A/N: More theatre, because I think everyone involved wasn't quite ready for that to stop. The majority of this chapter is just me having fun. Totally worth it. The pub extract is from Richard III, in case anyone didn't get that.

Also, I know I've already said several times that I take my playtext from the Norton edition, but I should mention that I also take my chronology from there. And that several lines in the Richard III extract are actually from the MIT edition, because I liked them better. If anyone is geeky enough to want specifics I can provide them, and a bit of love for my kin.

Lastly, this chapter has not yet been checked for historical inaccuracies because the woman who does that for me (a million thanks) has just started a new job and is ridiculously busy. If she picks up on anything later I'll change it.


"Pub," Will insisted the moment they stepped off stage, still flushed with success. "You too, Sherlock, you're not escaping this time."

The great detective rolled his eyes, more blue than green above the periwinkle dress, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "If I must," he sighed. "Am I allowed to change, or do I have to go in the dress?"

The playwright grinned. "You do look rather fetching in the dress," he commented. John had to agree, but managed to do so privately, sharing a smile out of the corner of his eye with Ben as the boy pulled a shirt over his painted chest. Sherlock almost smiled.

Ben kept up a steady stream of praise, reliving their performance as they changed out of costume. John tried not to stare as his friend unselfconsciously stripped the dress over his head, leaving him bare but for his underclothes. He swallowed hard instead. He wondered what the detective would say if John allowed his own infatuation to approach the degree of visibility that Ben's had reached. Would he still want John to follow him around when they were not practising for the stage?

They were greeted with another hearty cheer and round of applause as they entered the pub, a fair portion of their audience having apparently beaten them there. Sherlock smiled awkwardly as half the packed pub patted him on the back and praised his performance with lascivious looks until Will took pity on him and dragged him to the bar, bellowing at the crowd to leave his actors alone.

John accepted the pint that was handed to him by a beaming barman, who had evidently never seen his pub quite this full before, and propped himself up beside Sherlock against the bar. The detective grudgingly held his own mug of ale out for John to bump his against, and then drank with a look of mild distaste. John laughed. "You don't have to look so reluctant," he teased.

"This is not my idea of fun," Sherlock countered through gritted teeth. John grinned at him.

"Sorry for dragging you along, then," he said. "But look - these people just want to show you how much they enjoyed what we just did."

Sherlock sighed. "I know," he said, sparing John a small smile. "This is why I never joined a company."

John snorted. "What, so the writer could never force you to the pub to talk to your audience? You know, you could have said no."

"Can you tell me with absolute certainty that he wouldn't have beaten me if I had?" the detective asked darkly, casting a glance over the playwright, who was laughing with a group who had already bought him his second drink of the evening.

He laughed. "Perhaps not," he agreed. "This is better for him than for us, really. This production of Dream was supposed to just be a kind of filler between Hamlet and this new What You Will for the Lord Chamberlain's Men, because Hamlet took up so much of his time that he didn't have any new comedy to replace As You Like It. Getting such a reaction out of it will be incredible publicity for What You Will."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, taking another drink from his ale. John noticed that the grimace of distaste did not resurface. He buried his nose in his own drink rather than comment.

Ben, who had not quite developed the taste for ale that he pretended to, rested his own mug on the bar, crossing one arm over his chest to do so, which blocked his body from the young man who was getting a little too close as he praised the boy. John flashed the man a warning look and he backed off. Ben grinned gratefully at John.

"Do you always receive this much attention here?" Sherlock asked, shifting closer to John to allow an older man to reach the bar with an awkward smile.

John shrugged. "Not quite this much, but there are usually a few people who just saw us play. Will loves it. Wait until later - the crowd dies down a little, and then the doxies turn up." Sherlock made a face. "Not really interested in that kind of woman?" John asked, trying to sound casual instead of intensely interested in that aspect of Sherlock's life.

The detective shrugged, not meeting John's eyes. "Not really interested in women," he said, mirroring John's pseudo-casual tone of voice. A shiver attempted to announce itself down his spine. Was Sherlock suggesting -

A shout from across the bar forced John to turn away from his friend; Will and his group of enthusiastic audience members had started up an interesting rendition of Oberon's song of sexual prosperity and it was the playwright who had called out to his actors. He grinned and opened his mouth to say something else, but was distracted by the man beside him bumping his elbow, causing him to slop ale over the bar.

"Encore!" the man called. "Give us a scene, o most royal of royals!"

John snorted and glanced hesitantly at Sherlock. The detective was looking at the man who had spoken with a half-amused, half-murderous expression. "We're off the stage now, mate," he replied easily, lifting his mug in a salute.

