IL TRAVIATO
Chapter Seven
"Wake up, John," a crisp voice directed. The order was punctuated by the snap of fabric as John's sheets and duvet were thrown to the far side of the mattress, exposing his sleep-sprawled form to a drift of cool air.
John dragged his cheek across the pillow case, the beginnings of stubble catching minutely on the fabric. "Z'time?" he grunted and blinked one eye up at his tall, tumble-haired accoster. Gabriel looked down at him with impatient eyes. John rolled over and gave him a lazy smile.
Blinked again.
Not Gabriel, Sherlock. Detective. Blackmail. Lives at stake.
He was abruptly fully awake, like a switch had been flipped on the back of his neck. A frisson of anticipation prickled his skin, a sense of readiness he had not felt since Afghanistan. John pushed himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his face briskly. "Right. What's the plan? What are we doing?"
The purposeful tone of his questions was immediately undermined as he became aware of his morning erection making itself apparent from inside his pyjama bottoms. Rather perfunctory, but hardly business-like. He cleared his throat and pulled his knees in and a pillow onto his lap.
Sherlock dismissed John's groin with a wave of his hand. "Whatever you usually do in the mornings. Get up. Get on with it. I've been waiting." He was already showered and dressed in dark trousers and a light grey button-up, although his hair was still a mass of unruly curls and he wore a blue satin-striped dressing gown over his shirt.
"OK. Yeah. Of course." John swung himself out of bed, tossing his shield-pillow aside, and headed for the bathroom. "I'll be right there."
Since his return from Afghanistan, John sincerely appreciated the luxury of a leisurely shower, but this morning he showered at army speed, humming a non-specific, tuneless march under his breath as he washed. Once clean and shaved, he pulled on a pair of jeans and one of his new casual jumpers, a thick teal knit to combat what looked like dreary, cool weather outside. Nice-looking, but easy to move around in. His teeth clicked a quick rhythm as he pulled his socks on.
When he walked into the sitting room to double check the suitability of his attire for whatever kind of activity was planned, he discovered Sherlock lounging lengthwise across the sofa, still in his dressing gown, knees bent, his bony bare feet propped up on one arm rest. His eyes were closed and his hands resting on his chest, his left hand wrapped gently around his bandaged right wrist. The only change in his dress had been the addition of a blue cashmere scarf draped around his neck.
"I'm ready." John patted his jumper, bouncing on his heels. "Is this alright?"
"Tea, breakfast, over there," Sherlock jerked his head toward the dining table without opening his eyes.
John spared the waiting breakfast a disinterested glance. "Is there time?"
At that, Sherlock did turn his head to frown quizzically at John. "Of course there's time. Why wouldn't there be time?"
"Alright," John nodded, squeezed his hands in and out of fists, and took a deliberately slow breath in an effort to settle some of his restless energy. He limped across the room toward tea. "Alright. It's just you haven't actually told me what we're meant to do today, Sherlock, so there's no of course about it. Want to fill me in, then? At all? Over tea would be—what are you doing?"
Sherlock was off the sofa and across the room at John's side with a mere whisper of his silk gown. He grasped John's shoulder, turning him so they were face-to-face. "Say that again," he demanded, soft-voiced.
John opened his mouth and tried to recall what he had been saying. "While I get a cuppa, you fill me in—"
"No. Before that."
"I said you've not told me what—"
"Exactly as you said it, John."
John furrowed his brow in bewilderment, but repeated his previous sentence. "You haven't actually told me what you have planned for the day, Sherlock, so—"
Sherlock's fingers tightened on John's shoulder.
"—there's no of course..." John's voice slowed, trailed off. "Sherlock, what do you want—"
"Good," Sherlock nodded, his eyes dropping to John's mouth. "Again."
What-? Oh. No…really? "Sherlock." John's eyes widened at Sherlock's slowly-indrawn breath. He was entirely uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to laugh. "I did say it last night, you know. I must have done."
"Mm," Sherlock made an absent sound of acknowledgement and bent forward. He pressed his ear to John's chest and waited.
