Chapter 12: Hunting & Gathering
Sherlock folds himself into a gangly knot of limbs with his back up against the crumbling abutment of an old footbridge near the river, not caring about what the rusted, twisted metal is doing to his black suit jacket. He has traversed the city in a muddled haze for hours, his thoughts spinning to infinity around a single thread of what have I done? The great sleuth has argued the pros and cons internally and is still nowhere closer to a decision on his own behavior than he was when he walked away from his little brother.
He walked away from his injured brother.
Away from his injured baby brother.
His brother that was injured because of him. There is something nagging at him about that fact, however, the racing pulses in his brain at the moment keep obliterating it.
Sherlock sighs and rests his head against the metal beam, knocking flakes of rust into his hair that gives the ebony curls a rather frosted look. He stares out at the muddy water beyond his resting place, ignoring the bite of the rock and pea gravel underneath him. If he was prone to artistic flights of fancy he would describe his normal ordered mind with the same words that he would use to describe the river: murky and polluted. He has always been able to keep the level of sentiment in his life to a bare minimum. Well, until John. When the idea eventually sunk in that John really is not going to leave him, Sherlock was finally able to accept what was slowly sprouting between them, even after everything. Of course, they still had not discussed his latest absence. Sherlock hangs his head and shakes it slowly; causing little bits of rusted metal and paint flakes that one can no longer tell the color of to fly about as he does it.
"I am a damned fool." He says to the river in a voice not unlike that of Douglas Richardson. When is he ever going to stop walking away when things get difficult to figure out? The thing that bothers him the most is how easy it is getting to just flounce off on his own each time. John was always the one to walk away from an argument that grew too heated, not him. He was the one who simply retreated into his mind.
Sherlock turns his head slowly, listening to the sounds of footsteps echoing beneath the bridge. He waits, tense, but nothing happens. His attention is brought back to the water and his own predicament.
Another truth: Sherlock is not John. In the deepest reaches of his mind palace, where he knows himself all too well, he is aware that he is always reaching up to where John stands with his legs spread shoulder-width apart, hands relaxed at his sides and ready for anything. Sherlock's mind is ridiculously quick on the uptake, but really, it is his only asset. How in the world can someone who has eschewed sentiment and relationships for so long admit, even to himself, that his bullish behavior stems from the fear of letting people close just to lose them? He growls deep in his throat then picks up a rock that he flings in the general direction of the water. The rock skips once then plops into the drink with the finality of the full stop he is always begging people to use.
Sherlock lets out another long sigh as he yanks his hands from his pockets in order to run them through his hair; fingertips touching then disregarding debris from overhead. Times like this he misses his coat; he learned the hard way that overheating for the sake of hiding is a mistake, so in the warmer months he just dons a suit jacket and makes due. That mistake almost cost both John and himself their lives.
Never mind that now. One hand waves in the air as if to push the thought away. What has this mistake cost him? Or was this a mistake at all? He considers the look on John's face that he could see clearly, even from the corner of his eye. John was what? Hurt? Disappointed? Disgusted? Caring more about Captain Crieff than Sherlock? Well, if that is the case, then John can adopt Martin as his brother and everyone can live happily fucking ever after. Sherlock frowns deeply, his brow creasing over his nose in the dying sunlight weakened even further by the shadow of the bridge overhead. He grabs another flat stone without paying much attention and flings it in the path of the first one. This one does not skip but merely falls into the water; he shrugs his shoulders at the sound, only registering it as background noise. For the first time in as long as he cares to remember he wants to scream and curse and pound his head against the nearest hard surface in order to make the cyclone running amok through his brain come to a screeching halt; he closes his eyes and rests his head on his knees, arching his back so that his long body curves in on itself in a primitive effort to protect the softest parts of it.
After a time, Sherlock decides that in light of the overly emotional turmoil he is going through, for the briefest moment only, he will allow himself to think about Martin so that he can put this all behind him; he will then have the ability to go home, apologize to John profusely and then things will go back to normal for all of them. Criminals are most certainly easier to deal with than all of this, even the insane ones who drive you up the wall and commit murder in some macabre mock courting ritual because they really only want to get into your pants. He shakes his head again, hands pushing that memory away so that he is envisioning a pair of photographs of his brother, one from years ago and the man he has become.