For a moment it seemed like that would be the end: the man grumbled a little and turned back to his friends, and John turned back to Ben and Sherlock with a slight smile on his face that the two of them returned. "So, John, Molly," the taller man began, "if we can wrangle these Twelfth Night scripts from Shakespeare before the night is out, we ought to arrange to read through them together. Perhaps the two of you will have scenes together this time."

"We don't," Ben interrupted, making a regretful face at John. "I asked him. He says he doesn't want Orsino and Olivia to see each other until the end, because the whole point of Viola being there is that Olivia has refused to let Orsino near her."

John returned the regretful expression, trying not to smile at the fact that Ben had asked the playwright if they would play together. "Oh, well," he said. "Perhaps next time. I'd love to watch the two of you rehearse, though, we could still meet up with the three of us."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again with a snap and looked over at the group congregating around Will once more. They had apparently not taken John's polite refusal as an answer, and had instead began a low chant of a scene, a scene that was steadily rising to a shout. "Ignore them," John told him.

"They won't give up, you know," the detective informed him. He opened his mouth to reply that they would, eventually, but Sherlock was draining his mug of ale dramatically - with his head tipped back and his throat working visibly, distracting John for a moment - and almost slamming it down on the bar. "Come on, John," he said briskly, striding into the foot or so of space between them and Will's group of audience.

"What black magician conjures up this fiend,
To stop devoted charitable deeds?"
Sherlock cried, wringing his hands together in sudden emotion.

Caught by surprise, John replied before he could realise that the line hadn't been from A Midsummer Night's Dream. He snarled the automatic reply instead. "Villains, set down the corpse; or by Saint Paul,
I'll make a corpse of him that disobeys."

Once the line had left his lips, he recognised it as Richard III; accordingly, he slumped where he stood into the diminutive, threatening posture of the character he had finished playing mere months ago, raising one eyebrow curiously at the detective.

Gradually, the pub hushed as more of its patrons turned to watch Sherlock glare daggers at John, who looked around; the next line was not from either of the characters that he and Sherlock had adopted, and he didn't think Ben knew it, allowing the pause to grow awkwardly as he waited for it.

He met Will's eyes, and the playwright cupped his hands around his mouth and cried playfully, "My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass."

"Unmanner'd dog!" John cried, rounding on him. "Stand thou, when I command:
Advance thy halbert higher than my breast,
Or by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness."

Sherlock, too, rounded on their impromptu audience in accusation. "What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid?" he chastised, gesturing furiously towards John.
"Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.
" He turned back to John, eyes burning.
"Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,
His soul thou canst not have: therefore be gone."

John gave Will one last tiny grin, letting the joy of performing with Sherlock overtake him once more. "Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst," he pleaded, adopting a fawning disposition and taking a tentative step towards the detective.

Sherlock backed away from him, working himself into a rage. "Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not," he almost screamed.
"For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O, gentlemen, see, see! Dead Henry's wounds
Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh!
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity;
For tis thy presence that exhales his blood
From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;
Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes this deluge supernatural.
O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death!
O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death!
Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,
Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood
Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered!"

The speech over, Sherlock quietened into gasps and tiny sobs; John let him, marvelling inwardly at his absolute passion. A few people in their gathering audience clapped briefly. John waited until the detective seemed to have composed himself a little before replying calmly, "Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessing for curses."

Sherlock pulled himself upright once more, stepping towards John in rebuttal. "Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man:
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity."

The detective took a slinking step to his left as he spoke, so John stepped to his own left as he replied, holding the player's gaze, like dogs circling each other in preparation for a fight. "But I know none," he protested innocently, "and therefore am no beast."

"O wonderful, when devils tell the truth," Sherlock snorted, not releasing him from their locked gaze and movement.

"More wonderful, when angels are so angry," John replied, quietly now that they seemed to have the attention of the entire pub.
"Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed crimes to give me leave

By circumstance but to acquit myself."

He'd always enjoyed the back-and-forth of this scene, and suspected that the character of Anne enjoyed it too; Sherlock's eyes danced as he continued to circle. "Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man," he spat back,
"For these known evils, but to give me leave
By circumstance, t'accuse thy cursed self."

John held out his hands in placation. "Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself,"
he pleaded.

"Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
No excuse current, but to hang thyself,"
came the lightening-fast reply.

"By such despair, I should accuse myself," John protested.

"And, by despairing, should thou stand excused;
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,
Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others."

Their circle was growing gradually tighter as they stepped around each other, and to John's delight, their audience was following them, closing around them until their makeshift stage had lost a third of its size. "Say I slew them not?" he asked, tilting his head to one side. One decisive step forwards and he would be close enough to touch Sherlock now, but kept his hands in front of him, clasped together in a mockery of chastity.

