Chapter 3- Anyone know any good café's?
Agent Holmes slipped into his well-fitted pair of black trousers. He took a certain amount of care to the way he dressed, always found it was priority. Sherlock Holmes pulled over his head a button down shirt that attempted causality. There was dreadfulness that sprouted and bred within Sherlock's being, as always happened when London was littered with polluted downpour. Sherlock stalked into the living room and picked up the violin. Agent John Watson was asleep and most likely in a terrible mood; Sherlock had always known John's nerves calmed in the slightest when he played the violin to wake John up.
Dream of nightmares.
He had named the song he begun to play, it was the song he begun each day with, in ode to John, his roommate and coworker. Though Sherlock knew the relationship was slightly more extensive than meets the eye. Sherlock played with perfection for several minutes before he heard the familiar soft thudding of John's bare feet on the wooden ancient floor.
"Sherlock," John said warmly, with a slight tinge of affection. John seated himself on the kitchen table, glanced upward and delivered a nod of approval in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock fought back a scowl though it was evident not only in the way Sherlock put his violin down but in the single few seconds where he could not mask his emotions. John immediately righted his mistake.
"You played wonderfully well today," John stood and opened the cupboard above his head. "A little earlier than usual, isn't it?" John reached up to grab hold of the cereal perched on the top shelf. John had always known Sherlock had kept it a little higher than John's reach on purpose. When John turned slightly he caught Sherlock's subtle stare on John's torso. A thick line of skin exposed the beginnings of John's well-built chest. John gave it a last push of effort and pulled down the cereal. He groaned slightly as a few grains fell down.
"Can you not place the cereal where I can actually reach it?" John grumbled as he did every morning while he poured himself a small portion of the cereal. John usually found it difficult to stomach food after his nightmares.
"Sorry, force of habit," Sherlock grinned as he walked towards John. "What are we doing today?" Sherlock sat across John, their knees barely brushing each others.
"Working as detectives, which is our cover, incase you forgot." John bent his head down but looked up with his eyes, Sherlock's annoyed face stared back down at him.
"I wish we had decided on something les….demanding." Sherlock glanced at the clock behind John.
"Sherlock, you do know that we mostly just spend time in the apartment as we await so called "crimes" to solve, right?" John pushed the cereal in his bowl around slightly.
"Don't ask me if I know that, of course I know that," Sherlock stood. "The demanding part of the job is having nothing to do."
"So you would rather work than stay home with me?" John questioned, his head resting on the bend of his wrist with his hand facing downward. Sherlock snapped his head towards John.
"You know that's not it John," Sherlock sighed. "I need things to do, things to think about." Sherlock turned away from John.
"I suppose you could think about the letter delivered in code to you yesterday, just an idea." John chewed on his hard cereal.
"Yes, I've already figured that out, not much to know, really. Just another location which I suppose I would have to run by Mycroft before visiting." Sherlock leaned against the fireplace and stared at nothing in particular.
"Or we could go on our own." John stood, having not eaten most of his cereal John was done staring at it with a hateful glare. Sherlock looked from the food to him, he seemed to understand that John suffered from PTSD though John had never mentioned the nightmares. Sherlock stepped towards John and stood before him.
"Any more dreams?" Sherlock squarely looked into his eyes, though Sherlock was not one for physical contact or social engagement he had never been shy in the slightest around John.
"Nightmares, you mean." John commented, his voice low and his eyes lower. Sherlock reached out but seemed to change his mind halfway, he stood, frozen with one hand almost reaching out to John, then he turned away.
"Yes, you should take medication for those." Sherlock placed both hands on his hips and though his actions were to no avail, avoided John by pretending he was thinking about something. Which was not entirely untrue, he was thinking about something, it just so happened he was thinking about John.
John sighed and with his slightly itchy sweater clinging to his arms, reached forward to Sherlock. He turned Sherlock and leaned forward, planting a firm kiss on Sherlock's cheek, his lips making contact with the edge of Sherlock's. Sherlock stood, stunned, with no reaction for a moment, then he wrapped two hands with the most collectedness he could summon and clung to John. John leaned back slightly and Sherlock's eyes met his, then, as they had done so the morning before, John's lips pressed warmly onto Sherlock's. A smooth, tranquil kiss sped through John's systems and seemed to warm them up with an unnatural heating. John clutched Sherlock's cheeks with his hands and pressed them with an affectionate pressure. Sherlock pulled John closer to him. Their lips never breaking contact, Sherlock stepped back and he stood against the wall behind him. John deepened the kiss and entered his tongue into Sherlock's slippery mouth. John's closed eyes imagined Sherlock's face, his eyes, he pictured his every feature. John loved them each to death, though he feared Sherlock did not feel the same. John pulled back then, before the simple kiss got out of hand. Sherlock, breathless, simply stared at John. John had always been the one to take the initiative in physical and emotional contact. Sherlock accepting and reacting to it. Sherlock had no real understanding of what to do or what to say, but John understood that and helped Sherlock through it all.
