John did not speak to the Emperor for three days.
A part of this was pride, was not wanting to be the first to back down after their disagreement, because Sherlock had been the one to hurt him and therefore Sherlock should be the one to break the silence. Most of it, though, was shame at the way he had reacted. It had been one simple faux pas on the Emperor's behalf, one statement – one word even, that showed how long the tall beauty had spent not loving or being loved, and John had bitten his head off about it.
He felt terrifically guilty and ashamed at his own reaction, and this made it difficult somehow to go to Sherlock and apologise, not that he would get anywhere near the Emperor without prior permission anyway.
There was something about Sherlock that contradicted his age, a naiveté that shone through his grey-green eyes that squeezed at John's heart. There were so many things he did not know, brilliant though John believed his mind to be. Things that every child in the city was taught or simply learned themselves through trial and error Sherlock did not seem to know; astrology, mythology, courtesy. And the thing that had torn at his heart the most when Sherlock had said I love you so softly into his ear had been the note of wonder, as though this were something he had never expected to feel. Because this was how John himself felt, but he had had it once already, he was an old and broken man with no social status. Surely the Emperor, who could have anyone he wanted and still so young and beautiful, had expected one day to find someone to love and to love him?
And that, that, was what scared John the most, was possibly the biggest reason he had made no attempt to apologise. Because as improbable as the feeling was, John did love Sherlock. He didn't understand it; he had barely known the Emperor for two weeks and he would already give anything to keep him happy even if he were not the ruler of the Roman Empire. He could not explain it by any way other than that it was Sherlock Holmes, and he was a wonder and a prodigy and John was completely in awe of him, and it was terrifying.
Lestrade clapped him firmly on the shoulder, shaking him out of his increasingly panicky thoughts. "Head in the game, John?" he asked brightly, though with the undercurrent of concern that John had come to love about the lanista. He liked to pretend he was harsh and immoveable, but his eyes betrayed the concern he held for each and every one of his gladiators.
"Always," John replied, mentally closing the door on the turmoil of his feelings for Sherlock. The Emperor would be out there today, of course. He never missed a bout, surely he would not stop today – unless John had hurt him so badly that he would not want to face him? Why had he overreacted like that?
The lanista smiled at the lie. John shook his head. He knew why he had overreacted, but that did not justify it. And if he did not concentrate on the upcoming fight, he was going to get hurt. "I am fine," he assured the older warrior, more truthfully this time. Lestrade smiled.
Someone bumped into him as they began to file out of the cages into the arena. John looked around to see who it was, but they had mixed in with the swim of the other gladiators. He shrugged to himself as he stepped into the line of gladiators now facing the stands.
And there was Sherlock, sitting on the platform reserved for the Emperor and his party. John looked up at him, his swords held carefully point-downwards in the traditional mark of respect, and Sherlock smiled hesitantly at him, as though afraid John would not meet his eyes.
John grinned up at him instead, trying to convey his apologies through his eyes alone. After he had won this fight – and he would win it, he was easily the best gladiator in the arena – he would apologise properly and everything would be all right. He bowed, the customary gesture, and then they took their positions to begin the fight.
He liked most of the gladiators in Lestrade's arena; they were skilled fighters and they appreciated fighting with someone whose skill rivalled their own – for the joy of fighting, not for that of killing. Nevertheless, he jumped at the first man who attempted to attack him with a challenging gleam in his eyes; parried a few blows before executing a quick flick of his wrist and disarming the gladiator, pointing the sword in his left hand at the man's throat while keeping his right hand ready in case someone attempted to attack him before the gladiator could signal surrender.
In fact, his next attacker waited until he had let the other man up to gather his weapons and leave the arena before he went straight for John's stomach.
John barely had time to jump backwards and avoid the blow; his new attacker did not allow him to recover himself before pressing forwards, driving a punishing attack that was steadily forcing John backwards. He had never seen the man before; a wiry, deceptively strong Black slave whirling a sort of trident and a small, round shield. John paused to consider the fact. This was a routine fighting exercise among the gladiators of the Emperor's court. There should not have been anyone present that John did not recognise.
The tiniest flash of panic surged through his veins, but the pause was enough; the slave jabbed his trident into the thick leather of John's gloves, scraping the skin underneath before yanking it free again.