Seeing that happy, blushy, freckly face has caused memories to resurface that he was positive he had deleted. The part of his mind that will forever remain a child wraps around those faded pictures like a squid around a sperm whale. As much as he hates having feelings, this is something warm and smooth like melted chocolate. It gives him a feeling of connection with something greater than himself; the connection with John is most certainly great though this is different, it is more. If John is joy, then this is…what? How do you catalog something that you cannot even name? Sherlock has a hard time imagining that there is anything above what he….well, feels, with John…even when he has left him behind. It is truly unforgivable, so why does John keep forgiving him? He throws another rock, missing the way it skips perfectly across the surface of the water.
A massive white dwarf of a light brightens the dark corridors of Sherlock's mind. In that instant, he decides that there may still be time to eat his words, no matter how bitter; maybe salvage a little of what he has foolishly attempted to destroy. Pushing himself from the ground, he brushes off his seat with both hands and makes his way towards the footpath. He is still lost in thought and strangely for him does not notice the stranger gaining on him until he is practically unconscious but still aware enough of the fact that he is being hefted bodily and carried towards a waiting black sedan, its rear door flung open to admit him.
o0o
Martin doses off and on for several hours. The next time he is fully aware he can see the sun going down out the window. He pushes himself upright and swings his now dully aching legs to the side of the mattress, easing himself onto his feet slowly. Martin's pride has suffered a serious blow, but having the ability to walk oneself to the loo gives a little of it back. Douglas is passed out in the chair next to the bed so Martin stays quiet in order to let him rest. He pulls off his t-shirt and casually tosses it into the laundry bin in the corner. Douglas had spoken to Carolyn at some point and somehow a suitcase with a few clean clothes for them both arrived that afternoon. Martin has never been so happy to see his few soft tees and trousers.
Like his soft sleeping clothes, Douglas has been wonderful throughout this whole debacle. Martin rolls his shoulders as he relieves himself, considering that he has never felt this lucky in his entire life. The whole thing certainly came from his blind side and he is still feeling the afterglow of a night spent exploring something brand new-even after a bomb and so many stress-filled hours later.
As he washes his hands, he wonders if every day will always feel this amazing. He brushes his teeth and considers the best way to get Douglas onto the narrow hospital bed beside him. Turning off the tap after rinsing, he hears the vague sounds of voices behind the door. Thinking perhaps John has finally returned, Martin opens the door and is greeted with the sight of a very large man in a very expensive navy blue suit blocking the entry (and exit) with his entire body.
The top of the man's shiny bald head stops about three inches above the top of the door and his hands are the size of orange crates; the crisp white shirt collar probably remains perfectly straight around his thick lack-of-neck due to fear rather than starch. His expression brooks no argument; Martin is pretty sure the big guy is carrying at least one weapon under the black suit jacket that looks like it could be used to make a tent for a bunch of boy scouts. The overall picture is a mix of the grim reaper and an ex-sniper turned cop. There is no doubt in Martin's mind that this man could squash him into a pulp by simply flexing the tip of one of those sausage-sized fingers.
Martin gulps.
Douglas catches sight of Martin standing apprehensively on his own on the threshold of the loo, pleased at his quick recovery. He watches those nervous green eyes rake over the massive stranger and Douglas can see the instant Martin starts to worry. The thin, half-naked man looks so much smaller next to their visitor, seeming to almost be propping himself up on the doorframe that Douglas wants to wrap him up in his arms and never let go. Any sudden movement around King Kong, though, would probably be a mistake.
"Martin, look at me." Douglas orders quietly, using a tone he knows will get the captain's attention.
Martin's startled gaze is pulled from the giant in the suit—why is he wearing sunglasses inside?—to Douglas, with his outwardly calm expression. Martin takes a deep breath and decides to trust his first officer as he always has done.
With that sorted, he asks, "Douglas, what is..." God, he hates the stutter. He takes another deep breath and almost whispers, "What is going on?"
Douglas nods, the action releasing Martin to walk back to the bed where he perches on the edge uncertainly, resting the tips of his bare toes against the cool linoleum. Douglas finally breaks and takes the chance to rest next to the smaller man, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. King Kong does not move from his spot, except to tap at a practically invisible earpiece. When he mutters, his voice is so deep and so low that Martin cannot decipher a single word except at the end of the conversation.
"Yes, sir." Big and meaty says clearly.
Martin and Douglas share a look.
"You will both come with me." The giant mutters between thin lips. Martin thinks the man has more muscles in his jaw than he has in his entire body. He knows he is powerless to resist, so he just nods his agreement.