"It's wrong," Sherlock whispered in an inaudible voice. "We're agents, we aren't supposed to feel things, tomorrow, they could be plunging a knife into your stomach to get me to talk," Sherlock reached forward and stroked John's stubble. "That would make me talk, that would make me do anything. When you start to mean more than my career is when this gets out of hand."
John pulled away from Sherlock's hand.
"You know I would never let you get into harms way."
"Yes, but I think that it is inevitable. One way or another you will be my weakness and they will find out, then they will use you against me." Sherlock stood straighter.
"No one has to know then." John nearly pleaded. Sherlock smiled a small smile.
"We can try, but I don't think that will work too well. I feel to strongly for you."
John did not want to take advantage of the situation nor did he want to let it go, it was not often that Sherlock was so open and so affectionate. John opened his mouth but promptly closed it again. In truth John didn't know what to say, he knew Sherlock was correct in what he had said.
"I can't make it all go away."
Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at John.
"New shaving cream?" Sherlock asked. Sherlock had always been one to change conversations when he didn't know where they were going or he didn't like the direction in which it was going.
"New toothpaste?" John countered, though in truth John didn't want to tease, the Sherlock that had just admitted he had feelings for John had slipped away from John.
Sherlock smiled and pushed himself off the wall. "I heard we have a case to solve downtown." Sherlock made his way to the coat hanger.
"We?" John turned to follow Sherlock's movements.
"Yes, always we John." Sherlock turned from John's view and wrapped on his scarf. With a sigh of frustration and anger John pulled on a coat and followed after Sherlock.
"Do we really have a case downtown?" John turned to face Sherlock, the cab they had haled was slimmer and narrower than the usual ones, John sat nearly on Sherlock, though Sherlock didn't seem to mind.
"No, but we have something to do downtown."
John had never been one to connect, in fact recalling things from past conversations to connect to current conversations was something John could never do.
"What is it?" John pushed himself against the door, to be a little farther away from Sherlock. This Sherlock seemed to notice.
"The address on the paper."
"But we weren't supposed to go without Mycroft approving or knowing."
"Yes, but then you said let us go on our own without his knowledge, and now I suppose the idea seems somewhat less exciting than before but at least it is your idea not mine." The cab halted in front of the large brightly flashing lights of the "CINEMA PLUS" building. John climbed out and greeted London's harsh air of pollution and rain.
"A cinema?" John looked around the road, looking for but not expecting something suspicious, perhaps men in suits or women with large shiny briefcases. The stereotypes one would expect in an action spy movie.
"2 tickets to Skyfall please." Sherlock pulled out his wallet and shoved a bill in the hole, his large hands getting slightly scraped by the harsh plastic.
"Skyfall?" John put his hands in his coat pocket and refused to allow himself to subject to the cold weather.
"It was on the list except it was fall sky, a famous painting by Sinna." Sherlock turned and faced John who was closer than Sherlock had thought.
So short. Sherlock thought as he looked down at John, then again, he had always liked John's height, it made it easier for Sherlock to see him, to feel less intimidated by him. Still, John held eyes of the army doctor with unhealed scars that shone with anger. Sherlock feared the anger as well as was completely intrigued by it.
"Alright, a dark cinema with you, just what I need." John took the ticket out of Sherlock's hand, their thumbs touching in a warm buzz of electricity. Sherlock had no idea how to interpret what John had just said, it could have been humor, mockery, honesty, or sarcasm. Sherlock watched John walk, his wrinkled face frowning naturally.
"Whom exactly are we waiting for?" John leaned in and whispered with a slight velocity to Sherlock. The theater was cold and the air was vivid with the adrenaline of the Bond fans. Personally John had never liked Bond, it had always been a mockery of his real agent life. Alcohol addiction, sex, women. None of the real tragedies, the death, the violence, the loss portrayed as it really happened.