Sherlock snorted. "Then say they were not slain," he responded harshly, bending his torso towards John for a moment before withdrawing, as though they were both ignorant of how close to each other they had become. "But dead they are, and devilish slave, by thee."

"I did not kill your husband," John insisted.

"Why, then he is alive."

John bent his head as if to acknowledge her point, letting a sudden, unnerving smile break through his mocking sympathy. "Nay, he is dead - and slain by Edward's hand."

The detective actually reached out and pushed him away slightly as he retorted. "In thy foul throat thou liest!" he cried. "Queen Margaret saw
Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;
The which thou once didst bend against her breast,
But that thy brothers beat aside the point."

"I was provoked by her slanderous tongue," John said, gesturing innocently to himself,
"Which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders."

"Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
Which never dream'st on aught but butcheries!"
Sherlock scolded him, tossing his head in fury. Someone wolf-whistled in the crowd.
"Didst thou not kill this king?" he continued.

John spared an amused glance at the man who had whistled before sobering his expression and tilting his head to one side again. "I grant ye," he allowed.

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me too
Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!
O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous!
" He settled once more for wringing his hands in grief, glancing back over at Will and his group, that seemed to have assumed the role of the entourage around his dead husband.

"The better for the King of Heaven, that hath him," John consoled, lifting a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, now within his reach.

The detective shrugged him off furiously. "He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come," he agreed.

Not to be deterred, John slid his hand back up Sherlock's arm until it rested on his shoulder once more; when he lifted the other to stroke his face, the taller man caught it in his own, so that when they continued to circle it became more like a reluctant dance. "Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither," John continued, stepping so close to Sherlock that his breath blew across his upturned face.
"For he was fitter for that place than earth."

"And thou unfit for any place but hell," Sherlock retorted, but given that he had not let go of either of John's hands, the comment lost a fair amount of its sting.

John smirked at him. "Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it," he said softly, sliding the hand on Sherlock's shoulder into the hairs at the nape of his neck and back down again.

Sherlock's lip curled. "Some dungeon," he guessed.

"Your bedchamber," John retorted.

He expected his friend to push him away in disgust, break their circle and their eye-movements, but Sherlock froze instead, stopping their circle but leaving himself in John's arms, looking down at him in shock. "Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest," he spat quietly.

"So will it, madam, till I lie with you," John said earnestly, and this time when he reached up the hand not clasped within the detective's own Sherlock allowed him to stroke his pale cheek with the back of one finger. His skin tingled at the contact.

Sherlock breathed in shakily, trembling slightly as though resisting the urge to fall into John's arms. "I hope so," he said, not at all sounding sincere.

John grinned. "I know so," he affirmed. "But, gentle Lady Anne,
To leave this keen encounter of our wits
And fall somewhat into a slower method,
Is not the causer of the timeless deaths
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
As blameful as the executioner?"

Sherlock blinked, as if he had suddenly realised whose arms he was leaning into, and shoved at John so hard that he almost fell, saved only by the fact that their audience had pressed close enough to the two of them to catch him. "Thou art the cause," he snapped, standing over John and glaring at him as the audience propped him back onto his feet with a few muttered bawdy comments, "and most accursed effect."

"Your beauty was the cause of that effect," John insisted,
"Your beauty: which did haunt me in my sleep
To undertake the death of all the world
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom."

He shrugged off the audience member who was still holding onto one of his arms with a false smile and stepped hopefully towards Sherlock, who retreated from him in disgust. "If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide;
These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks."

John fell to his knees, trying not to wince as it became evident that the pub floor was harder than the stage in the Globe. "These eyes could not endure sweet beauty's wreck;

You should not blemish it, if I stood by,
As all the world is cheered by the sun,
So I by that: it is my day, my life."
He reached out beseechingly to Sherlock, who turned pointedly away from him and back to the audience.

"Black night o'ershade thy day," he pronounced ringingly, "and death thy life."

John shuffled forwards slightly on his knees, throwing his arms wide in surrender. "Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both," he cried.

Sherlock whirled back to him, bending his torso as though showing off how much taller he was than John. "I would I were, to be revenged on thee," he snarled back.

"It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be revenged on him that loveth you,"
John replied innocently, turning his head to follow the detective when he began to walk circles around him.

"It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be revenged on him that killed my husband,"
came the response. Sherlock seemed to be attempting to pretend that John didn't exist, while still almost helplessly still engaging in their stichomythic banter.

He smiled to himself once more. "He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,
Did it to help thee to a better husband."

Sherlock turned his nose up at him. "His better doth not breathe upon the earth."

"He lives that loves thee better than he could," John argued, rising to one knee and shuffling slightly towards Sherlock, who merely adjusted the trajectory of his circle to compensate for the movement.