Douglas moves first, handing Martin a clean tee and a pull-over from the suitcase on the floor. Martin throws them on hastily, then accepts his worn trainers and a clean pair of socks. Douglas digs around the suitcase a bit more and finally comes up with a comb and a hairbrush. He holds both items in Martin's direction. The captain eyes them warily then decides the comb is probably a lost cause and grabs the brush, his fingers passing gently over Douglas'. Douglas nods and Martin moves back into the bathroom.
Through the partially-open door, Martin can hear Douglas attempt to question their guard? Their ride home? He is still unsure. The man never answers in anything more than a grunt. Finally giving up on taming his curls until he can properly wash and condition them properly, (the only luxury he ever allows himself) Martin makes to rejoin the others.
The big man has his huge hands wrapped around the handles of a wheelchair that appears quite dainty by comparison. Martin finds himself gulping again, thinking that maybe King Kong is just going to lift him and the entire contraption and carry them to whatever their next destination may be.
"Martin, it's fine. I have a suspicion he's here on orders, and his orders don't seem to include smashing you, or myself, to bits." Douglas eyes the man with a look Martin cannot define; it seems to be a mix between wary and warning.
"Come on, let's go." Douglas grabs the suitcase and gestures towards the wheelchair. After a moment's pause, Martin settles into it easily, resting his feet on the flat pads. He does not relax, though, all of his nerves on guard against the strange behemoth pushing the chair as if it is a bag of feathers. Douglas walks beside him, keeping pace with the stranger's long strides. Martin regards him from the wheelchair, quietly savoring the stolen moment where Douglas seems to be unaware of the observation. They glide through the corridors and past staff and security, no one taking the slightest interest in them.
It does not take long before they are out the sliding glass doors and sitting in a large, black car that is idling by the curb. Douglas sees that Martin is comfortable on the wide backseat before handing off the suitcase to their shepherd, who swings it into the boot and closes the lid in one even movement. Martin has only a few seconds to marvel at his distinct lack of paperwork before they are moving smoothly through traffic towards an unknown destination.
0o0
"Douglas." Martin asks when it seems enough time has passed. They have rearranged themselves so that the smaller man is reclined with his back against the car and his legs hang over Douglas' left thigh.
Douglas has been casually massaging Martin's calves through his thin trousers, thoroughly enjoying the contented sounds coming from Martin as his hands knead the well-cut muscles. It is a wonderful thing to be useful and Douglas has had entirely too much downtime lately. It is odd that he does not miss flying as much as when Martin is not around. Right now, though, he wants to fly in another manner altogether.
"Yes." Douglas purrs, using his fingers to work an especially rough knot from Martin's right calf. All thought of asking questions flies from Martin's head.
Martin shudders and smiles at Douglas. Douglas beams back at him and slowly draws his hand up Martin's leg to grasp at his inner thigh where he squeezes gently, just enough pressure that Martin knows exactly what his partner is thinking. The captain's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he blushes furiously.
Martin looks from the deep brown eyes full of desire in front of him to the back of the driver's head and back again. "Uh, Douglas, really, you know I would but…" Heat begins to pool in his groin and he is fairly certain that his dick is doing its best to squirm out of his trousers on its own.
"Oh, captain, my captain." Douglas scoots closer and tilts his head down to catch the lobe of Martin's ear between his teeth. Martin gasps and tries to hide it with a weak chuckle. Douglas scrapes his teeth down the side of Martin's neck and Martin gives in with a low growl of his own. He turns in place and spreads his legs so that he is straddling Douglas' thighs. Their mouths settle together with a crash when the tip of Martin's tongue probes the underside of Douglas' upper lip and they roll their hips in tandem. The first officer reaches up to bracket Martin's face with his hands as he slides them into the soft hair at his temples and pushes their mouths closer together. Martin makes a sound somewhere between a purr and a snarl and all Douglas can think of is a sturdy ginger tom basking in the attention duly paid to him.
When Martin arches his back in order to rock his straining erection against Douglas' lap, it is proof that he is firmly committed.
Martin's chuckle fools no one and absolutely does not conceal the sound of passion; silently, their body guard/driver/whatever he is, raises the soundproof partition between himself and his passengers. A tiny unseen smile teases the corner of his lips; the boss will be pleased that not only is he bringing his charges in together but also conscious. It has been a good day.