"I don't entirely know." Sherlock whispered back. John relaxed into his chair and watched his surroundings carefully. Three women on his row, each bubbling with excitement, clearly not a potential threat lest they have AK 47's hidden with their protruding breasts. One man sat beside Sherlock, whose placement John did not particularly like, however the man was with a woman and each wore rings on their fourth finger of their left hand.
"Clear in front and beside." John leaned in closer to Sherlock. "You check behind." Sherlock obliged and turned around.
"No one looks dangerous," Sherlock attempted to be looking for someone but he was giving away their cover all to easily. John pulled him back down. "What's our cover?" Sherlock's thick hair brushed the side of John's forehead. John turned towards Sherlock and thought for a moment. Then he reached out and took Sherlock's limp cold hand in his.
"A couple." John turned to face the screen, unable to look Sherlock in the eyes. Sherlock turned to face the screen as well though both their attentions were on the contact of each others skin. Then all of a sudden the screen went blank. There was a moment of silence before outrageous fans began bursting their anger. John clutched Sherlock's hand tighter, this was it, he supposed. When no one could see anything. Then a bag was pulled over John's head and Sherlock was pulled away from him. When the lights came back on again Sherlock was gone and a woman sat beside John. John turned to the woman and pushed down his frantic fear and adrenaline.
"Hello." She said without so much as glancing at John. "How are you liking the movie?" She turned to John. John instantly knew her thick red lips and her long dark eyelashes, now that the screen had returned to it's previous state John could see her every feature perfectly, he didn't need to see them, he had them memorized.
"Irene?" John had momentarily forgotten anything else. Then he leaned in with urgency. "Irene, where's Sherlock?"
"Oh John, I should have known. The minute I left you I should have known you would jump on to the next living thing you could find," Irene laughed silently. "Poor broken John, no one to love him."
"Where. Is. Sherlock." John fought to maintain his cool but it slipped away from him. Irene, still smiling broadly, turned and pointed with her eyes to the edge of the cinema, where Sherlock sat between two large men who each held something to Sherlock's side. John swallowed a thick mass of saliva. Sherlock looked down at them but John could not see clearly enough to know if Sherlock was looking back at him.
"See how it feels, John? To have one you love right in front you, so close to death? You can almost taste it, can't you? The pain. The horror," Irene turned to him, her eye icy and her mouth a rigid line. "It's difficult to live with."
"What do you mean?" John's eyes flickered from Sherlock to Irene. "Why would you hurt him Irene, he's your colleague, your friend."
"He is not my friend," Irene's voice rose and she closed her eyes to regain her calm. "Now, if you would kind enough to tell me where Mycroft is based I will let Sherlock go and you two can run home and make all the gay sex you want." From afar, Sherlock wondered what was happening. He could see John's panic and it radiated through Sherlock.
"In case anyone out there cares, Sherlock and I aren't actually together you know. I'm not gay."
"No need to lie to me, John." Irene winked. "Now hurry, I don't have much time left. You have all of seven minutes before I order them to inject Sherlock with enough poison to kill an army."
"I don't know where his base is! I don't, you know that, you've been working with me." John's voice edged panic and it was all too clear.
"I was gone for 2 months, John. In those months Mycroft had your help to find relocation. 6 minutes," Irene looked down at her watch. "In fact, I think I'm even shorter on time than what I thought, 3 minutes."
John swallowed. He contemplated both options. Spilling to Irene the completely top secret CIA information that could possibly get him killed along with every agent. Letting Sherlock die…
"I…." John stumbled.
"1 minute, tick tock." Irene tapped her miniscule clear watch.
"The plumbing system. They're below the ground. The entire facility is below our feets, below the grounds of London, below the subway system as well."
Silence, dreadful, painful silence filled the air around John. What had he just done?
Irene smiled. "I knew you'd come around. Now, I'm going to have some boys check up on that. Till then, I'll keep Sherlock to see if you're telling the truth." John panicked, he silently panicked and desperately wanted to reach out to Irene and shake her. He held back his anger.
"What? Our deal was I tell you where the base is you let Sherlock go." John's voice wavered.
"And you should know by now I'm not really one to keep my word. Don't follow me or you'll find Sherlock delivered to you piece by piece." Irene stood and walked down the row of people watching with intent expressions. John looked up and watched Sherlock stand, the men pulling him up.
Sherlock looked down towards John and held his eyes while he was practically dragged down the steps till John could not see him anymore. John's breathing quickened and his heart picked up.
He had just betrayed his company and lost everything that meant anything to him.