"Name him," the detective challenged, momentarily pausing in his circle before seeming to check himself and carry on.

John threw his arms wide. "Plantagenet," he said proudly. Someone in the audience whooped; John shot them a grin.

Sherlock tutted in irritation. "Why, that was he," he agreed, gesturing towards Shakespeare once more.

"The selfsame name," John agreed, "but one of better nature."

"Where is he?" his friend asked, whirling around on one heel in order to glare properly at John as he clambered to his feet.

He let the pause hang for a moment as he stood, hands by his sides, watching Sherlock warily. Then he lifted his palms and said quietly, "Here." Sherlock drew in a furious breath, held it for a moment, and then spat at John's feet. John, who had expected him to aim the gesture at his face, stepped backwards in surrender. "Why dost thou spit at me?" he asked in outrage.

Sherlock turned his back self-righteously. "Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!" he sneered.

"Never came poison from so sweet a place," he beseeched, stepping closer and forcing the detective to sidestep him.

"Never hung poison on a fouler toad," Sherlock retorted over one shoulder.
"Out of my sight! Thou dost infect my eyes."

John followed him once more, again forcing him to stride to the other side of their makeshift stage. "Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine," he tried.

"Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!" his friend replied.

"I would they were, that I might die at once;
For now they kill me with a living death."
John advanced slowly on Sherlock, who pretended not to care, as he gave Richard's rather long speech to guilt-trip Anne, almost falling to one knee again before deciding against it in case the ground prevented him from getting up again.
"I never sued to friend nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;
But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak."

Sherlock turned his head to finally acknowledge John's approach, lips pursed in a dismissive moue. He allowed the touch when John ran the lightest of fingers across the swell of his bottom lip.

"Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt."
Sherlock snorted once more, and John hurriedly looked around at his audience and spotted a pair of crossed stage swords behind the bar; he gave the barman a meaningful look until the man took one down and handed it to him.
"If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive," he continued, slowly easing himself onto one knee and offering Sherlock the sword,
"Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;
Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom,
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee."
Sherlock grudgingly took the sword, and John - after briefly considering the state of his wardrobe and finances - took hold of his shirt and ripped it apart, baring his chest to the detective. Ben whooped, setting off a tiny round of applause from the audience.
"I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee."

Sherlock hesitated, then took a fencer's pose offering at his breast, but didn't strike. John shook his arms emphatically. "Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry,
But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.
Nay, now dispatch: 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward,
But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on."

Again the pause sat heavily between them, as Sherlock's hand that held the sword aloft trembled violently and they stared at each other. Then the taller man lifted his hand slightly and dropped the weapon at John's feet.

"Take up the sword again," John pleaded, "or take up me."

Sherlock heaved a great sigh. "Arise, dissembler," he said grudgingly. "Though I wish thy death,
I will not be the executioner."

"Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it," John compromised, not rising from his knee.

"I have already," the detective insisted, though he didn't meet John's eyes.

John stood slowly. "Tush," he dismissed. "That was in thy rage:
Speak it again, and even with the word,
That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love,
Shall,
for thy love, kill a far truer love:
To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary."

His co-star stared at him for a long moment. "I would I knew thy heart," he said finally.

"Tis figured in my tongue," John claimed immediately, returning to their lightening-fast repartee.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "I fear me both are false," he said.

John quirked the tinest of smiles. "Then never man was true."

"Well, well, put up your sword," the detective relented, waving a hand to emphasise the request.

"Say, then, my peace is made," John entreated as he handed the sword back to the barman.

Sherlock turned his head away dismissively. "That shalt thou know hereafter."

"But shall I live in hope?" John asked.

He was rewarded with a small, reluctant smile. "All men, I hope, live so," the detective replied.

John slipped a ring from his index finger and offered it to Sherlock, grabbing one of his thin-fingered hands in both of his own. "Vouchsafe to wear this ring," he begged, sliding it with little resistance onto Sherlock's long ring finger.

"To take is not to give," the man told him half-heartedly.

He held up his new love's hand as if looking for the audience's approval, which they gave him noisily with another round of smattered applause. "Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger:

Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;

Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted suppliant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever."

Sherlock made another show of reluctance, but finally relented with a muttered, "What is it?"

"That it would please thee leave these sad designs
To him that hath more cause to be a mourner,"
John finished, stroking one finger down the detective's pale cheek.
"And presently repair to Crosby Place;
Where, after I have solemnly interr'd
At Chertsey monastery this noble king,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears,
I will with all expedient duty see you:
For divers unknown reasons. I beseech you,
Grant me this boon."

Leaving John's hand where it was - resting intimately at the soft hollow of his throat - Sherlock smiled weakly. "With all my heart," he said softly, "and much it joys me too,
To see you are become so penitent."
He waved an imperious hand at Will's table.
"Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me."

