A/N: Real quick, there's a reason this story is marked 'mature.' Thanks ;)
Chapter 9: Love
Martin is pulled from a dream of big hands gently caressing his shoulders, waking him slowly as his consciousness is made aware of his surroundings. He blinks awake to find that the gentle touches are coming from a steady stream of air puffing into his noticeably fresh room from the half-open window and causing the sheer white curtain covering it to dance. Martin closes his eyes and listens to the joyful chirps of the earliest spring birds as he comfortably slides back into sleep. This is his last full day off for a while; he owes it to himself to unwind a little. He takes a deep breath, inhales the fresh scent of the incredibly soft sheet beneath him and then he is instantly fully aware.
"Huh?" He says as he scrambles to sit up against the headboard. It thuds dully against the plain white plaster wall.
Headboard? He doesn't own a bed!
In fact, he doesn't own any curtains! And these sheets!
Martin runs his palm over the brick red linen, the action helping him calm down. He looks around and takes in the tiny touches that have added some personality to his normally spartan room: all of his meager belongings are still there, but little things have been added. Besides the curtains and the single bed, the decrepit table he has always used as a desk and the single beat-up chair he had are gone. In their places stands what appears to be a new chair, a modern glass-topped desk and is that a laptop?
Martin is overwhelmed. He scoots off the bed and slides into the simple desk chair that on second glance may not be brand new, but is still better than what he had before. The smooth leather is soft against his bare back and warms quickly to his body temperature. He flips open the device and waits for it to power up. On the home screen there is a new message. Martin looks for a mouse or an arrow pad only to see a little blinking box welcoming him to the touch screen. He shrugs and taps the message icon.
I do hope this is not overly drastic.
-Your brother;
Mycroft Holmes
Holy crap. What do you even say to that? Martin is torn between being happily shocked and thinking that perhaps Mycroft's way of being a "good" older brother is going to push him into paranoia so far that he's going to end up running around with an aluminum foil-covered hat!
Another message pops up as soon as he finishes reading the first one. This time he is informed that a new job has appeared on Icarus' Dashboard. What? He pokes at the icon at the bottom of that message to find a scheduling book, with customers' names, phone numbers, addresses and all the information he needs to get their belongings from Point A to Point B. A list of already-paid deposits accompanies the schedule that he is instantly certain will not interfere with any of his MJN flight times.
"This is too much." Martin says to the room at large. He prods at the computer a little longer, getting familiarized with the machine. When someone knocks at his door, he almost shrieks, proof that he is not as 'okay' with the changes as he wants to be. As it is, he rushes towards his old bureau where he hurriedly grabs an old t-shirt and pulls it over his head. It is a little tight and pulls against the skin of his shoulders which he rolls to offset the sensation.
Another knock and Martin opens the door, wondering could possibly come next. It turns out to be Stephanie, one of the Ag students.
"Hey, Mister Crieff. Some lady in these bitchin' heels just left this basket for you."
"Uh." Martin clears his throat, sure that she can hear his heart rushing headlong into cardiac arrest. He counts to three and reaches out for the brown wicker basket covered with blue cling film. "Stephanie, you know you can call me 'Martin.' Thank you."
"Sure, whatever you say, Mister Crieff!" She smiles brightly and turns away from him, her bright pink ponytail swinging behind her.
Martin leans wearily against the door jamb, his face pressed to his forearm. When did he get so old? Mister Crieff was his grandfather, for god's sake. He closes the door and drops the basket down on the bed where it bounces against slightly on the firm new mattress. Finally, after it does nothing but sit there, he decides to open it. Martin tears at the cling wrap to find an odd assortment: some type of moisturizing lotion, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner of the same brand and type as John and Sherlock's hotel room, shaving cream, aftershave, a new electric razor and oddly, a mobile phone. He frowns and fiddles with the smart phone and somehow switches it on. The contact list includes Carolyn, Douglas, John, Sherlock and Mycroft. His mom, Wendy, and his sister Caitlyn have been added as well. Martin shrugs, running his fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, thinking that his luck is going to run out sometime.
He heads to the tiny bathroom, flips on the shower, takes one look at his old bottle of cheap shampoo, turns on his heel and retrieves the basket. He is going to allow himself this luxury, just this once.
ooo
After he showers and shaves, Martin feels like a new man. As he pulls on the new pair of jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, his eyes dart around his room, landing on the laptop and he thinks about the schedule for Icarus. Nothing new until his first day off from MJN next week, so he still has the rest of the day. He whistles lightly as he walks down the steps and through the house to the parking lot. Several students give him a smile or a wave that he returns with interest.
In its normal parking space placidly sits his old van, looking exactly the same as it did yesterday when he and Sherlock got out of it. He jangles the keys in his pocket between nervous fingers as he walks around the vehicle. Unlocking the door proves to be no more exciting that it always does so he slides into the seat and puts the key into the ignition.
