A crisis, existential modern art, opera singers (again), and coat collars.
AN: THIS.
This chapter is ridiculous. I had way too much fun writing it.
Sir Arthur, I bow to you.
And all of you are so amazing. Seriously. Thank you to anybody who had taken the time to drop by or recommend this to your friends.
"Where next? The gallery?" Jane says as a taxi pulls up next to them.
"In a bit. I've got to do something first," Sherlock says sliding into the cab after her. "WaterlooBridge," he instructs the cabbie. "Can I borrow a piece of paper?"
"Yeah," Jane says pulling out her notebook and tearing out a blank page. "Hickman's is a contemporary art place, isn't it? Why do they have an Old Master?"
Sherlock takes the paper from her and scribbles a note with a pen he procured…from somewhere, and he folds it up together with the bank note. "I don't know. Lots of ideas, but it is a capital mistake to theorise without all of the data."
"Really?" Jane says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Sherlock stuffs the papers into his pocket and looks up at her. He frowns.
"What?"
"You being all mysterious," she says, smirk threatening to unfurl into an actual smile.
"What do you mean, mysterious?" Sherlock says, abashed.
"You know…you with your secret messages and turned up coat collar. Not to mention that thing you just said. If I didn't know you like I did I wouldn't think you were for real."
"What did I say?!" Sherlock says even more exasperated.
Jane raises her finger mockingly and lowers her voice in her best impression. "It's a capital mistake to theorise without all the data'."
"What are you doing? Is that supposed to be me?" Sherlock glares. This only sets Jane off laughing. "You're not as funny as you think you are. And besides, it's true. Insensibly, if one is not careful, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."
"See there you go again!" she accuses.
"I don't understand what is so amusing," Sherlock says, an irritable undercurrent to her bubbling mirth. He folds his arms in front of his chest and scowls out the window.
"You're just you," she says grinning all the wider. "Sherlock Holmes. Your name even sounds like you belong in a Victorian crime novel."
"Oh god," Sherlock murmurs fixing the ceiling of the cab with a disparaging look, but Jane's on a roll.
"We could even switch the sofa out for a chaise lounge so you could properly languish for a change, and instead of cigarettes we'll get you a churchwarden pipe and everything!"
"Jane Watson, you are on dangerous ground," Sherlock warns.
"God I can't stop!" she says laughing even harder at the image her brain conjured up. "You even have your own catch phrase!"
"Catch phrase!" Sherlock squawks. "I do not have a catch phrase!"
"The Game is On!" Jane crows, pointing a finger in the air.
"Ha, ha," he says, throwing her a sarcastic look. He leans forward to speak to the cabbie, "Stop just up here by the underpass."
"Oh? Secret liaisons in dark underpasses, is it?" Jane teases. "That's not mysterious at all, no sir."
Sherlock suddenly twists in his seat, pressing his arms to either side — one on the seat back behind them, and the other on the seat back across — filling the space and effectively creating a cage with his lanky frame. It startles the laughter out of her, and she presses her lips together trying to rein in her grin.
"You might want to stop now," he says dangerously, a mischievous glimmer in his blazing eyes.
"Or what? Your creepy looming doesn't work on me," she says, her voice dark and wry to match his.
"Or: I will just have to find a way to make you," Sherlock says, the end of the sentence coming out in a low growl. The cab rolls to a stop next to the kerb.
Like a jaguar, Sherlock leans in as if about to pounce, all sleek lines and predatory instinct, and Jane's heart kicks up several notches, her eyes widening as the sudden pulse of adrenaline curls pleasantly in her stomach.
Then like lightening, he reaches behind her and unlatches the door she didn't realise she was so heavily crowded against, causing her to nearly fall right onto the pavement.
"Hey!" she exclaims, awkwardly trying not to end up on her behind as Sherlock climbs over her.
"Tell the cabbie to wait, won't you?" he says without a backward glance, and Jane can hear the smugness in his voice.
Prat, she thinks before clambering out to follow him. He jumps over a guardrail to the other side of the walk, and Jane curses his bloody long legs as she follows somewhat less gracefully.
"Spare change, sir?" a young woman with a weathered cardboard sign says as they approach her. The many carrier bags surrounding her feet as well as the threadbare jumper she's wearing speaks of her homelessness louder than her sign does.
"What for?" Sherlock says coolly.
"Cup of tea, a-course," she replies, and Jane realises it's some sort of code between them. Sherlock pulls out the note and hands it to her. He turns around to go back to the idling taxi but before he does, he thinks better of it and pulls the scarf from his neck.
