Sherlock woke to fingers in his hair and his nose tucked behind Jon's ear. In his sleep he had shifted towards Jon, as he always did, and had one arm thrown across his chest. Jon mumbled something about lambs, and Sherlock grinned, rubbing his face into the warmth of his neck. The room was quiet, save for the sounds of his hair scraping against his pillow, the rhythmic puffs of his and Jon's breath, and there was also a rustle of cloth across the room.

He froze. His brain struggled to rouse as images from last night's horrific ordeal caught up to him... along with the remembrance that his mother had slept in the room with them. His heart kicked against his ribs, and Sherlock forced his breaths to remain even. Perhaps she was not yet awake.

"Good morning," his mother murmured calmly from her chair. Sherlock swallowed and slowly let his eyes flutter open. The sun had risen, but it was still early enough that the room was only partially flooded with weak morning light. Sherlock swallowed again, afraid that if he tried to speak his voice would crack. And anyway, what would he say?

Pale blue eyes met their likeness, and Alcestis regarded him silently from across the room. Sherlock made no move to slide his arm away, but he did angle his face out from Jon's neck and let his head rest back on the arm Jon had slid under his head in the night.

Her expression was one of those odd, neutral things that Sherlock always, always had a hard time reading. Her eyes darted once to Jon's sleeping face, and back to Sherlock. Her lips pursed just the tiniest amount, and Sherlock could slowly feel his cheeks heat with a flush. She had to know. She knew. Did she know? What was she going to tell father? Would she even say anything?

Alcestis stretched then, rolling her head with a slight wince. She carefully folded the blanket she'd used in the night, and took two steps towards the bed to silently feel Jon's forehead. She nodded to herself and met Sherlock's gaze once more. They stared at each other silently for a moment longer, then her eyes softened and she turned away. At the threshold she quietly called over her shoulder. "Your father will be home today." And then she left.

Sherlock lay against Jon, his lips popped open and he exhaled in a rush. His fingers curled around Jon's ribs, and he nestled close for one quick squeeze before pulling back and stretching away his own kinks. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until spots danced like dark stars and contemplated his mother. She'd said nothing. Or, perhaps she'd said a lot. Either way, he should take care to school his affections around Jon for a while. He scowled at the idea. It was hateful. A significant part of Sherlock yearned to tell his mother about... how he felt. Another significant part was terrified. But, he reasoned, surely, if they told her she would understand. She and father. Wouldn't they? It wasn't uncommon for young men to be... close. Closer than friends. To explore physical and emotional pleasures with each other. So what if they'd grown up together? It wasn't as if they were blood...

Jon groaned beside him and Sherlock sat up and ran a gentle hand across Jon's cheek.

"Good morning," he whispered into Jon's ear, giving it a little peck. Jon groaned again in response.

Sherlock's fingers trailed up and over Jon's chest, down his arms. They curled around the wrist Jon lay across his stomach. "How are you feeling?"

Jon snuffled and turned his face into Sherlock's side. "As if horses have trampled me."

Sherlock smiled softly down at him. He bent low and lightly kissed Jon's lips. "You scared us quite a bit last night."

Jon's eyes opened and he winced at the light. His other hand quickly shielded them. "Too bright," he mumbled.

Sherlock hummed and lay back down beside him with his head on Jon's chest; just for a moment. Beneath his ear a heart beat steadily, and Sherlock closed his eyes and listened.

-*- φιλία -*-

It was mid-afternoon before Jon was well enough to be left alone to sleep without constant supervision. Sherlock was more than ready to begin. His skin was positively itching with the need for revenge. Or justice. Or information, anything.

He tied the laces of his sturdiest sandals and slipped a rucksack over his back. His eyes trailed along his desk in case there was anything he might need, but he would hopefully not be gone too long. As quietly as he could, he crept through the house. Briefly, he saw that there were several servants in the kitchen preparing for a larger than normal feast for their father's return. Sherlock arched a brow at this, but otherwise continued.