John made his voice low and steady. "Sherlock."
Sherlock straightened again and slowly lowered his lips to John's. His eyes remained open, watching John's face as he moved in. He pressed a light kiss to John's mouth, open but soft and undemanding, experimental.
"Sherlock," John whispered into the kiss, and Sherlock's tongue flicked into his mouth to catch the breath he exhaled after the second syllable of his name.
John decided he definitely did not feel at all like laughing.
Somewhere in the back of his sensation-flooded mind, he had been wondering since last night whether he would be dealing with the same man this morning. He had only started getting to know Gabriel March—albeit rather intensely and in unexpected ways—but who was Sherlock Holmes?
Apparently Sherlock Holmes shared at least one pleasing similarity with Gabriel March—he was still attracted to John Watson. And apparently he was also attracted to the sound of his own name. As behavioural quirks went, John had no complaint to make about either one at the moment.
He pressed himself up for a deeper kiss and his hands found their way to Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock," he murmured, this time for his own sake. An acknowledgement. He scrunched a handful of curls, pulled one out and let it spring back into its crescent shape. "I like it like this."
"Do you?" Sherlock pulled away from the kiss slowly and blinked at down at John, expression unreadable. Then he turned away and spoke as though nothing had interrupted their conversation. "I already told you. I'm waiting." He walked briskly back to the sofa and tipped himself onto the cushions, slouching into his prior position.
"Waiting." Off-balance yet again, John turned back to the dining table. "I thought you meant…waiting for me."
"Without you. It was boring." Sherlock shut his eyes again.
"I see. That's what I'm helping with." He sighed and plucked the silver cover from the single plate waiting on the table. "Waiting." Toast, sides of strawberry jam and butter, and several strips of bacon. An exact duplicate of his choices from the previous morning. He stared at it for several moments. "Am I to assume you've already eaten?"
"If you like."
John sat heavily and ate in silence. It wasn't until he was finishing his last bite of toast that Sherlock spoke again.
"You're disappointed," he observed.
"No, it was very good," John replied gamely, knowing full well Sherlock wasn't talking about the breakfast any more than John was thinking of it. Yes, he was disappointed, but that was hardly Sherlock's fault, he supposed. Sherlock hadn't promised he'd be seeing action. He hadn't even suggested it. Wishful thinking. He should know better.
So. Another sitting down kind of day. It would be fine.
John poured a cup of tea and then, glancing over at Sherlock, a second cup and carried both to the sofa.
Sherlock swung his long legs to the floor to sit up to accept the tea and make room for John to sit down. "You were expecting something else?" He watched John out of the corner of his eye as John sat beside him. "More shopping, perhaps?"
John chuckled softly. "Uh, no. I guess…I thought…" He ducked his head for a sip of tea. "I don't know. Never mind."
Sherlock set his own tea down on the side table and tugged at his scarf with a frown, pulling it more snugly around his neck.
John crooked an eyebrow at him. "Glad you like it."
"It's warm." He tucked his chin down into the scarf defensively, one hand drifting up to tug at a strand of hair curling over his ear.
"If you're cold, we could have a fire."
Sherlock gave him a prim look. "That won't be necessary."
"Well," John leaned back with a sigh, "what are we waiting for, then?"
Sherlock wheeled around to lean against the arm of the sofa, frown clearing immediately. He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed the soles of his feet proprietarily against the side of John's thigh. "Two things. Clare Golynski will acquire Klein Pharma's special orders list from her employer tonight and arrange a meeting to transfer that information to her blackmailer. Ms Golynski and I have made an agreement she will contact me as to the time and location of that meeting."
John took another swallow of tea and dropped a hand to rest on the top of Sherlock's bare foot. "So we're going to be there, too? To stop it?" he asked hopefully.
"That I would be there was the original plan." Sherlock flexed and curled his toes against John's leg. "Not to stop it, but in the hope of finding out more about who was behind it. A long shot, but a worthwhile one."
"And the plan now?"