He hands it to her. "Bit cold."
"Gettin' warmer. It's nearly Spring," she shrugs, but drapes it over her shoulders regardless.
Jane watches this uncharacteristic act of compassion from her usually austere flatmate, her mouth dropping open slightly, and she almost misses when Sherlock breezes past her on his way back to their ride.
"What was that about?" Jane says taking the fold out seat in front of him as they get back into the cab.
"Just investing," Sherlock says pulling out his mobile and aimlessly scrolling. She continues to watch him, dumbfounded. He looks up after a moment and assesses Jane's scrutinising gaze. He rolls his eyes. "What is it this time?"
"You gave her your scarf," Jane says.
"Very good, Jane. I'm glad my observational skills are finally rubbing off on you," he replies dryly.
"You love that scarf."
"It's irrational to form a sentimental attachment to material objects, Jane. And besides, I have others," Sherlock says.
"No. You don't. You just have the one," Jane says.
"Does this impossibly tedious conversation have a point?" Sherlock says, tossing her a defensive look. Which is further evidence to what her own little deductions have led her to believe.
"You care about her," Jane states.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snaps. "It's just a scarf." Sure.
"What's her name?" Jane asks, a warm feeling blooming in her chest. If she had a name for it, it would be something akin to pride that she feels for him.
"Alison," Sherlock says. "She keeps an eye out. Invaluable; homeless network. No one ever looks twice at them. They are my eyes and ears all over the city."
"Don't try to explain this away. You're not just using her; you actually care about her in some capacity."
"Will you just…drop it?" Sherlock says tiredly. "I don't care about her."
"Yeah you do. You know her name, even. You can't even be bothered to remember Greg's half the time," Jane says refusing to let this go. Sherlock had such a skewed perception of himself, and she wanted to…well, she didn't know what exactly. At least have him acknowledge the fact that he wasn't some cold, unfeeling automaton from time to time.
"I only do that to annoy him. And besides, I simply understand Alison. That's all. When you're homeless, staying that much warmer makes all the difference between simply passing the time until dawn, and being miserable and aching for the entire night," he says casually. Too casually, actually.
"Wait…you…are you speaking from experience?" Jane asks surprised. He darts her a sheepish look before staring resolutely out the window.
"That shouldn't be a surprise to you," he says, sounding bored. She doesn't miss his anxious shifting, however.
She tilts her head and looks at him for a little longer, feeling a bit off-kilter all of a sudden.
She nearly forgot that just over an hour ago, their entire relationship practically did a one-eighty and now their dynamic was about to completely change. She cursed herself for her oversight. God, she wanted this, she really did, but she forgot about how much came with — with letting people in. She gets a low swooping sensation in her gut when she realises she actually knows very little of her…flatmate? Partner? Christ, what even were they now? There were so many things they still needed to talk about. So many things she had to tell him, and the thought of him finally finding out the things lurking in the corners of her dark past terrifies her to no end.
Before she can get her bearings on the whole situation and tamp down the crisis threatening to paralyse her, her mobile goes off and she fumbles for it, numb fingers working on autopilot.
[unknown number] — 12:39 PM
did you like my little gift? i've always been a fan of your blog.
She inhales as if in pain, hand shaking. Oh god. How could she forget about the deranged madman stalking them? It was all a bit too much, and the air in her lungs feels heavy and hot like tar. She struggles to draw a proper breath, her throat slamming closed as dark patches crackle at the edges of her vision. They were starting a relationship in the midst of this? What were they thinking?
Suddenly, her phone is plucked from her hand and soundly tossed out the window of the moving taxi, and replaced with a warm palm and reassuring pressure against her own.
"Jane? Look at me," Sherlock's voice flows over her, and she snaps out of the vicious rip tide threatening to drag her out to sea. Her eyes find his like a ship seeking harbour through the mist. "This is how he works," he says, his voice steady, "he gets inside your head and terrorises you, making you second guess your every move. Don't let him win."
She nods weakly, the clamp in her throat easing, and wills her breathing to slow. Her cheeks heat in embarrassment as she wrangles her self-control back from the precipice of an impending panic attack, but Sherlock doesn't patronise her. He simply keeps his hand in hers and goes back to staring out the window, his thumb absently roving over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles.
Jane looks down at their clasped hands resting atop Sherlock's knee, and swallows thickly. In that moment she decides it doesn't matter what they are now, or were before — or even what happens in the future. All that matters is that they are together right now. The rest would come later. She had to believe that.
