Author's Note: Ohh, boy. I'm in the doghouse, aren't I? This took far too long to get to you readers, I know. I'm a cretin. Would it at all excuse if I said I've started two new jobs and got sickfic-level-ill twice in the last month? No? Can't say I didn't try. I'll go stand in the corner now and think about what I haven't done while you (hopefully) enjoy. PS: I love you like Hobbits love the taste of strawberries.
John was quiet for the better part of the taxi ride, gazing happily out the window at the vast, rocky shore of the Cornwall coast. As the vehicle swerved down the winding road, passing an occasional beach or cottage, John contemplated that it had been far too long since he'd left the city. While the somewhat barren isolation of Cornwall was jarring after spending so much time in the cramped center of London, it was also relieving. He sighed contentedly before he could help himself. Perhaps his doubts about the trip were unfounded.
"You're enjoying this," Sherlock said quietly, interrupting his reverie.
John nodded and leaned on his hand, eyes locked on the white crests of the waves as though the sea itself might disappear if he should look away. Sherlock, in one of his more generous gestures, left him to his thoughts for a few long moments.
Yet, just as John began feeling totally relaxed, the view, hum of the cab, and lack of sleep lulling him into a kind of trance, Sherlock startled him with a hand on his forearm. John's eyes snapped to him.
"That's the hotel, I believe," Sherlock said, indicating through his window to a hill in the distance. Shifting closer to him, John pressed against Sherlock's side to better see the object of his attention.
The lone structure was more mansion than hotel. It was massive, crafted from red and tan stone with intricate detailing and large, floor-length windows. Balconies, smoke stacks, and decorative towers punctuated the sweeping architecture. The damn thing was one step away from a castle. John's throat went dry.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
John nodded, but then turned an incredulous frown on the detective.
"Wait, you haven't been here before, have you? Damnit, Sherlock, the idea was for us to go somewhere you knew nothing about. That's why I had Mycroft—"
"I assure you I've neither seen nor heard of this establishment before."
"Then how did you—wait, wait, don't tell me. You deduced it from the type of mortar used in the masonry, am I right? Or perhaps the shaving style of our cabby."
"No."
"Enlighten me, then, I know you want to. What was it?"
"You told the driver the name of the hotel. I saw a sign."
John blinked.
"Oh."
"We're coming up on it now!" announced the cabby, seemingly oblivious to their conversation.
The corner of Sherlock's lip quivered with a barely suppressed smirk. John glared and shoved him playfully in the shoulder. In what must have been a gut reaction, Sherlock pushed John back so hard that he almost tipped over completely on the seat. The competitive soldier in John rose to the surface instantly and within moments they were wrestling up against Sherlock's door.
"Oi! Play nice back there, kiddies!" interrupted the cabby, jarring John back to his late thirties and causing both of them to freeze. Only then did he realize the precarious position he'd gotten himself into. He was half-sitting in Sherlock's lap, their mouths so close that each breath mingled together, with his hand gripped high on Sherlock's thigh. In an attempt to gather himself John cleared his throat, blushing furiously when only a clipped chirp broke free.
"Always so flustered," Sherlock whispered low, amused, and arching an eyebrow. He scanned John's face with a penetrating gaze. "Again, I did not predict John 'three-continents' Watson would be this affected. Or is this just another reaction that's specific to me?"
John bristled instantly. Growling, he slid roughly from Sherlock's lap and put as much distance between them as possible.
"I told you not to call me that." He looked back out his window.
"You used to be proud of it."
"I am," he snapped, shooting him a glare before turning away again. "Just not when you say it."
"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. John did not like the tone of the word. Somehow, it promised that the subject would be returned to in the future. Could Sherlock let nothing go?
"We're here!" declared the cabby just as the vehicle slowed to a stop. Sherlock immediately swung his door open, hardly waiting for the parking brake to be cocked, and barreled out. John sat for a moment, feeling a bit startled, until the driver opened his door for him.