That's where the change is most obvious. The engine purrs to life instead of gasping. Martin stares at the dashboard. Nothing else has changed. He turns off the van, gets out and opens the bonnet and is stunned. That's got to be a new engine, because there is absolutely no way in one single night that the old one was cleaned this well: the damned thing gleams. Martin stands there with one hand holding the hood and the other resting against the machine until he thinks about how insane this must look. He closes it, climbs in and is pull out of the student lot before he gives himself another chance to think about it.
He finds the hotel easily enough and pulls in, wondering for a few seconds whether he should have called ahead. John said that Sherlock was working, though, and that Martin was welcome any time. Martin knows they will be heading back to London sometime today, so he wants to take advantage of his own down time to see his brother. Who knows when they will get together again?
That leads him to another distressing thought: if it ever comes down to it, would Sherlock—and by extension, Mycroft—get along with Caitlyn and Simon? Technically, the latter two have known Martin far longer than the former two, but the Holmes boys are blood. The idea staggers the imagination. Of course, it is probably never going to happen. What chance is there of all of them ever meeting? Everyone's lives are so different, in reality there is probably very little chance of that. He wonders what Caitlyn and Simon would think of Douglas? Martin is sure Sherlock is already mostly aware of his…feelings…for the first officer, and so then John must. Without a doubt, Mycroft does, too.
An image of Douglas leaning against the tan wall in this very corridor seems projected on it. Right after that bit of memory, cruelly in fact, is the way Douglas' expression looked as he leaned in closer to Martin at the bar…and then Douglas shaking hands with the big, smiling man at the pub. That leads to the memory of being so upset last night. He shakes his head against it all, preferring to let the changes to his tiny room at the student house overshadow the sad fact that Douglas Richardson, suave Sky God, probably only remembers Martin's name in order to torment him on long flights.
Martin's mind is so preoccupied that he is standing in front of the door to John and Sherlock's suite before he realizes it. He blinks at the partially-open door, thinking that John left it open as an invitation for him. Martin opens it and lets it snap shut as he walks further into the suite, fully expecting to see John.
He does see John, actually. Only a whole lot more than he was counting on. John is sitting in one of the wooden chairs from the small table he and Douglas played cards at the day before, facing the door. Or he would be, but his head is tipped backwards, the back of it resting against the top of the chair and his eyes are closed. John's bare chest is heaving, the skin blushing red beneath a fine dusting of gold hair. Martin stares at firm pectorals marred only by a nasty scar that could only be a bullet wound.
After that realization, Martin cannot stop himself from following the line of John's body to where his bare legs are spread wide open, one foot hooked around Sherlock's hip and one hand clutching at the back of Sherlock's head; John's fingers disappear into the jet black curls at Sherlock's nape. Sherlock is far from naked, still wearing his black trousers, but his moss green shirt has been unbuttoned and the material moves in time with Sherlock's bobbing head.
Martin cannot tear his eyes away, though it feels wrong, like walking in on your parents. In an instant, both men groan and there is wet, popping sound when Sherlock pulls off of John and surges upward, the muscles in his back straining the way a running horse's will as it rushes to the finish line. John's hands are now pulling down on Sherlock's shoulders, his legs wrapping around Sherlock's hips. Every movement the two of them make is slow, languorous, elegant and so fucking beautiful it brings tears to his eyes. Martin knows he isn't looking at sex for its own sake, and that knowledge threatens to take him out at the knees. Sure, he has seen porn before but it has never been his forte, and now he knows why; why it never satisfied him, because right here in front of his face is proof that intimacy can be so much more.
The way John is holding onto the detective tears apart something deep inside Martin. It is at once beautiful to see two people so completely wrapped up in one another, but at the same time a dagger made of ice and jealousy is forced into Martin's chest. Suddenly it gets difficult to breathe.
Still Martin stands, frozen now to the spot. He knows he should flee before they see him, but just the thought seems to interrupt them. John's eyes fly open and he stares at Martin, his blue eyes like flames that threaten to sear the younger man. Martin holds up his hands and stammers.
"I…I'm sorry." He backs towards the door.
John taps Sherlock's shoulder and whispers something into his ear. Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother; Martin takes in the deep flush over his cheeks, the scarlet kiss-swollen lips and green eyes gone soft. He chokes and tries valiantly to fight the tears that are making it difficult to see.
"Martin, could you give us a minute?" Sherlock's voice is deep, and incredibly, he seems as if he is attempting to be soothing obviously not angry at the interruption.
Martin nods his head, once again letting his eyes wander to John's face. John smiles softly, no malice or spite or embarrassment. Martin backs through the door and drops against it when it closes; aware that he is much too close to the door where he should not be. He rushes towards the lift and rides it down to the lobby where everything around him is too bright, too clear; already fogging his memories of what he has seen. It is the knowledge that two people can find so much peace and happiness with each other that gives him hope for his own future.
He is by no means aroused by seeing his brother in such a compromising position; rather he is flustered because he has managed to live for a couple of minutes through him vicariously and seen something that his heart wants so desperately: to be loved so passionately...
Love. Martin drops onto the first bench along the pavement that he comes to, the word doing somersaults in his mind. It has always seemed to be such an unreachable concept to him. He thinks about Douglas and decides then and there that he is going to man up and tell the first officer as soon as they are alone tomorrow.
