~4~

DISCOVERED

WHILE JACK IS DOWNSTAIRS IN THE BAR, Sherlock slips into his room. At first, he just stands by the door and let's his eyes and mind survey the room. He observes everything he can in the main room and then moves onto Jack's belongings. He sees something Ianto gave him. It's sitting on the dresser. A tie, relatively new, pure silk, handmade, rolled up… with precision. Not by this man. By his lover—a wife—girlfriend—no, boyfriend? A tie and a tie clip… obviously new… rarely worn… expensive… one of a kind… a gift… interesting… long-term lover, then.

He moves into the bathroom. Something rattles against the back of the door when he swings it inwards. It's a leather strop. He uses an old-fashioned straight razor. He peers into his shaving kit and sees a strange assortment of antique (pearl handled razor… original… ivory comb… hand carved) and modern (nylon bag… impressive strength-to-weight ratio… with interwoven ripstop reinforcement threads… expensive… military grade… shave gel… sable haired brush… copious hair products…vain…) punctuated by an unknown high-tech device (Purpose? Unknown.).

Young—middle aged—senior citizen—ex-military—W.W. … One? What the hell? He's an old, youngish man, who's… conservative and liberal… very liberal… judging from his under pants… No pyjamas… enjoys nudity… or he's forgetful… unlikely.

He inspects the closet. All variations on a theme… a uniform… lube in the pocket… definitely ex-military… uniform fetish…

Then, he realizes, something's missing. No cologne… why did John say he smelled good? Where is his cologne? Sherlock examines the bed. Sniffs the pillow. It does smell good. What is that… scent? It's like a… His mind immediately starts searching through its olfactory catalogue for a similar scent, something he's encountered before—on a case? Or an experiment? He's sorting through his memories, discarding the irrelevant, the impossible, the highly improbable and finally he's confronted with an entry that makes him hesitate. Time stands still. His mind speeds up. It was a case… a scientist was developing a perfume intended for mass production… he'd included a sex hormone… he wanted to develop a subtle form of mind-control. He wanted to secure the affections of his wayward wife… A sex hormone. But undiluted.

Sherlock is alerted to the slight increase in his heart rate, and breathing, and… physiological arousal. Ahem… he steps back from the bed. He frowns, a bit disgusted with himself for shying away from the challenge.

What is he frightened of?

Because he is.

Frightened.

He'd know that, if he were honest with himself (about himself).

But he rarely is.

He skims through the single file folder that lies upon the side table.

Boring.

Also… it doesn't make any sense.

Not to Sherlock and that really didn't sit well. He pulls a pen out of his pocket; the one John gave him at the crime scene only yesterday. He circles a typo and writes the correction in the margin. He smiles rather mischievously. He is having… fun. So he writes a little message on the outside of the brown file folder, too. Just a quick hello.

Catch you later.

O O
\_/

He adds a smiley face, because he can. He leaves the file folder and its contents in the middle of the bed. It sends a very succinct message: I can get to you.

It would do for now. At least, he has two new pieces of data to work with. A name: Captain Jack Harkness. An organization: Torchwood. He'll do some research next and then decide on the best course of action once he has more data.

Now, back to John.

JACK HAS HIS HEAD BURIED in his phone so he almost misses his floor. He pauses just outside the lift and manages to get his thumbs to cooperate enough so he can type his reply to Ianto.

.

[Having a weird night. Today was horrible. Worse than being flayed. Jack]

[Jack, you know I don't like it when you joke about dying. Ianto]

[I miss you. Sorry (about the flaying). Jack]

[I miss you too. Stop it (with the flaying). Ianto]

.

JACK SMILES A BIT WISTFULLY AT THAT. He can almost hear Ianto's sarcastic retort and he misses the sound of that voice. He sighs and his smile transforms into a frown at the thought of what he's missed. As it turns out, Ianto did partake of the Chicken Dance (against his will—he swears). Jack is unreasonably devastated but there's nothing to be done. He tucks his phone into his coat pocket and considers downloading the Chicken Dance song on his laptop. He's almost reached his room when he passes Sherlock in the hall. Sherlock smirks and there's a glitter in his eye. Jack notices him (the package: lips, eyes, hair and oh my… that coat) and feels a bit of déjà vu but he's tired and all he wants is to get his clothes off and to have the longest, hottest shower available this side of the Orion Nebula.