Once outside, he spared a moment's regret that he hadn't told Jon where he was going, and he would be furious if he found out. Regardless, he set a fast pace towards the clearing where Alcaeus had been found. When he arrived, he frowned at all the evidence of numerous people's feet trampling the area, but there was nothing that could be done about it, so he simply moved carefully. He put his nose to the ground and sniffed until he found the lingering scent of where Alcaeus had emptied his stomach. His fingers sifted through leaves, dirt, and myriad detritus of the forest, hoping to find belladonna berries. After several minutes of searching he still had not turned up a single one. This, of course, supported Sherlock's suspicions that he had to have drunk something, because the lack of identifiable stomach contents showed he previously hadn't eaten much of anything. Therefore, the poison would've been in liquid form from, say, the juice of several berries. Or perhaps an extract from the boiling of roots and leaves. All of which were easily concealed in any other unsuspecting liquid. Like water or wine.

Sherlock sat back on his heels. He would need to acquire the drinking skein Alcaeus had used. Sherlock pursed his lips. Or Sebastos and Morsimus' skeins.

Sherlock dusted off his knees and arranged the pack at his back. He really ought to have a word with them.

An hour later, Sherlock wiped the sweat off his brow from a hot sun, and knocked upon the door of Sebastos' family home. A young man answered and Sherlock asked to be shown to Sebastos. The servant, a slave, nodded with a bow, and led Sherlock through the entrance and down a hall. Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned the building as they walked, noting with a small amount of smug satisfaction that his family's home was larger and more finely appointed. He passed an airy room, the andron, where two men were lounging and talking quietly, but the servant did not stop.

They rounded a corner, and the servant indicated Sherlock wait, and he knocked upon a door before entering. At the threshold, the man paused a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

"He does not appear to be in his room. Would you mind waiting in the andron while I go and fetch him, sir?"

Sherlock plastered a charming smile on his lips and and gestured towards the room. "I don't mind waiting here for him. We are friends from the gymnasium. I wouldn't want to be a bother."

The slave looked from the bedroom to Sherlock, appearing torn.

Sherlock took another step closer to the room. "Please, do not let me keep you."

The slave noted the golden fibula at his shoulder and reluctantly nodded. "Very well. I will be as quick as I can."

The slave scurried off and Sherlock turned to enter Sebastos' room. It wasn't overly large, but it was just as brightly tiled and painted as what Mycroft had done to his. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ostentation and got to work searching.

To his consternation, the murals in the room only added to the chaos scattered throughout. Leather thongs and training paraphernalia were littered across the floors. A few shields and swords were tacked to one wall. Sherlock grimaced and pushed aside a pile of soiled tunics but then stilled as his eyes alighted on a half-buried wine skein.

He crouched down and hastily pulled his rucksack off his shoulder and loosened the ties. He grabbed the skein and stuffed it into his rucksack just as the sound of footsteps were heard coming down the hall. Sherlock stood and slung his pack back around his shoulders. He remembered to kick the folds of cloth back into place and affected a look of boredom just as the door swung open. Sebastos entered and eyed Sherlock warily.

"Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I simply wanted to call on you." His eyes met Sebastos'. "What with your... friend Alcaeus' death. I imagined you were distressed."

Sebastos' face betrayed no emotion one way or the other. "Distressed?" The youth sauntered across his room and leaned a hip against the wooden frame of his bed. "You seem to be misinformed. We were not close."

Sherlock arched a brow. "Were you not? I was under the impression that he was quite fond of you."

Sebastos grunted and rolled his hazel eyes. "He was like a dog trailing after its master. I was not interested."

"Ah yes. You and Morsimus are the close ones." Sherlock watched as the boy flinched and dropped his gaze to the floor. Sherlock clasped his hands before him. "I was going to visit him as well. You were all technically brothers in arms."

Sebastos looked back to Sherlock with a bitter glare. "You will not be able to do so. He has left."

Surprise and irritation flared through Sherlock and he frowned. "Left? Where?"

Sebastos rose to his full height and used his slightly taller advantage to look down his nose at Sherlock. "What do you care?"

Sherlock held his position and met his dark eyed glare. "Merely curious. How odd that he would disappear after such a trauma, don't you think?"

Sebastos took a threatening step forward. "You know what else I find odd? Your sudden interest." The taller youth moved into Sherlock's personal space and smirked maliciously. "I was not given to think you bothered with anyone who wasn't your precious little golden boy."

Sherlock inhaled calmly and forced himself to not react.

Sebastos cracked the knuckles of one hand at his hip. "You ought to keep your thoughts to yourself, Sherlock." His eyes flicked to his lips. "And keep that pretty mouth closed. I promise you this is nothing you want to tangle with."