John caught the hand in midair with his own and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to it. "Bid me farewell," he said, locking his eyes with Sherlock's own.

"Tis more than you deserve;
But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine I have said farewell already."
And with that, Sherlock pulled his hand from John's grasp, gave one final glance in Will's direction, and then swanned off of their makeshift stage and into the audience.

Will cheered; Ben joined in almost immediately, and the rest of the pub quickly followed, whooping and clapping and slapping the two of them on the back. Sherlock looked down at John over the drink someone had slapped into his hand and grinned. John rolled his eyes cheerfully and accepted his own drink from one of the men who had been sitting with Will.

Apparently Sherlock didn't mind being the centre of attention, as long as he didn't have to acknowledge the people who were paying him that attention.

"You know, for never having worked with Will before, you certainly know a lot of his work by heart," John commented under the applause of the crowd.

Sherlock's mouth twisted in a smile. "Just because I've never done one of Shakespeare's plays before doesn't mean I've never wanted to. Before I went abroad I used to use Shakespeare as an audition repertoire on the rare occasion I had to audition for parts."

John quirked a smile at the casual way in which Sherlock scorned the need for beginning actors to audition: he didn't imagine it would have happened very often for him. The way that Ben told it, the detective could have walked into any part in London after only a few performances for people to see what he was like. Usually only relatively unknown actors had to audition, before they were snapped up by a company or the theatres grew to know them well enough to offer them parts without auditioning them.

"A lot of Shakespeare's work is quite unique," Sherlock continued, watching the playwright almost hit his forehead on the table as he laughed. "I recognise that he draws inspiration from other sources, but the way that he puts them together is different from what everyone else is doing." The two of them stared at Will for a moment. "I think if anything from this time survives thousands of years into the future, it could well be the work of William Shakespeare."

John grinned at his friend when Will looked up at him. "Everyone thought he was stupid at school," he told Sherlock. "I was the only person who knew him well enough to know there was something behind his complete lack of concentration. A few people we knew turned up the first time we played a draft form of A Comedy of Errors back in the Crown, just a collection of scenes, it wasn't even a play yet. I still remember the looks on their faces when they realised it was genius."

The detective's grey-green eyes fixed on his face for a moment. Then he smiled softly. "You were in love with him," he deduced, lowering his voice to keep the secret from the people still pressing in on them.

It wasn't really a secret, so John only smiled. "I still am, in a way," he admitted. "It's just different now. We were young, and that kind of love... I've always kind of thought that was what he drew on with Romeo and Juliet - I honestly believed back then that if he died, I would die too. And then I joined the army, and when I came back from Ireland he was married." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as though he was aiming for sympathy and not quite reaching it. John frowned.

"I've actually never met Anne," he said thoughtfully. "I don't think he wants me to, even now. Well, now I don't think he wants to see her either. I got sent to Brest before I could really react, and then by the time we saw each other again we'd both sort of come to terms with it. He's still my best friend, and I'd do anything for him, but it's different."

At his table, Will looked up at John once more to find the two of them staring at him and grinned. John tried not to look sheepish. "I always suspected there was a male lover in Shakespeare's past," the detective told him, sounding like he wanted to be smug about the discovery but a part of him was refusing to play along. John looked at him, surprised at the undertone of the words; Sherlock was still looking at John, a tiny frown buried between his eyebrows even as his lips smiled. "There are so many homoerotic subtexts to his close male friendships, particularly in his early work. That's another reason I've always enjoyed it."

"What, the homoerotic subtext?" John teased, but given Sherlock's earlier comments he supposed the tease seemed rather redundant.

The detective grinned anyway. "It's always fun on stage. How far can you push it before it stops being subtext and becomes explicit?" John shrugged in grudging agreement. He enjoyed that himself, although he had discovered that it took a certain kind of co-star to pull it off. "Twelfth Night is particularly good," Sherlock added after a moment, "because you really have to take it right to that line, or the romantic conclusion won't seem as important. And it works both ways - with Orsino and Cesario, but also with Viola and Olivia."

John chuckled. Every time he contemplated this play it sounded like more fun. "So, provided we can actually get hold of these scripts tonight, if I just go to Angelo's in the early morning we could read over them together?" he confirmed with the detective.

Sherlock nodded happily. "Of course, John." His long fingers toyed with the rim of his mug, drawing John's eyes as they stroked absently. "Lestrade will most likely depart for Sussex tomorrow, so we shouldn't be disturbed by those investigations, although he may pop by himself to discuss the questions he ought to be asking the inn staff. But I had got the impression that you were rather enjoying that aspect of our acquaintance - you wouldn't object to the Constable stopping in, would you?"