The trident gave his opponent a much longer reach than John himself could achieve, and so landing blows on the slave was enormously difficult; John was thankful he was not burdened with a heavy shield as he darted forwards, attempting slashing cuts at the slave's legs.
Sensing the trouble that John was in, the others started to circle; someone made a half-hearted stab at the tendons behind his knees, and he spun to defend himself against the blow and earned a skilful jab in the ribs with the trident, drawing blood.
After a few minutes of this – turning around as quickly as he could while still making sure he had eyes on everyone making calculated dives towards him – he had eliminated a few of his attackers and the others had begun to attack each other as well as him, taking advantage of their distraction and proximity to flick the weapons out of each other's hands.
Then someone managed to lock John's left hand in a tight parry, pushing a short blade away from his face with his own sword, straining to keep a hold on it. So distracted, John could mount only half a defence when he felt the point of the trident sidle into his grip on the sword in his right hand, and then he was defenceless.
A sharp jerk from the person occupying his left hand wrenched his other sword free; assuming him now defeated, the others backed off and allowed the Black slave to claim the victory.
John stared at the other man. He had been taken by surprise, but that did not mean that his loss was excusable, and the hot and ugly feeling of disappointment at himself bubbled up at his stomach. The trident rose and John fought the urge to close his eyes, expecting it to land – likely harder than necessary, judging by the previous moves from the slave – at his throat in the typical demand for surrender.
Instead, the trident slashed savagely towards his stomach in a blow clearly intended to sever his internal organs and kill him.
In a fit of desperation, John jerked his body to the side; the blades of the trident gouged long stripes of blood and muscle through his thigh instead as he dived into a sort of roll to avoid the back-swing of the weapon, stumbling as he attempted to climb back to his feet. His thigh screamed in agony as he cast about desperately for a sword; the Black slave appeared to be snarling in anger, his thick lips curled up over his yellow teeth, eyes dark with fury. John ducked the next swipe, narrowly avoided the slash to his neck from the trident with a backwards lunge and settled a few feet away from his opponent, breathing heavily and keeping his eyes on the slave.
Sherlock had stood up; he could see the figure in his peripheral vision, his dark curls bobbing as he shouted furiously at someone John couldn't see. Probably Lestrade, he thought distantly. Asking how this person came to be in the arena. What John wanted to know was why, but he couldn't spare the thought for it because the slave was coming after him again and he still didn't have a weapon.
He tried to step back, but the slashed thigh protested and he almost fell; off balance, he registered that the slave was upon him, trident outstretched, and jerked his head backwards to avoid another sweeping slash at his neck.
Then he tottered on his bad leg, and fell over.
The slave stepped between his legs, trident raised like a hunter poised to spear a fish, savage triumph gleaming black in his eyes. John turned his head to look up at the stands – at Sherlock, who had stopped screaming at Lestrade in favour of watching them, a hand over his mouth, his grey-green eyes wide with fear.
He thinks I'm going to die, John realised. He looked up at the slave, still poised and grinning. When did I stop wanting to?
There was a vicious-sounding clonk, and then John rolled easily out of the way as the slave crumpled forwards, the trident falling out of his hands as he lost consciousness.
One of the other gladiators, a slim dark-haired man that John enjoyed sparring with, shrugged the shield arm he had just used to knock out the slave and held out the other to help John up, grinning. "Who in Bacchus' name was that?" he asked, sounding angry.
John looked down at the unconscious barbarian. "I have no idea," he replied. "Thanks."
The gladiator clapped him on the shoulder. "Can you walk?" he asked.
"I am all right," John replied. He collected his two swords from the other side of the arena and then limped back towards the cages. "Good luck," he called back to the man who had helped him as the sounds of the fight resumed behind him.
He spared a moment to wonder about the Emperor's arena; the nobles around the stands had all looked shocked and outraged at the slave's misstep. In the Circus Maximus warriors fought to kill no matter how defeated and broken their opponent became, but if the slave had been trained even a little in the etiquette of the court he would have recognised John's surrender and remembered that the aim of these fights was a display of skill only.
It was a breach of the trust that surrounded the arena, and strange as that trust seemed to someone newly introduced to it, the breach had startled everyone. John supposed he ought not to feel so bad about being caught so thoroughly by surprise.