SHERLOCK SLIPS IN THE FRONT DOOR and takes the stairs two by two. He's surprisingly quiet though and manages to startle John when he throws the door open. John spins around and their eyes lock for a moment (John is… within acceptable limits) before Sherlock turns. He hangs his coat on the hook and toes off his shoes in silence, still re-running tonight's events. Sneaking into THAT MAN'S (he doesn't want to use his name—it doesn't adequately convey his disdain) room undetected was a heady experience and he's not ready to let the sensation go. By the time he turns, John has made his way into the kitchen. Sherlock can hear the kettle being filled and then the ritual of tea begins. He approaches the kitchen but stops at the threshold and observes more closely.

John's been pacing and fuming since he peeled himself off of the shower wall. Sherlock can see he's under strain. It's obvious he's been fretting, probably pacing. His face is heavily lined, creased between his eyes. So, it's serious then. John's silence is also significant. He usually greets Sherlock. Even if Sherlock doesn't reply, he still notices that John does. This silence is significant and indicates—what? Anger? Possibly, anger. But at whom? Me? No. Wait, maybe. Why?

John can't stop fidgeting. His skin is burning under the weight of Sherlock's scrutiny. He was so deep in thought (fretting—self-recrimination—agony—embarrassment—gut clenching need) that he didn't hear Sherlock coming up the stairs and was yanked out of his internal torment when the door was flung open. He knows that he's acting nervous around Sherlock but he can't help it. He knows that Sherlock will notice, too. There's no help for it.

Even so, when Sherlock tries to get a closer look at John (three centimetres is an optimal distance) he jumps out of his skin. John blushes and hates himself for it. His face twists, muscles tense under skin, brows crease, jaw grinds together, cheeks redden and Sherlock reads it. "You're angry." He squints. "At… me? No. Hmmm. Yourself?" He frowns and takes a step closer—which is almost impossible. "Why, John?"

John stiffens up his already tense—everything—and then snaps at Sherlock, "Never mind. Not important." Then too quickly for Sherlock to respond he demands, "Where did you go then?" John sounds steely; he's struggling to hold back a shout, or worse. Sherlock curses himself again; he's obviously missed something important. There's always something.

Sherlock doesn't reply to John's question. He won't waste his words, not when he's unsure.

"You went to find him didn't you?" John demands.

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly and it's enough to confirm John's suspicion.

"Where did you find him?" Because it's obvious that he did, find him. Sherlock looks too pleased with himself to have failed. John can tell it was a good hunt.

He straightens. He's on surer ground now so he answers, "At his hotel."

John quirks his left brow and holds back a smirk. He's impressed. He's a lost cause—he knows. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. "What did you find out?" John's impatient. "Come on. Just tell me, already."

"His name is Captain Jack Harkness."

"Already knew that." John says dismissively.

Sherlock takes a step and his hands clench into fists. "No, you didn't!"

"Yes. I did."

"How did you?" Sherlock forces the words out.

"He told me."

"He told you?" Sherlock spins and makes a sound that tells John he's about to shout. Or shoot something. John's pretty sure that Sherlock hasn't discovered his gun's newest hiding place (it's just a matter of time though). The wall is safe –for now.

John flinches and Sherlock has his answer. "When?" he says through gritted teeth.

"When we were…" John blushes as the images rush back into his mind's eye. He clears his throat, which he knows, is a dead giveaway. Can't be helped. "When we were standing there and you went off in a huff."

"I did not go off in a huff."

"Yes, you bloody did." John's on solid footing here and it makes him feel a bit closer to normal.

"Hmm." That's a close as Sherlock ever gets to admitting he's wrong. "What else did he tell you?" he asks.

"Nothing." John admits quietly.

"Hmm." Sherlock flops down onto the sofa face-up and takes up a thinking pose. After a moment he asks, "Do you know what Torchwood is?"

Johns thinks back and says, "I… I've heard of it." But he can't remember where so he adds, "I'm not sure though. What is it?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock has a theory but to prove it he'd need to call his brother and that's not on the agenda for today. So, instead he returns his attention back onto John and asks, "Did you have a good shower John?"

John gulps, noticeably. "Er… yes, fine. Thanks." He stills and starts praying for a reprieve that'll never come.

Sherlock shoots him a meaningful look; it comes with a raised brow and an impish smirk. "It appears that you've been masturbating, John but you certainly don't look any more relaxed. You might want to reconsider your technique."

John starts sinking into the seat cushions and wills himself elsewhere. He hasn't mastered that technique either so no luck there.

TBC

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one-blue-eye