"I don't believe I would," John grinned. The detective's eyes gleamed for a moment, a spark of something jolting down John's spine.

Will called his name from across the bar, beckoning to the two of them. He now had one arm around Ben and the other around his drink; John grinned and lifted a hand in acknowledgement. "We should go and sit with them," he said reluctantly. He'd been rather enjoying having Sherlock more or less to himself, his lips slightly loosened by the ale. "Will probably wants them to see how great we are." The detective smiled ruefully, so John lifted his mug in a final toast. "To showing off," he said brightly.

Sherlock accepted the toast, smiling wryly. "To celebrity."


John entered Angelo's inn the next morning just as the inkeeper was descending the stairs behind the bar, an empty tray in one large hand; they grinned at each other, John hanging his coat on the rack by the door with a wave of greeting.

"Morning, Master Watson," Angelo boomed, making a pair of young men at a table near the bar jump.

"Morning, Angelo - it's John, please," he returned. "You wouldn't know if Sherlock's up yet, would you? We just said 'early morning', I don't know when he…"

The inkeep nodded amiably. "Aye, he's up," he said gruffly, waving his tray in explanation. "I hear congratulations are in order for last night," he added, grinning.

John shrugged, wondering what Sherlock had said about it. "It was mostly Sherlock," he admitted.

Angelo chuckled. "He said you'd say that," he said. "Go on, up you go. Up the stairs, door furthest from the landing." He flapped a hand in the direction of the stairs, still chuckling at Sherlock's apparent joke. John shook his head in bemusement and made his way up to the room.

He'd never been in Sherlock's room before, but it wasn't difficult to find from Angelo's descriptions. His knock was met with an immediate "Come in, John," from within.

Sherlock was sitting at a wooden desk, spreading butter over a roll of bread. He smiled up at John when he entered, glancing with considerable interest around the place where his friend lived.

It was rather a mess. The desk where the detective currently sat was covered in papers; John recognised the blank verse of cue-scripts over some of them, but others appeared to be letters from various people, most likely clients. A chair against the far wall was piled high with clothes, the detective's black greatcoat taking pride of place atop them. The bed was rumpled, but it looked as though Sherlock had slept on top of it rather than inside it. When his eyes returned to his friend, the man raised an amused eyebrow over his steaming mug of tea. "Pardon the mess, John," he said, not sounding at all concerned. "I was rather too busy yesterday to put my things in order." He waved an airy hand at the plate in front of him. "Please, help yourself. I can call Angelo for more tea, if you'd like."

John shook his head. "Thank you."

The detective shrugged, dusting breadcrumbs from his fingers. "I glanced at the new material," he said, indicating it. "There's only one new scene between the two of us, but it's good."

"I read it," John told him, taking his own - significantly thinner - cue-script from his pocket. "Orsino only has one scene over these two acts. Will wants me to play some other character as well. Belch, I think he said. He'll give me the scripts later - it means I get stage time with him, and with Molly, even if it's as an ass."

Sherlock smiled thoughtfully. "Yes, he mentioned that he was playing Malvolio," he said, cupping his mug between long-fingered hands. "From what I've heard, he and Molly will have fun with it. Do you mind if I drink while we read?"

"Please," John allowed him. He shook out his cue-scripts as the detective climbed to his feet and kicked a pair of shoes and a light travelling-case out of their way, clearing a space in the middle of the floor for them. He waited until Sherlock had stopped fidgeting and leaned against the desk with an eyebrow cocked expectantly before he found a place to start.

"Come hither, boy," he began, and Sherlock pushed himself away from the desk eagerly. "If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me:
For such as I am, all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?"

The detective smiled politely, clasping demure hands in front of his chest. "It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned,"
he obliged.

John raised a teasing eyebrow, taking a step closer in order to nudge Sherlock in the ribs. "Thou dost speak masterly," he observed in amusement.
"My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves:
Hath it not, boy?"

Sherlock shifted out of range of John's elbows, looking uncomfortable. "A little, by your favour," he answered reluctantly.

"What kind of woman is't?" John asked, unabashed at his naked curiosity, letting a modicum of jealousy show through in his face.

The detective paused for a moment, looking John up and down as though sizing him up, then gave a tiny private smile. "Of your complexion," he said finally.

"She is not worth thee, then," John dismissed immediately; then, as though unable to resist, he stepped closer to the younger man once more. "What years, i'faith?"

"About your years, my lord," Sherlock admitted shyly, still with that smile as though he were laughing at a private joke.

John slapped him on the back. "Too old by heaven!" he remarked. "Let still the woman take
An elder than herself: so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart:
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are."