Once out on the cobblestones, John craned his neck to take in the hotel's sweeping face, finding it even more imposing from close up. Never in his life had he stayed in such opulent accommodation. He wondered if Mycroft had over-estimated how much his side of the favour was worth. John had requested "simple, comfortable, and with a view of the sea," damnit. Not "posh, lavish, and with a royal title included." He'd be having words with the other Holmes when they returned.
Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the splendor. His brow was pulled together, hands wedged firmly in his pockets, with a twitch of impatience in his step. When John began approaching the boot to help carry their luggage, Sherlock chided him.
"Come on, John, leave the bags. They'll take care of them for us. It's what they're paid to do," Sherlock snipped.
"Alright, alright. What's the rush, huh?" John sighed, coming up to his side and almost placing a placating hand on Sherlock's lower back before he thought better of it. They hadn't yet established how public this 'relationship' of theirs was going to be. John hadn't even personally mulled over what he preferred yet: secrecy or open acknowledgment, though he would probably lean towards privacy. Their business was their business.
He followed Sherlock's commanding stride through the large double doors leading to the hotel foyer. Sherlock approached the front desk, which was gold and decorated with vases of elaborate bouquets, possessing all the confidence of someone who had stayed there a thousand times before. Still, John trusted him when he insisted he hadn't. Sherlock simply had a way of owning every room he entered. This was nothing new.
"Room under John Watson," Sherlock barked at the concierge, a young, pretty girl with a toothy smile, and indicated John with a thumb. She immediately began typing away, seemingly oblivious to the gruffness of Sherlock's tone.
The girl brightened slightly when it she pulled their information up.
"Oh, yes. You'll be staying in one of our best coastal view suites. Very exclusive."
John rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed quietly. Sodding Mycroft.
"I'll just need a credit card from one of you to keep on file for any additional charges."
"Fine. Take mine," Sherlock said, sounding put-upon, before fishing his card from his wallet and flinging it across the smooth marble of the front desk top. The girl caught it with a practiced air, typing at her computer so fast she could rival Sherlock's on one of his slow days.
"Here you are, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said politely, handing the card back to him when she was finished.
"Sherlock Holmes?" interrupted a bemused voice from behind them. John and Sherlock whirled around immediately to identify its owner. "The Sherlock Holmes?"
The man, tall and slender with elegantly curled blonde hair, approached them with his arms outstretched, a wide, beaming smile on his lips.
"V-Victor," Sherlock stuttered. John's wide eyes shot to him.
Now, John was rather proud that out of all the people Sherlock was acquainted with, he was the one to have seen the widest range of expressions play on that strictly controlled, stoic face. It was rather like a privilege. Yet, never in all their time together, had he seen such a look on his flatmate. Sherlock, as he'd accused John of being so many times, was positively flustered.
"None other! How have you been, old friend?" The man called Victor took Sherlock in a short, unreturned embrace before pulling away and patting him affectionately on the arm. "It's been far too long."
John tensed involuntarily at the unexpected display of physical affection and familiarity. Old friend? he thought dryly, the words odd and ill-fitting as they buffeted around his mind.
Suddenly, he was unavoidably aware of just how attractive this Victor character was. He had large, green eyes, accented with unusually flattering crow's feet. His cheekbones were high, though not as sharp as Sherlock's, his smile dazzling and his clothes perfectly-tailored and expensive. John automatically stretched to his full height, holding his head high and pushing his shoulders back, though it did little to match him with the two tall, obnoxiously good-looking men now completely ignoring his existence.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, more bewildered than acerbic. John did not appreciate his tone in the slightest.
"Bit of a business venture, I'm afraid. Wish I could be here for strictly pleasure, but you know how it is. Company can't run itself, as much as I want it to." Sherlock nodded conspiratorially and John glared. What the hell did Sherlock know about it? The only times he ever set foot near a company was when an employee had been murdered. "But what about you? Here on a case, I assume."
"Oh. Not quite." For the first time since Victor's appearance Sherlock glanced at John, looking at him as though he'd forgotten his presence entirely. John clenched his jaw.
