A Romantic Education Ch 7 - The Randolph

Well, here we are at last, dear readers, but you won't find any smut in this last chapter, because as I said, I'm saving that for a separate story, so that this one can keep its low rating. (Smut will follow, I promise, but for the next week, I shall be presenting you with A Christmas Soldier, my seasonal extravaganza, so it will be a little while, I'm afraid.) In the meantime, I hope you won't be disappointed when it comes to the crunch.

Incidentally I own neither Sherlock, nor 'When Harry Met Sally', which belongs to the incomparable Nora Ephron (We're not worthy!).

Apologies are due: When I read this out to my husband last night, he put a right old spanner in the works. 'You do realise,' he pointed out, 'that Sherlock Holmes was a Cambridge man?' (This coming from a man born and brought up in Oxford, so with the resultant axe to grind.) 'Oh, pants!' I said, more or less. So if there are any purists out there, all I can say is Mea Maxima Culpa, I just made stuff up and didn't do my holmeswork well enough. Sorry. On the other hand, you might enjoy looking up The Randolph's website on Google. The luxurious Presidential suite really does have a library, I promise.


Andy Cripps is a small man in a very big suit. Silver grey wool hangs off him in folds. He looks as if he has unexpectedly been turned into a mouse and, left inside a grown man's clothing, still hasn't worked out the fact. He greets Sherlock with a glow of delight in the palatial reception of the Randolph Hotel, which is clearly his own personal fiefdom. Hugs are exchanged. John is bemused. Everyone they have met in Oxford has greeted Sherlock with obvious pleasure. It's not the usual reaction to the difficult detective, and John's only conclusion is that he became irascible and rude after he left the Dreaming Spires. In which case, what sparked such a total transformation?

Answer? Drugs. Must have been. Cocaine can change the personality radically in use, why not in the longer term? John wonders what it would have been like to meet the younger, more adorable Sherlock. And suddenly finds himself gripped with an odd unease.

'So, business or pleasure?' Andy asks, sotto voce, as he goes behind the reception desk to get the checking in forms. He is clearly thrilled by the prospect of Sherlock bringing intrigue into his hotel.

'Business,' Sherlock says, rather hurriedly. 'This is my colleague. Dr John Watson.' He leans in towards his old friend. 'We're working on uncovering a big fraud,' he breathes.

'Mmmmm!' Cripps grins. 'Whose tab is it going on?'

'Put it on Mycroft's,' Sherlock says. 'Government is going to benefit anyway. We need a good view of the Museum, I hope that's possible?'

'Art fraud? Oh, yes, I've got you in the Presidential suite, right at the front. The view is excellent, you can see all the comings and goings from there.' He lays out the papers for Sherlock to sign. 'Do you want the usual equipment sent up?'

'Oh, could you? We left in rather a hurry, following the suspect. No time to bring any luggage.'

'And dry clothes? I see you got caught in the storm.'

With dramatic irony, thunder rolls around the vast building.

'I don't think we've had the last of it yet,' John says, glancing up at the sky through the window. It looks like the storm clouds are circling the city instead of scudding over it.

Sherlock huffs. 'Damned weather. Don't worry about the clothes, but toothbrushes would be useful, if you could?'

'Let me show you up,' Cripps says, and mutters something confidentially to the young woman who is sitting beside him. She immediately picks up the phone and begins to dial.

As they climb the staircase behind the skinny little manager, John tugs at Sherlock's arm.

'Equipment?' He whispers.

'For surveillance. Cameras, night sights, that kind of thing. Andy has an arrangement with a local outfit, very convenient.'

John is surprised that guests at the Randolph would require digital cameras and long lenses at short notice, but on the other hand, living with Sherlock has taught him to expect the unexpected.

Andy shrugs his bony shoulders under his capacious jacket as he wields the key card, undoubtedly a habit of which he is entirely unaware. Maybe he is used to wrestling with uncooperative locks. Then the door opens and a sumptuous vista is presented to them.

There is brocade everywhere. Curtains and accent cushions and vast, luxurious sofas of it. There is polished walnut furniture and every gadget imaginable. The main room, a lounge, is dual aspect, two enormous windows looking down onto the Classical atrium of the Ashmoleian Museum, with its white sandstone columns and the flags of all nations flapping damply in the breeze. The bedroom with its half tester bed looks across St Giles. The rooms are gloomy from the dark weather outside. Lightening flickers over the Martyrs memorial, taking the tourists' pictures. On the pavement outside, a dog suddenly starts to bark frantically, ears maddened by the sudden drop in barometric pressure as the storm swirls overhead. Sherlock stalks through the rooms, paces the private library, long fingers walking over the spines of shelved books.