Sherlock pressed forward, narrowing his eyes. "And what would I be tangling with, hmm?"

The boy grinned then. "How is Jon?"

Sherlock saw red and his fists balled at his sides.

Sebastos turned and circled back behind Sherlock. "I do hope that little jab to the hip wasn't too debilitating."

Sherlock focussed on breathing and trying to ignore the rushing between his ears.

"No adverse reactions," the taller boy continued. He had moved towards his bedroom door and opened it with one hand. "You should go back to him. Make sure he stays out of trouble." He narrowed his eyes. "Advice worth keeping, yourself."

There was an instinct warring within Sherlock between wanting to launch himself at Sebastos with fists flying and/or outright demand he tell him whether he or Morsimus, or both, killed their peer. Sebastos did not strike him as the type to get away with such plotting, but he certainly would protect the one who did. Sherlock took a breath and moved towards the open door. When he reached the door he stopped.

"And which is the dog and the master between you and Morsimus?"

Sebastos sneered as he walked away. "Keep your nose to the ground, Sherlock." He turned and threw a furious glare at him. "If you value what is dear to you."

Sherlock nearly growled. "Is that a threat?"

Sebastos tossed that insufferable smirk at him once more, and then shoved the door closed in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stood rigidly staring at the thick wooden planks that separated them as anger coursed bitterly through his veins. He abruptly turned and fled as quickly as was decent from the villa, ignoring the curious stares of the slaves working in the courtyard. He knew roughly where Morsimus' family lived, but Sebastos would not lie about him having left. If anything, he seemed rather annoyed about it. Sherlock growled and turned in the direction of home.

The day was getting on and Jon would be angry enough when he woke and found him gone. He would return home and check the skein he'd managed to pilfer. If there were any traces left of the poison, perhaps he could take his findings to Grigórios. It ought to be enough to at least get a conviction or warrant a trial. He could not be sure the same toxins were used on the blade that pierced Jon, but the coincidence was too extreme for the two events to be unrelated.

The sun was edging lower in the sky, not yet quite low enough to coax the lovelier hues from the clouds. Sherlock had taken a detour on his way home to search out a flowering belladonna plant to trim a few cuttings from for his impending experiment. He also took a bit to forage for a stalk of hemlock for comparison. By the time he was halfway up the slope leading to his family's villa, he noticed a figure limping under his open window. Sherlock squinted his eyes and decided it looked a bit like Jon. Which was ridiculous. Jon should not be out of bed.

He quickened his steps, and when he was close enough, called and waved to signal his return. The figure turned, and Sherlock's eyes widened to see that it was Jon. He gave a start of alarm as Jon rushed, awkward and fumbling, towards him. Sherlock dropped his pack and hurried to meet him.

"What are you doing?" he yelled, slightly furious. Jon's breathing was laboured, and his face was red and twisted with a scowl to match his own.

"What, am I doing?" Jon panted. His hands reached for Sherlock, and the boy braced as his friend all but collapsed against him. Worry clutched at his chest and he tugged Jon close, tilting his face up to peer into his glassy eyes.

"Where," Jon breathed, "have you been?! We have been worried sick!" Jon weakly shoved at him, but stumbled again, and Sherlock gripped his forearms. Jon continued to glare, viciously, even while clutching at him. "How could you do that?" He inhaled and placed a hand at his chest, and Sherlock was surprised to see fear in Jon's eyes.

"I admit it may have taken me longer than I anticipated—"

Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. "Longer than... damn your hide, Sherlock. Your mother has been beside herself." He winced and clutched at his hip.

Sherlock growled and looped an arm over his shoulders and slid another round Jon's waist. "What are you doing out here, you can hardly stand."

Jon hissed in pain as they made their way towards their home. "I was nearly— ah careful— about to go find you."

"Don't be stupid. You'd have collapsed before you left the courtyard."

Jon grumbled and tugged on him when they reached a large oak. "Wait," he breathed. His skin had gone pale, and there were beads of perspiration along his brow.

Sherlock tisked and gently propped him against the tree for support. He craned his neck around the thick trunk for a quick look around them, and then darted back in to press a kiss against Jon's lips. He leaned his forehead against his friend's. "You're mad. I was never in any danger." A partial truth, but Jon did not need anything further to stress him.