"I think it well, my lord," Sherlock said judiciously, with a distinct air as though he was trying to close the conversation.

John grinned at him. "Then let thy love be younger than thyself," he instructed firmly, slinging his arm around the detective's upper arms.
"Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour."

Tentatively, Sherlock leaned down and rested his head wistfully on John's shoulder as though in camaraderie. "And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow."
He sighed, and allowed John to rub soothingly down his arm. John resisted the urge to press a kiss to the top of his head.

"And then Olivia's clown comes back in, I think," John said, looking at his script. "O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age."

Sherlock smiled softly at him. "Perhaps we ought to dance," he suggested. Neither of their cue-scripts contained the song; John glanced at his own anyway. "I mean, just an impromptu few steps as he sings. Might help to build the tension that breaks when Orsino asks about Olivia again."

John nodded, stepping forwards and placing his and Sherlock's palms together between their bodies. "So we might finish like this," he expanded, glancing down at his script then locking their eyes together once more. "Let all the rest give place," he dismissed the singer.
"Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands,
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems
That nature pranks her in attracts my soul."

The detective didn't pull away, but his body sagged in disappointment. He curled his fingers slowly around John's until he was almost holding his hand. "But if she cannot love you, sir?" he asked quietly.

John copied the gesture of closing his fist around Sherlock's hand, his own movement quick as though involuntary. "I cannot be so answer'd," he insisted, injecting a note of warning into his voice.

Sherlock raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Sooth, but you must," he argued, taking a quiet step closer, their hands still joined between them.
"Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her,
You tell her so - must she not then be answer'd?"

John shortened the distance between them by another step, looking sternly up at his friend. "There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much: they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt:
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia,"
he scolded.

"Ay, but I know -"

"What dost thou know?" John interrupted Sherlock's hasty retort, stepping closer again until their breaths mingled between them.

The detective actually shuddered minutely, his eyelashes fluttering. John held his own body still by sheer force of will, desperate as it seemed to be to copy the motion. "Too well what love women to men may owe," he completed, as though helplessly.
"In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship."
Sherlock's eyelids lowered slightly once more and he dipped his head closer to John's as though angling for a kiss. John tilted his face up to accommodate it, his eyes fixing on the detective's rich cupid's-bow before he could wrench them away to focus on his equally captivating eyes. It was a little distracting that Sherlock's face didn't seem to have any 'ordinary' features that he could focus on. A shudder struggled once more to break free of his chest as the younger man's tongue appeared to wet his lips, his eyes intense.

John drew an intentionally shaky breath in, as though he was aware of the desire creeping through Sherlock's lines. "And what's her history?" he asked, in their tiny room allowing himself to whisper without worrying about their non-existent audience.

Sherlock gave him the ghost of a smile. "A blank, my Lord," he said, shifting his posture to give John the tiniest reprieve from their proximity. "She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men say more, swear more: but indeed
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
"

After a moment's deliberation, John placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder as if in comfort, pulling the younger man closer. "But died thy sister of her love, my boy?" he asked, intently curious.

Again, Sherlock smiled a tight, sad smile. "I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not."
John stared at him, still unnervingly close, trying to work out how someone could have no sisters and yet not know whether their sister was dead. Sherlock's smile widened for the briefest of moments before vanishing. John wondered how the detective would react if he kissed him again. What was his next line? "Sir -"

A sharp rap sounded on the door; John quickly turned, putting a step of space between the two of them, to see Angelo leaning against the frame, grinning at them. "Sorry to interrupt," the inkeep said smugly.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped. John was slightly gratified to see a flush high on his friend's cheekbones and a thoroughly displeased downturn at the corners of his mouth.

Angelo's grin widened. "There's a man downstairs wants to see you, Sherlock," he said, rubbing his meaty hands together. "Says he knows a Lady Brackenstall you might be looking for."

Sherlock glanced at John, his eyebrows twitching in surprise. "Very well," he said, interest creeping into his voice. "Send him up, Angelo, if you would."

He clapped his hands together lightly once the inkeep had moved off, a fire kindling in his eyes. "Well, John," he said softly. "This could prove interesting."

John hummed lightly, helping the consulting detective to clear the pile of clothing from the room's spare chair and shift it into the space they had cleared to rehearse. "Could even prove enlightening," he agreed, allowing Sherlock to settle himself authoritatively into the other chair and perching against the broad desk in front of it instead.

The man, when he arrived, was tall, tanned and nervous-looking, fidgeting with a naval cap between his hands as his dark eyes darted anxiously around the small room. He was dressed as a sailor; John felt Sherlock sit up straighter in his chair as he stepped through the door. "Master Holmes?" he asked tentatively, his eyes shifting uncertainly between the two of them.