'I'll have some extra toiletries sent up with the camera kit when it arrives. Should be about an hour in this traffic.' Cripps glances down into Beaumont Street, which is blocked solid. 'Rain makes everyone drive like idiots,' he says wearily. 'Everything you need?'

'Excellent, my dear Cripps. We can't thank you enough, can we, Watson?'

'Er, no. Makes our job so much easier.' John is a bit ruffled at being suddenly called upon to speak.

'Well, settle in. Anything else you need, just pick up the blower. I'll send Mitch up with the kit as soon as it comes.'

'You are a star,' Sherlock says, pulling a notebook and pen out of his breast pocket as if he means business.

'I'll leave you to get on then.'

Sherlock is already gazing out at the museum, apparently lost in his task. Cripps raises his eyebrows at John with a wry grin, and lets himself out. And suddenly the room is filled with an awkward silence that roars against the street noise rising through the open windows.

'Sherlock, there's a library,' John says, just to break the tension. 'Do we really need a library? And on Mycroft's tab, for God's sake?'

'Do I sense cold feet, by any chance?' He is still making notes. What could he possibly be writing down, John wonders, considering they were here on a pleasure trip in the first place.

The doctor goes to the other window, and pulls back the net to peer down at the group of school children crowding in the entrance to the museum shop. The heavy atmosphere of the storm compresses and sharpens their giggles and shouts, so that they sound so close they could be in the suite too. The light has taken on a purplish, eerie glaze.

He becomes aware of Sherlock behind him, the heat from his body, the scent of his flesh. Long arms slip around John's chest, and a rain-cooled cheek is pressed to the back of his neck.

'Darling?' He whispers. 'I should get you out of these damp clothes.'

It is strange. Surreal. The room fills with shadows. Then another flash of light, unearthly, and a crackle directly overhead, so close it makes them both flinch. The thunder is almost simultaneous. The sashes rattle.

John's limbs suddenly feel heavy and he isn't sure if it is the weather, all that fizzy wine at lunchtime, or the doubts that are crowding into the suite with them.

'I need to be sure,' he breathes, even though he can't help but rest his head back against Sherlock's shoulder as the taller man presses kisses to his skin. 'I know you. I know what you're like. I need to be sure this isn't just a game for you.'

'You know it isn't,' Sherlock murmurs, his deep voice muffled as he presses his face into the back of John's hair. It is electrifying and terrifying at the same time. 'You were fine until we got here. What's changed?'

'I don't know,' John tells him, twisting in his arms so he can look up into those quicksilver eyes. Eyes that have changed from pale mercury to dark pewter, and he has no idea whether it's because of emotion or the effect of this weird, fae light. 'I walked in that door and…'

He can't seem to finish the sentence, can't bring himself to say what is in his heart. So Sherlock looks deep into his eyes and says it for him.

'You don't trust me. You don't believe I love you.'

'I've seen what you're capable of, remember? I've seen you manipulate and hoodwink people more times than I can remember. I've seen all the crocodile tears and the protestations of innocence. You can hardly blame me.

'Sherlock, this is a big thing for me. Huge. It changes everything I believe about myself. I can't just fall into bed with you unless I'm sure you aren't going to decide you're bored with me the moment I wake up. And I don't want to mess up what we already have for a shag, no matter how luxurious the setting.'

'Fine,' Sherlock says, stepping back in exasperation. 'Great. We fall at the last hurdle.'

'I just need to understand.'

'I see how it is. This is the traditional last protestation of the virgin. You cling onto your honour. You have doubts, naturally, and your doubts have brought us to the moment when I'm supposed to fall down on my knees and proclaim my undying love for you.'

John groans. 'This is my life, Sherlock! This isn't a Doris Day movie!'

'Really? I have to admit that sometimes in the last three weeks I have wondered.' He makes as if to move, but John grabs his shoulder.

'Don't even think about kneeling down!'

'Very well. But I will plead with you – the style of Billy Crystal, I think, since I suspect that realism is the only way to persuade you.'

The detective draws himself up to his full, towering height, and draws in a deep breath. John braces himself for the onslaught.