She eases back in her seat, careful not to break their connection as the tension drains out of her. She could deal with this. She wouldn't let a psychopath get under her skin. She would do everything in her power to protect what ever it was blooming between them, fragile though it was.
Feeling more confident with a plan of action, Jane looks likewise out the window. A thought suddenly occurs to her, her brain playing catch up, and she groans.
"You threw my phone out of a moving vehicle."
"Ah. Yes," Sherlock says not meeting her eyes. "I thought it was prudent at the time but in hindsight…Not good?"
"Bit not good. A bit impulsive, actually," Jane says in defeat.
"Oh you know you like my impulsivity," he says crooking a grin at her in the reflection of the glass. "It's charming."
She purses her lips, determined not to smile. "Well right now it's bloody inconvenient. Don't make this a habit of yours: chucking my things out of windows."
All she's met with is a rumble of dark laughter that is more disconcerting than anything, but when he squeezes her hand she knows she's already forgiven him.
The git.
-oOo-
"Yes but what is it supposed to be?" Sherlock says tilting his head to the left. (As if that would make the technicolour mash-up of oblong shapes any less nonsensical.)
"I think…" Jane starts, taking a step towards the twenty foot canvas. Her eyebrows shoot up in recognition, and she takes several steps back. "Nope. I'm sure of it. It's a representation of the female reproductive system."
"What?" he says, aghast. He steps back to where she's stood, and looks at the canvas from top to bottom. "Oh for god's sake," he says realising she's right, and Jane snickers from behind her hand. "What is the point of this?"
"It's art. It doesn't have to have a point. Actually maybe that is the point, not having a point…?" Jane frowns as she rehearses the backwards logic in her head.
"Ridiculous."
"I guess we won't be taking you by the existential haystack-looking-things, then," Jane says. Then after a beat, "Sherlock. Are you blushing?"
"No," Sherlock says dubiously, still staring at the painting. He tilts his head to the other side, however, before he realises what he's doing and gives himself a little shake. "Come on. We need to find a way to get into the gallery with the Vermeer." He nods in the direction of the sectioned off room a little ways from them. A velvet rope stretches from one side of the archway to the other, and a large sign stands in front proclaiming the grand unveiling for later that evening. He needed to see the painting up close, but he wanted to be somewhat discreet about it.
"How do you propose we do that?" Jane says.
Just then, a security guard walks past them, catching Sherlock's eye. He was clearly done with his shift (if the coffee in his hand was anything to go by) and Sherlock motions for Jane and him to follow. They spy him just as he turns the corner and disappears behind a set of double doors. Sherlock squints and sees that it's an employee locker room.
"Ha!" Sherlock says under his breath, and casually glances up and down the corridor. After making sure that it's clear he makes his way likewise through the doors with Jane on his heels.
They creep as quietly as they can into the locker room, and Sherlock takes note that they are alone except for their friendly security guard. It isn't exactly the most dangerous situation Sherlock's found himself in, but there's something about Jane's excited thrum of energy pressing at his back that makes everything that much more thrilling. Suddenly, a locker door nearby slams shut, and Sherlock curses under his breath, swiftly backing up and yanking Jane into an empty shower stall. The space is crammed and he winds an arm around her drawing her close. He attempts to silently pull the plastic curtain shut as the sound of footsteps gets closer and closer, and Jane holds her breath as he tries to breathe quietly through his nose.
In the stall next to theirs, the curtain is being swept aside followed by the rusted squeak of the tap. Steam begins to quickly fill the locker room along with snatches of…La Donna e Mobile sung in a boisterous, warbling tenor.
Jane looks up at him quietly shaking with repressed laughter, and Sherlock has to press his finger to his own quirking lips. (Good god. If Pavarotti were still alive he would be clutching his heart in despair.) After a moment, he decides it's safe for them to leave their hiding spot, and he takes her hand, leading them quickly around to the surrounding banks of lockers.
"Oh my god," Jane says, tears of mirth in her eyes.
"I know. The Italian language is usually a beautiful one. Too bad it's been so horrendously butchered."
"Shh, don't make me laugh. I'll blow our cover," Jane says holding a stitch in her side, and Sherlock can't help the insane grin splitting his face.
"Help me find an open locker," Sherlock whispers, and sets about looking for one without a padlock. After a moment, Jane beckons him over to one at the end of the row, and he opens it with an exhalation of triumph. There hanging neatly, was a formal white shirt, a hat, and a jacket.