"Oh goodness, I'm sorry. We're being terribly rude. Allow me to introduce myself," a welcoming hand was extended to John, who took it firmly, unflinching, "I'm Victor Trevor. Sherlock and I were at Uni together."
"Dr. John Watson." The honourific of 'doctor' came out before he could help it. He never usually introduced himself as such and realized, far too belatedly, that Sherlock would notice and deduce why immediately. Bugger.
Victor looked expectantly, a question in his eyes, from John to Sherlock and back again.
"He's my colleague," Sherlock stated flatly. John winced.
Well, okay, so they hadn't discussed how they were going to identify their relationship to other people, to be fair (negligence that he was greatly regretting at the present) but that justification did little to curb the swift ache of rejection now swelling in his chest. 'Colleague' was a little better than 'assistant' but far worse than 'flatmate' or 'friend.' Why didn't he just call him 'some random bloke I just pulled off the street' while he was at it?
"I've never known you to have a colleague before," Victor remarked, smirking mildly.
"Well, I—"
Sherlock was interrupted by the concierge clearing her throat loudly behind them.
"Your keys, gentlemen," she said, holding out two white keycards, "just in case you separate." John snatched the keys before Sherlock could grab them, smug at the opportune reveal that they were sharing a room and not lodging separately. From Victor's raised eyebrows, he noticed the distinction. "I'll have your bags brought up straight away," the girl added before turning to assist another patron.
"Well, I'd better leave you to it," Victor said, smiling politely. "Hopefully I'll see you two around. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Watson." While John couldn't be certain, he thought Victor had annunciated the word 'doctor' a little too acutely to be accidental.
"Likewise," John replied tonelessly. Victor gave Sherlock's arm one last pat before walking away.
John turned to Sherlock, fighting to meet his eyes and demand answers to the swarm of questions now bombarding his thoughts, but Sherlock would have none of it.
"Come along, then," he muttered, striding for the lifts with the kind of determination usually reserved for casework.
They stood in the carpeted lift silently, alone, as it ascended, John's arms crossed tightly against his chest. When the 'ding' chimed, announcing that they'd reached the top floor where their suite resided, Sherlock squeezed between the doors just as they began to glide open. He walked quickly, using the full advantage of his long legs to distance himself from John. He only seemed to realize that John did, in fact, hold the keys when he was in front of their door. 'The Shell Suite' it read.
John was deliberately slow in his movements as he extracted the white card from his pocket and purposefully fumbled with sliding it in and out of the slot. He got way too much enjoyment out of watching Sherlock get riled up over his incompetence. Good. The man deserved a little frustration.
When they finally made it into their room, John almost forgot his qualms with Sherlock in favour of being absolutely spellbound by the state of their suite. It was beautiful. The far wall, which was curved, was almost entirely composed of floor to ceiling windows, offering a staggering view of the sea. There were expensive couches and chairs, a king size bed, and everything was patterned in matching blue-green and eggshell tones. Nautical designs and seashell décor riddled about the room sought to remind, in no uncertain terms, that this was, indeed, on the ocean and that the view was well paid for.
"Christ," John exclaimed breathily. "Sure beats the bedsit."
Sherlock grumbled in reply. John shut the door behind them and rounded on him, his irritation at Sherlock's unimpressed response reminding him that he had very good reason to be cross with the detective.
"So, Victor Trevor, huh," John said, crossing his arms and planting his feet, his default position when it came to addressing Sherlock. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stomped across the room, flinging himself on the once perfectly made bed and draping his forearm over his eyes.
"Get on with it, then," the detective groaned, exhaling dramatically.
"Get on with what, exactly?"
"You're perfectly aware."
"Excuse me?"
"I know you're cross with me and while I haven't the faintest what your erroneous justification might be, I'm confident you'll explain it until I'd rather feign repentance than bear the affliction of conversation any longer."
John's mouth fell open. Whatever he'd been expecting Sherlock to say, that certainly wasn't it.
"I…see," he said quietly. "Right."