'I love the fact that you insist on wearing those hideous jumpers as if they are the definition of style,' he says. 'I love that you think tea and toast are major food groups. I love that you can't cook to save your life but are completely oblivious to the fact-'

'Oh, now, hang on a minute-'

Sherlock ploughs on regardless. 'I'm going to buy you a personal masterclass with Nigella for Christmas because it's getting too much, really it is.' He catches his breath and refocuses. 'I love that you insist you have the moral high ground because you trained as a healer, and you then went on to join the army and wreak extreme violence on the world with a clear conscience. I love that you have the morals of an alley cat when it comes to women, to the extent that you started working on seducing your new boss on your first day at work, yet express scruples about sleeping with me!'

'That's hardly fair! I mean, I didn't know we-'

'I love that your mouth drops open and you drool when you fall asleep on the sofa. I love that you can smell a kebab shop from two miles away, yet constantly worry about your waistline. I love that you insist on closing the lid of the lavatory when you flush which is contrary to every patriarchal law of every society since the invention of the water closet. I love that when you tell me I'm being insufferable, you say it like it's a term of endearment. And I love that you hate it when people call you cute. Which you are, by the way, insupportably so.'

'I'm not cute,' John growls. 'Cute is a word women use about short men as an excuse for not sleeping with them. It's patronising.'

'Adorable, then,' Sherlock grins, slipping his hands around John's waist. John realises Sherlock knows he has won, but he won't give up just yet, so he grunts, refusing to be mollified.

'I'm not sure that isn't worse. Anyway, I still disagree about the cooking.'

'Of course you do, that's the whole point.'

'Well, if you showed some enthusiasm for eating what I cook-'

'I'll buy you a cook book.'

'I'd rather have a day in the kitchen with Nigella.'

'You see what I mean about the alley cat thing?' Sherlock says. 'Anyway, may I continue? I love the fact that your feet smell-'

'They do not!'

'They do! I love the fact that you have the perfect sense to question everything I say, for example the fact that your feet smell, even if it is against all the evidence to the contrary. Which it is. They do smell, John. Honestly. You stink worse than a pack of ferrets sometimes.'

John huffs. 'If I do, then it's glandular.'

Sherlock laughs.

'I love the fact that you love me against your every conviction and instinct for survival. I love the fact that you argue with me all the time, even when you are in my arms and haven't the slightest chance, or even intention, of escaping my fiendish plan to seduce you. I love the fact that you understand how easily bored I am, but can't see that you are infinitely fascinating to me in every way. And I love that you are ridiculously gorgeous and fabulously sexy, which is against every aesthetic rule ever invented, and yet is still empirical fact.'

Then he stops and eyes the doctor in his arms shrewdly.

'Now, this is the bit where you cry 'oh Mr Darcy, I've waited so long for you to confess your love!' and fall into my arms in reckless passion.'

'Not gonna happen.' John is milking the whole grumpy thing. He's still not convinced, but he knows he doesn't have a chance against Sherlock's logic, and besides, he's allowed himself to be talked into taking the risk now. 'I'm not Elizabeth Bennett,' he says.

Sherlock pulls him close, drops his head till its level with John's, and grins pointedly until the doctor can't help but grin back.

'It's a shame, you know, because you'd look really cute in ringlets.'

John growls, but his heart isn't really in it.

And after all that talking, when the kiss finally comes, it is sweeter and more romantic than anything Jane Austen could have dreamt up.


Mitch, Andy Cripp's personal assistant, arrives about an hour later. He knocks on the door of the suite, but gets no answer, so he lets himself in. The lounge is silent and empty. He shuts the windows to stop the rain getting in. It's throwing it down now, pattering on the sills and soaking the nets, but the worst of the storm is over and the thunder is rumbling softly in the distance. The sky is even starting to brighten.

He puts the box of surveillance equipment on the coffee table, and settles the carrier bag of toiletries next to it. He picked them up from the Tesco Express next door to the hotel, and he's just hoping he's picked the kind of toothpaste they'll like. He notices the bedroom door is firmly shut, but he doesn't question it. After all, Mr Cripps has told him, on the quiet, that these new guests are with MI5, so it figures they'd want privacy while they're doing their spying stuff. It's only when he is about to leave that he hears it. The murmur of a man's voice from behind the bedroom door. The voice has a slightly unexpected timbre to it. He hesitates, his hand on the door handle. He shouldn't listen – it might be national secrets. No, there it is again, no mistaking it this time, or the tone. And if these two are really spies then Mitch is pretty sure that whole reputation James Bond has is just about as far from the truth as it is possible to be, no matter what Mr Cripps says. Because he is sure he heard that man's voice moan, in a tone dripping with desire:

'Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, yes…'


A/N I promise to give you what goes on behind that door in the New Year. In the meantime, Happy Christmas everyone. (Oh, and aren't we doing something together on New Year's day….?)