"Perfect," he says swinging off his coat. "Help me with them."
Jane nods and pulls the shirt and jacket off the wooden hanger, and replaces them with the Belstaff, followed by his suit jacket a moment later just as Sherlock starts divesting himself of his charcoal dress shirt. He tosses it at her unceremoniously, and slips on the white polyester, hastily doing up the buttons all the way to the collar and tucking it into his waistband.
"Help me with the tie," he says, darting a glance over Jane's shoulder as the sound of the shower shuts off.
"Stop fidgeting," Jane reprimands as he tries to shimmy on the jacket simultaneously.
"Hurry up," he says. She tugs the tie sharply to silence him, but he catches the impish gleam in her eye as she straightens the knot at his throat. "How do I look?" he says, finally placing the hat on his head to complete the ensemble.
"That's a good look for you," she says seriously.
"I might just keep it," he says flicking the brim.
"Might do. Although your hair would suffer," she banters back. He gives her a lopsided grin, and takes her hand again, pulling her back out the way they came in. They stop just around the corner from the cordoned off gallery, and Sherlock spots Miss Wenceslas.
"I'm going to go see if I can get a rise out of our friendly proprietor over there," Sherlock intones. "I need you to go do some follow up on Alex Woodbridge. Visit his apartment; find out about his acquaintances, hobbies, the like," he says and presses his mobile into Jane's palm. "Take my phone and text Lestrade. He knows the address."
"Okay, and be careful," Jane says.
"Of course," Sherlock says and makes to head into the gallery. Jane catches his wrist.
"One more thing," she says, lips curving.
"What?"
"You forgot to turn your collar up," she smirks, and proceeds to do just that. Sherlock rolls his eyes, and she giggles a bit before an odd expression flickers over her face causing the smile to slowly fade. Her eyes search his for a moment, but before he can parse out what she's looking for, she lifts up on her toes and presses a soft kiss to his lips that takes him entirely by surprise. He gasps, and she drops back down to her heels. "Sorry. I just…needed to do that." She blushes, and her eyes flit away from his in embarrassment.
He clears his throat, a strange tightness seizing in his chest. When would this aching tenderness he felt for Jane Watson relent? It scrambled him sometimes, like a cocktail of adrenaline and post-case high flooding his brain and causing to short out for a few seconds.
"No, erm. It's fine," Sherlock replies, stilted.
"Right," Jane says, trying to cover up her mortification. She pulls away intent on leaving. "I'll just —"
Sherlock grabs her wrist and pulls her back in before she could get too far. He presses his forehead to hers, the brim of the hat bumping awkwardly, and with every ounce of will he has, refrains from kissing her back ardently and fully.
"I can't…the case it…you make my head funny," he says. For some reason this doesn't seem to make it better because Jane's defences go up even higher as she tries to brush it off with a self-deprecating shrug.
"I get it; it's fine, I can —"
"Jane," he says, hand sliding to the nape of her neck, keeping her from pulling away too much. He doesn't know what to say that will assuage her so he fixes her with a pleading look and hopes she understands. She presses her lips into a thin line, but her eyes soften, and she breathes out a steady breath.
"I know. You make my head funny too," Jane says, finally. She pulls away after another moment, fixing his crooked hat. This time when she smiles it's real if not a bit weathered. "I'll see you later?"
"Yes. I'll find you," he says, tugging up the ridiculous collar on the jacket a bit higher.
"Yep. Absolutely not mysterious at all," Jane says wryly. His only response is to quirk his eyebrow. "Bloody enigma," she grumbles fondly, and all but shoves him towards the exhibit.
He chuckles as he watches her go, the curious feeling that had been blooming inside of him all the while only growing by the second. Sherlock observes it even makes his fingertips ache with how much affection is filling the once cavernous places inside of him. It's incongruously energising and terrifying all at once. (It's rather brilliant, actually.)
He touches his fingers to his lips, and smirks privately to himself before slipping in to the sectioned off room. He clasps his hands behind his back, and makes is way to the prim woman standing by the panting in the ornately carved frame. It was the only one on the wall, displayed with pride. The way she stares at it, shoulders relaxed, a hand on her hip (confident, overly so — like the cat that caught the canary) he just knowsshe knows more than she's letting on.
(Oh yes. This was going to be fun.)
"Ah. Miss Wenceslas. Just the person I wanted to see…"