"Now that Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock's nose crinkled with distaste, "has gotten some inkling of Ms Golynski's involvement, his surveillance of her will interfere with any positive outcome for that scenario. He may very likely apprehend the blackmailer and I cannot allow that to happen."
"You…want to keep him from being arrested so that you'll still be able to track down his employer through him."
"Exactly."
"Wouldn't the police be able to find that out once they'd arrested him, though?"
Sherlock shot him a disparaging look.
"OK." John rested his cup on his other thigh. "What's the second thing?"
"A call. From Philip Spencer."
"Who is that?"
"The blackmailer."
John's tea cup bobbled precariously as he looked quickly up at Sherlock, who had a wickedly delighted little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Are...you being blackmailed?" John asked, bristling defensively even though Sherlock looked far from concerned.
"No. Spencer and I—or rather Spencer and Gabriel March—have an arrangement regarding…another matter."
John set his tea aside. "What matter?"
"He is coordinating Gabriel March's purchase of confidential information from another company. He'll be calling to arrange a meeting. An exchange between myself and the seller."
"So you're…his client."
"Yes."
"Confidential information. Like…the information Clare Golynski is handing over? I don't understand."
"Something like that," Sherlock said mildly.
John rubbed a hand through his hair. "Is this still to do with tracking down who he works for?"
"Philip Spencer facilitates high-level, high-risk information exchange. He provides neither the funding nor the information itself, but the connections are made through him. He's a go-between, but that's all he is. Someone else is pulling the strings, selecting the deals to arrange, and benefitting from the results."
"So you got yourself…Gabriel…in on one of these deals?" John's gaze drifted to his lap, unfocussed, as he considered the influx of new information. He tilted his head back up as a thought occurred. "Wait. Who is your client?"
Sherlock's smile faded. "I don't have one."
"Don't detectives usually have a client?"
"I don't have one anymore."
"Then why are you still…" John watched Sherlock's expression become grim and guarded. "It's your brother, isn't it? Your brother was your client."
Sherlock nodded once. "It was he, through his own channels, who first realized the connection between a seemingly unrelated set of events. But he didn't have the time or the resources to pursue it. It was of interest to him, but only as a…minor curiosity."
John's fingers curled more firmly around Sherlock's foot, rubbed in a small, soothing circle. "So he hired you?"
Sherlock shook his head. "He thought I needed…I was…" He shook his head again, more vigorously, like he was trying to flick something out of his hair. "I wasn't interested. And now…it's important, John. It's important I finish this. Do you see?" He pressed his lips together, hard, and looked at John earnestly.
"Yeah." John stroked the arch of Sherlock's foot lightly, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palm. He thought of the army, of friends and strangers alike blown apart, shot, or just gone missing, and every one of them had plans. Simple or significant, for the evening, or the next day, or the next year, all those hopes and plans and stories lost in the sand, drifting away. "I do, actually."
They exchanged a long look.
"So we're waiting." John pushed himself up, standing, struck by a thought as to how to pass the time. "I'll be right back. Getting my laptop."
"What for?"
John licked his lips. Maybe he could, in his small way, preserve a few of those grains of sand. "I have an idea."
The door closed behind Mrs Hudson, departing the room with her silver trolley after having cleared away the dishes from John's dinner. John had successfully coaxed Sherlock into eating his chocolate parfait even after Sherlock had eaten half his portion of ginger chicken, and returned to his laptop looking vastly smug.
With the fire on for the evening, Sherlock was now warmed both inside and out and feeling uncomfortable with the sensation. He'd had to remove his scarf. It had lost its John-smell, anyway. He would have to find a way to reinfuse it. Perhaps John would sleep in it. He could easily picture it as an accessory to what was apparently his usual sleepwear, picture the ends of his grey-blond-brown hair brushing the blue cashmere, soft on soft.
He paced the room to ward off the feelings of contentment that threatened him. "Are you ready to hear about the engine formula yet?" he demanded, leaning across back of the sofa to frown over John's shoulder at the letters creeping agonizingly slowly across his computer screen.
"Not…yet…" John answered, tapping at a few more keys.
"I thought you said you could type," Sherlock accused.
