the texts I brought with me."
John was tempted to ask about the experiments but decided to save it for another time. "Have you ever heard of 'The Secret Adversary'?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Well, I only brought one book with me. I suppose I could read it to you." John tried not to flinch as he spoke the words. There was no way Sherlock could sit still, let alone stay quiet long enough for John to read him a novelette.
"I see that you've already started reading. There is no need for you to start at the beginning." Sherlock crossed his arms and stared out at the Nile.
John sighed. Is there any way for him to sound like he's not ordering me around? Clearing his throat, John began to read, "Tuppence turned sharply..."
John had had a whisky one too many. Still it felt good to be pleasantly drunk cruising along on the Nile. Mycroft's whisky had been top grade and he knew when to take advantage of a situation. John wasn't sure if it was the Sudan rocking or his head. The night air was brisk and the stars bright.
The others had gone to bed and John had wandered up to the clear his head before going to sleep himself. He stayed away from the railing, not wishing to become a late night snack for the crocodiles.
His head lolled from side to side. John hummed a popular tune and took another sip of water. It was thick in his throat and he fished the ice cub out of the glass. The ice dissolved on his tongue and John sighed in pleasure.
After one more look out across the dark reeds covering the riverbank, John made his way down to his cabin. The ship lurched and John stubbled down the last step. He banged against the wall and giggled.
He swayed along with the ship as he made his way down the hallway. The hallway was dark with only a few of the lamps still lit. John squinted in the darkness; someone was ahead of him.
"Hello? Whose there?" John whispered.
Without warning there were hands on his shoulder pining his against the wall. Before John could raise a protest, lips covered his. John's arms flung out seeking support. His fingers curled around small hips.
They were definitely not female.
The man was kissing John with a wild intensity. Lips pressed hard and sought out more of John. Teeth began to nibble at John's lower lip and he opened to allow a tongue to slip in. Everything was hot and wet and it overwhelmed all of his senses.
At first, John let the other person assault his mouth. Once he had recovered some of his wits, John began to return the kiss. John's hands left the stranger's hips to press against a warm back.
His hands traced along shoulder blades. Heat began to pool in his abdomen and John groaned into the man's mouth. This seemed to please the other man as he hummed in answer. His heart was beating wildly in his chest and every coherent thought that John tried to grasp escaped him.
John pressed his hips against the other man. The warmth there was delicious and John knew the wasn't the only one becoming hard. John's hips bucked forward and the taller man growled.
Slowly John worked his way up into a mess of curls. His finger tugged at the soft hairs and John shivered. Tongued continued to taste each other and all he wanted was more. Then a thought finally attached to John's mind. Curls. Soft curls, just like Sherlock's.
Sherlock.
John's body stiffed. He pulled away enough to breath out one word, "Sherlock?"
The stranger brought his mouth away was a small gasp. Before John could open his eyes he was gone. The sound of a door closing echoed so loudly it might have well been slammed. John slide down the wall to stunned to support his own weight.
What the bloody hell.