His thigh twinged again; he propped his leg on the seat of a chair as he entered the cage under the arena stands to examine the wound. It did not look as though it had hit anything important, although it would probably require some form of stitching to force the flesh to knit together again. John sighed and put his leg down. He wanted comfort, wanted someone to tell him that he performed well and quiet the fury bubbling in his stomach – he wanted Sherlock, wanted to forgive and be forgiven.
He waited there for a moment or so, and then Sherlock was there, running into him like a falling tree, wrapping him in too many limbs and holding him so tightly he thought he might snap.
"I am sorry," he was saying, the words half-lost in the skin of John's neck.
John winced as Sherlock's knee bumped the gash on his thigh. "Please do not be sorry," he tried to say, but the Emperor was already letting him go, bending down to examine the thigh with an intent expression, his unfathomable eyes flicking worriedly up to John's face.
"How bad is it?" he asked, a frantic edge to his deep voice. He shifted the edge of John's cloth out of the way to get a closer look at the wound; his fingers brushed the tender, open skin and John winced, his knee struggling to buckle. Sherlock's movements became yet more desperate. "John, please tell me!"
He tried to gently remove the long, probing fingers from his leg, but the Emperor only clutched harder until John had to bark out his name quite sharply to get his attention. "Sherlock!" he cried. "It is quite superficial – merely a flesh wound."
Sherlock seemed to calm down slightly, though he still insisted on probing it carefully with his fingers to ascertain how deep the gash was. "You are right," he said finally. He stayed on his knees, staring up at John with those incredible eyes, his chin resting tantalisingly in the softness of John's abdomen. John swallowed. "John, what I said that night, I did not mean it the way it sounded," the Emperor said slowly.
John crouched to the same level – ignoring the screaming pain in his leg – and placed a finger over his lips. "I know," he said quietly. "And I am sorry for the way I reacted. I do know that you care, and it means a lot to me."
The Emperor whimpered slightly and folded him into his long arms, clutching him close and making his leg scream in pain. "Ouch," he said quietly into Sherlock's neck, and the taller man let go immediately. John snorted and shifted so he was almost sitting in the Emperor's lap, his injured leg stretched out in front of him and one hand resting on Sherlock's chest as the younger man wrapped protective arms around him and placed comforting kisses over his neck. "Thank you."
After a moment, Sherlock slid him off and then helped him to stand; John looked around to see Lestrade striding towards them, looking livid. "Ran off," the lanista growled when he got close enough. "Never seen the barbarian before. Mars knows how he got into the cages without one of the fighters noticing he was not supposed to be there. I have people searching, my Lord, but I am not sure it is likely they will find him."
"I would not think so," Sherlock replied.
John made a noise of frustration. "I do not understand why," he said. Lestrade shook his head to say that he did not understand it either, but Sherlock gave him a don't be stupid look. John frowned at him. "Why would someone attempt to murder me?"
The Emperor rolled his eyes. "Why would someone attempt to murder your wife, or your old military friend? We must be on the right track in our investigations. Had I not been so fearful for your life, I would be delighted."
It was better than an outright brilliant, but John still flinched at his phrasing. Sherlock didn't appear to notice, busy as he was arranging his face in a thinking expression. "Lestrade," he said finally, his deep voice absent and slow. "Contact the city lawkeepers. Have someone watch the residence of Claudia Morstan, and her son Arrian. If John is in danger, it is likely they will be."
"And what about you?" John asked, worry stroking an icy finger down his back. "Will you not also be in danger?"
Sherlock actually rolled his eyes. "I hardly think Jonathan Small and whatever accomplices he has managed to gain himself will dare an attempt to penetrate my protection," he said. "And even if they did, they would not get near me. I do not suppose, Lestrade, that your attempts to find Small have come to anything?"
Lestrade shrugged in acquiescence, looking dejected. John smiled softly. Sherlock nodded. "I did not expect so," he said, a tiny note of comfort in his voice. "Take John to have that wound checked," he continued, not letting go of John's hand. "Tomorrow evening we will revisit Bartholomew Sholto's house. We will require Cerberus."
"Cerberus?" John repeated questioningly, accepting the kiss Sherlock planted on his temple.
The Emperor's eyes gleamed. "Yes, I think so," he said.