John blinked up at him guilelessly, lifting his index fingers from the keyboard. "I am typing."
"I'm getting bored, John."
He wasn't actually bored at all. Not really, not like he was supposed to be after almost an entire day spent in the absence of acceptable stimuli. Three things made his brain sing: cocaine, music, and the work. Three things he could immerse himself in completely. Three things, at least for the moment, denied to him. Behind John's back, Sherlock's hand drifted to the crook of his elbow, remembering the bliss, however temporary, of not-bored.
Except he wasn't bored. Yet he wasn't not-bored. This was something new.
"You didn't have to go along with this, you know," John reminded him. "I told you, the blog is just an idea."
"No, it's…fine. Keep typing," Sherlock said quickly, "or whatever it is you call what you're doing." He'd been relating details of both his current case and several past cases alike to John throughout the day, pausing only for meals, tea, and John's irritating retreat to the bedroom to make a call to his sister. John's appreciation for his leaps of intellect had been gratifying enough that he hadn't even minded having to explain some of the deductions multiple times so John got the details right. "You really think people will be interested?"
"I'm interested," John said matter-of-factly. "So, yes, I expect other people will be, too. But like I said, I can start the blog for you, and you can decide whether you want to keep it up. You know…document any other cases."
"Do you keep a blog?" Sherlock asked.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because nothing happens to me," John said. "Now…almost done with this part…have you thought of what you'll call it?"
"The Science of Deduction," Sherlock announced with a flourish.
"Mm," John said drily, "that sounds riveting."
Sherlock glared at the back of John's head, but his intended retort was cut off when his mobile rang. John turned on to look at him, alert and expectant, as he pulled the phone from his dressing gown pocket. He checked the caller ID and nodded to John. "Spencer."
He let the Gabriel persona settle over him again and pressed the talk button. "Gabriel March."
"Hello, Gabriel!" Spencer's voice was treacle. Sherlock could almost see the leer. "It's all set. Friday night. The London Coliseum."
"The opera?" Sherlock asked with a glance at John, whose forehead crinkled.
"Why, I thought you'd enjoy the performance," Spencer said, all graciousness.
Sherlock turned away from John. "Mixing business with pleasure?"
"Of course. I've always been in favour of mixing business with pleasure, after all. I'm having a ticket sent to your hotel."
"Two tickets," Sherlock interjected.
Spencer was silent for a moment. "A date? Really, Gabriel, I'm dreadfully jealous."
"There's no need," Sherlock said, chuckling. "A practical matter. I've had a minor injury. Minor but damned inconvenient, and my assistant has proven helpful. He's rather dull-witted, though, so I should be able to slip away easily." He turned to lift an eyebrow at John, who sent two fingers back at him. "And surely two attendees would be less…noticeable? I don't want to draw attention."
"You're too modest, Gabriel. A man like you would draw attention in any scenario."
"A predicament I'm sure you're familiar with as well. Philip."
"Oh, you are such a delight," Spencer chuckled. "I am so looking forward to our…rendezvous."
"Our contact will meet us there?"
"She'll be there. You've no cause for concern. Just go to the bank and get ready, my dear. Then rest your pretty head and dream of your triumph. Morse's jugular is exposed and it's time for the kill."
Sherlock looked to John after he ended the call. "That's one." His skin prickled with energy.
John was giving him a curious, considering look. "Were you…flirting with him?"
"Don't be absurd, John. The man is a sociopath." Sherlock turned his face away as he dropped his phone on the table next to the sofa. He had, obviously, not related to John the little detail of Spencer's anticipated upcoming attempt on his life. He diverted his attention quickly, "How do you like the opera?"
John made a leery face. "Er, not very well so far. That's where this…exchange is taking place?"
"Apparently so. In two evenings' time." He'd been half-dreading the conclusion of this case, had almost considered that Spencer might beat him, given his troublingly distracted state of mind in the recent past. There was something about the imminence of the danger that had already begun to work its magic. He could feel his blood start to thrum, feel his vision start to sharpen again.