His lips parted to say more but the words wouldn't come. His brain kept stuttering to start each sentence, but after what Sherlock had so ruthlessly predicted of him he didn't have the wherewithal to begin. Why bother when he was apparently doomed to fail?
"Then…I'll just—" John walked quickly across the room to what he assumed was the bathroom, shutting the door behind him as fast as he could. He stood there, fists clenched and white, back tense, and released a slow exhale. He wasn't sure what it was about Sherlock's words that had ripped the rug out from under him so, but there he was, alone in the bathroom, having difficulty evening his breathing. Perhaps it was the sudden, jarring distance Sherlock had thrust between them, made worse by the 'colleague' comment and the appearance of a certain gorgeous 'old friend.' He had the very juvenile, fleeting thought of "he doesn't like me anymore" before he staunchly beat it down and brought Captain Watson back to the front.
There. He was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock was just being Sherlock. Nothing unusual.
He wiggled his fingers, putting feeling back into them, and stretched his neck a bit. Just as he was about ready to brave the sharp tongue of his flatmate once more, there was a faint knock on the door.
"John."
John cleared his throat and took hold of the door handle, wrenching it open. Sherlock was standing there, coat having been removed, with his eyes cast down at the floor and hands clasped behind his back.
"Yeah?"
"Okay?" he asked impassively, but shuffled slightly on his feet.
"Fine. I was just…I was just going to take a bath," he lied, though as he thought of it the idea was rather appealing. The tub behind him was enormous and beckoning, fully stocked with various soaps, salts, and sponges.
"A bath."
"Yeah."
"Is your shoulder bothering you?"
John startled at the question. It was the closest to an apology John was ever going to get for Sherlock's comment. A remotely caring inquiry from Sherlock Holmes was the equivalent of forty dozen roses and a chocolate-scented life-size teddy bear named 'Cuddles' from anyone else. John would take it, for the time being, but that didn't mean he'd let the subject drop. He could be just as stubborn as Sherlock when he set his mind to it.
"A little." It wasn't untrue. Sleeping in a cramped overnight train cot with far too much detective wasn't exactly recommended for poorly-healed bullet wounds. His penis, on the other hand (/in another hand), would disagree, but that was neither here nor there.
"I could…that is, if you're amenable, I could join you."
John blinked a few times, surprised not only by the request but by how coy Sherlock was being in the asking. It was almost bizarre.
"Sure you won't be bored?"
"No. But I'm optimistic."
"Then I suppose I'm amenable."
Tentatively, Sherlock stepped forward, coming so close that his front was almost flush with John's. He hung his head, breath blowing hot against John's ear, curls brushing John's cheek, but kept his hands behind his back. When John couldn't restrain himself anymore, he gripped Sherlock's waist with both hands, pulling him closer. Sherlock nuzzled the curve of his jaw and hummed contemplatively.
"You have questions."
"Many."
"They will be easier to answer when you're naked."
John felt his neck flushing at the deep words, murmured into his ear.
"Easier to answer, or easier to distract me from?"
"Six in one, half dozen in the other."
John offered a short laugh, but held his ground.
"You underestimate me."
"Never," Sherlock said, frowning playfully, and finally taking John in his arms. Just before their lips met, John halted him.
"Is this appropriate behaviour between 'colleagues'?" he asked, letting a bit of acid seep into the words.
Sherlock paused, but didn't back away. His eyes blazed silver down at John.
"I'm not sure, doctor, but if you intend to interrogate me about what transpired in the lobby, the clothes are coming off first."
John shrugged.
"Fair enough."
Author's Note: More to come super soon this time, I promise. I had a huge epiphany in the shower about this fic and now I'm super stoked to write on. I love you readers so much I'd give you forty dozen roses and a chocolate-scented life-size teddy bear named 'Cuddles' if I could. Pinky swear.
Oh, also, in case you're wondering if this hotel actually exists, it totally does. When I got the idea for this fic I said to myself "I really want them to stay at that place from 'The Witches' movie." Thank you google for making that happen. Anyone know what I'm talking about? Roald Dahl? Rowan Atkinson? Anjelica Huston? Solid gold, amirite?