"That would be me," Sherlock said easily, allowing the visitor a tight smile along with his calculating once-over. "This is my colleague, John Watson. He has been assisting me in the investigation into Lady Brackenstall's disappearance."

The man smiled tremulously. "Captain Jack Crocker," he introduced in a rough accent, slightly twisted from what John usually heard on the South Bank, though he couldn't identify the variation. It seemed to be an amalgam of multiple dialects, as though the sailor spent time at multiple ports that all spoke with different accents. "I work on the Bass Rock. I am - was - have been - Mary Brackenstall's lover."

Surprised, John looked at Sherlock, who acknowledged his surprise with a glance as he leaned forwards to rest his chin on his steepled fingertips. He watched the sailor fidget for a moment before gesturing towards the empty chair with one hand. "Take a seat, Captain Crocker," he said airily. "Tell us everything from the beginning. Watson and I may interrupt as we see fit."

John wondered with a tiny smile what Sherlock would do if he did see fit to interrupt; he was certain the detective didn't expect him to. He shifted his bottom more comfortably against the desk and watched the man instead. He looked to be in the middle of his thirties, dark hair mussed by the removal of the cap, lips red from the nervous biting he was still doing as he bent to sit in the chair with the slightest wince as though from aching muscles.

"I've been a sailor for many years, Master Holmes," he began, twisting his cap between his knees. "I was on the voyage that took Mary - Lady Brackenstall, though her name was Fraser back then - to London to be married. We didn't mean it to happen. I think she was afraid of marrying someone she'd never met, and so far away from her own home, and she turned to me for comfort. It was a long voyage to fall in love over."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as though to indicate boredom at the love story, his chin now resting on one hand, a long finger stroking thoughtfully over his lips. His eyes were piercingly intent as he gazed at the sailor.

Crocker looked increasingly nervous at the detective's scrutiny. "We never acted on our love," he insisted. "When we arrived in London we agreed never to contact each other again, and we never did - and then last month, years later, I received a letter from a member of her household. It said that Mary talked about me, and that the sender feared for her safety and didn't know whom else to turn to. It said that her husband was a horrid man and a drinker, and that he hurt her - you understand, Master Holmes, I couldn't just stand by when Mary Fraser was tied to such a man for the rest of her glorious life. So I met with her, in secret.

"She was against it, of course, but I insisted that we take her away from that life. We planned it together - we would stage a burglary, and when she went missing people would assume she'd been kidnapped or killed. When they couldn't find her, they would give up."

John frowned, glancing at Sherlock: surely there were easier ways than wasting city resources looking for someone who hadn't actually been kidnapped. And what if the Constables had found her? Crocker would most likely have been executed.

The sailor sighed. "We never intended to hurt Lord Eustace. I wouldn't have been against it, but Mary insisted." Sherlock's lips twitched, but a shadow had fallen across Crocker's tanned, melancholy face.

"When the night arrived, I broke in through the window that Mary and I had agreed - I thought nothing of it being open, there was nothing to suggest anything was amiss. In the sitting room I cut down the curtains and the bell-rope without even looking at the rest of the room, frayed the ends to look as though they had been torn. And then I crossed the room to find Mary and I saw…" he stopped to take a shuddering breath in, his dark eyes sliding closed. "I saw Lord Eustace," he finished, swallowing hard. "I'll never forget it - his eyes staring up at me."

John shuddered. He could only imagine the horror of stumbling over that body in the dark. When he glanced at Sherlock, however, the detective's mouth was still bent into the tiniest of smiles. "I dared not call out, but I searched the house for Mary, and she wasn't there. Someone else was in that house that night, Master Holmes - it was I who made the room look as though it had been burgled, but I didn't kill Lord Eustace, and I certainly wouldn't have harmed Mary."

He sat back, as though relieved to have told his story. There was a moment's silence as his words faded from the air. Then Sherlock began to laugh.

John stared as the detective threw back his head to accommodate the full-throated chuckle, his shoulders shaking. Crocker frowned angrily.

"No," Sherlock dismissed when the laughter had faded. "Very nice story, but no - the way that body was placed, you couldn't possibly have cut down the bell-rope without noticing it." His smile vanished quite suddenly, and he leaned forwards once more with a slightly threatening manner.

"Now, why don't you tell me who you really are, Captain Jack Crocker?"


Notes:

Stichomythia is a term for short, quick back-and-forth lines, and this scene is possibly the only Shakespearean exchange to which I would apply it.

It also struck me while writing this chapter that I'll end up writing out these Twelfth Night scenes again when they actually perform the play, to see how their understanding of the scenes and of each other changes having had the whole play and the things that happen to them between now and then. You guys don't mind, do you?