"Two evenings. More waiting, then?" John stretched his back and rose from the sofa, grabbing his cane and empty cup to cross the room to the tea tray Mrs Hudson had left on the dining table.
"Not necessarily," said Sherlock, following John to the table and picking up a scone. He examined the pattern of tiny crevasses across its golden-brown surface before dropping it back on its plate. "Spencer will have chosen the opera house, that location, that time, for a reason." There was so much to be done in just two days' time. Why that venue? Who was the contact from Morse? Was Spencer expecting to do away with them both together? How? He had neglected so many details, but now…now it was time to perform.
"He likes the opera?" John asked lightly.
"John, can you fight?" Sherlock asked abruptly, pivoting toward him, pulse thumping.
John looked around the room. "And…who am I meant to fight?"
"I have to be certain you can take care of yourself."
John put his tea cup down carefully. "I can take care of myself."
Sherlock gave him a sceptical look. "You're a doctor."
"And a soldier," John reminded him tersely. He glanced down at his hand on the handle of the cane and tightened his grip.
Sherlock closed the short distance between them slowly. "Prove it."
"What are you doing?" John's eyes darkened as Sherlock pressed into his space.
He did have to be certain, after all. He couldn't allow John to risk himself. And if he was already certain, completely certain, that John was capable of defending himself, well… "I said prove it." With a sharp movement, he pulled the cane out of John's hand and threw it aside.
"What the hell? I don't want to hurt you," John warned. He had dropped his body weight, centred himself, relaxed into a ready stance automatically, Sherlock noted with approval.
"Try," Sherlock said darkly. He swung his left hand in a wide arc toward John, with no specific target but with sufficient speed and force that the intent to strike was clear.
His blow did not connect.
His right foot went out from under him and he felt an impact to his left shoulder. The ceiling swung into view, and his training in the fighting arts gusted from him in a loud whuff of breath as he hit the floor. John straddled his thigh, one knee between his legs, pinning him even while one hand cradled Sherlock's right wrist from impact.
"Cane or no cane, I can still take you," he leaned over Sherlock's body and murmured close to his ear, his breath moist and warm, "Sherlock."
Oh. That was cheating. The name wasn't playing fair and John was changing the rules and cheating. Sherlock's eyes widened with appreciation. Extraordinary. "John," he breathed, pushing his hips up. Four things. Four things could make his brain sing. His skin sing. "You understand."
"Next time you try a stunt like that, it's your nose." John growled, eyes alight, and leaned in further to kiss him, hard.
And wonderful. Sherlock reached for the bottom of John's jumper, tugging at it to get to the skin underneath. John released his wrist and reached in between their bodies, targeting Sherlock's trousers for removal. Sherlock hitched his hips again and pressed himself shamelessly into John's palm.
John laughed into the side of his neck, kissed. "Keen, are we?"
"Move your hand, John," Sherlock insisted, yanking John's vest free from his jeans. And there, skin, at last.
"Bedroom," John replied, his voice catching in between a growl and a giggle. His eyes were warm, confident.
"Too far. Here." Sherlock wriggled his hips against John's frustratingly-still hand.
"What if Mrs Hudson—"
"She won't," Sherlock assured him, straining up to nip at the John's neck. "John, will you sleep in the scarf?"
There was a knock at the door.
John froze, staring in horror toward the entryway. "You have got to be joking," he gasped.
"Buggering fucking bugger!" Sherlock snarled, which John seemed to find amusing enough to drop his head and giggle insanely into Sherlock's chest. "GO AWAY!" he bellowed.
The knock repeated, more insistently.
John rolled off him, gorgeously flushed and laughing, and Sherlock groaned his despair. "Bedroom. Go. I'll get rid of her," John assured him.
Sherlock righted himself and strode uncomfortably into the bedroom, fumbling impatiently at the buttons on his shirt.
"Not now, Mrs Hudson," he heard John call out, and then the sound of the suite door opening and, "Oh."
"Mr…Watson, was it? I need to see him." Detective Inspector Lestrade's voice was low and fatigued, but firm. "There's been a development."