Jon rested his palms on Sherlock's shoulders. "I am incensed with you." He looked up into his eyes. "You left without me. You said you wouldn't." His lower lip jutted out and Sherlock ducked down to suck it into his mouth. The temptation of a pouting Jon was too much to resist.

Jon stood woodenly against him, but did not push away. "You cannot... get around me... I really am— " Sherlock ran his tongue over that lip before pushing it into Jon's mouth. He allowed Sherlock to plunder that mouth for a long moment before protesting again.

"Mmm, no." Jon pulled back even while his body swayed into Sherlock's. "Alcestis is going to thrash you, and..." he trailed off, closing his eyes.

Sherlock butted his head against Jon's when he didn't continue. "What is it?"

Jon sighed, and when his eyes next met Sherlock's they were pinched with anxiety. "Sherlock. We... there will be a guest at dinner tonight."

Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowed, and he was reminded of the servants in the kitchen that morning. "Father is returning home."

Jon's fingers clutched at his shoulder. "Yes. And Cleitomachus will be joining him."

Sherlock stared at Jon for a heartbeat before his stomach clenched and he felt the beginnings of nausea stir his stomach. "Meaning..."

Jon sagged back into the oak. "I think... Sherlock, I... Alcestis says he approached her and..."

"He means to make a formal claim for you," Sherlock breathed. His vision briefly dotted with black spots and he slowly leant into Jon, who wrapped slightly shaking arms about him. They stood, cheek to cheek, breathing into the other's ear.

"He can't." Sherlock whispered.

Jon dropped his face into Sherlock's shoulder. "He will ask, though."

Sherlock gripped Jon's waist and pulled him close. "He can ask all he wants and you will tell him no."

When Jon didn't respond, Sherlock whipped his head up, eyes wide. "You will tell him no." he insisted again. Jon's lower lip was between his teeth and he was looking down to the ground. Sherlock shook him once. "Jon?"

Jon's lips parted with a breath, though his eyes remained downcast. "I... of course I will say no, but— "

"Then that is settled." Sherlock hissed. He stepped away from Jon and ran frustrated hands through his hair before settling them at his hips. "You are not a slave to be bought or bartered with."

"But I am not a citizen of Athens," Jon whispered.

"That does not matter. You are a free man of Greece."

"Your father— "

"If you do not wish to take an erastes, father will listen and respect your wishes."

Jon's mouth worked silently and he looked up to Sherlock with reddened eyes. "I... your father will push the issue, no let me finish," he snapped when Sherlock tried to interrupt. Jon exhaled and pressed the heels of his palms into this eyes. "He has always encouraged a career with the military, and he will jump at this chance. It... it is an honour to be chosen— "

"Jon."

Jon's lips were curved down into a miserable line, and he curled his fingers into Sherlock's tunic. "I know."

Sherlock stared at Jon, heart on the verge of breaking. "Are you saying..." he swallowed and tried again. "Do you... want... Cleito— "

"No," Jon interjected.

Sherlock exhaled with relief. His hands came up to cup Jon's against his chest. "Then what are we arguing for?"

Jon groaned and then winced again and brought a hand to his hip. Sherlock moved forward and pulled his friend to him, deeply inhaling the scent of his hair.

"I am merely warning you. Septimius will press this."

"And I will press back harder. As will you." His lips grazed Jon's temple. "If that is what you do want," he whispered. An idea struck him then and he leaned back to meet Jon's gaze. "We are going to arrange your formal anatomy training starting next week."

Jon's lips quirked in a crooked grin. "Are we?"

"Yes."

Jon nodded. "I agree. If I am to enter the Academy next year, I need to begin studying more sophisticated lessons soon."

"You and I both. And we will tell this to father." Feeling slightly shaky himself, Sherlock brushed another gentle kiss on Jon's mouth. Jon tilted his face up to receive, and Sherlock lost himself for a moment in the soft slide of lips against his. His body thrummed with irritation and anxiety at the thought of the coming evening. Cleitomachus was a decent enough man, but he would simply have to find another erômenos. And Sherlock needed to impress upon Jon exactly how abhorrent he found that. Tonight.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled away. "Do you want to hear what I learned today?"

Jon's expression twisted again into annoyance, and he lightly smacked Sherlock's chest as if remembering that he was still angry with him. "Yes."

"I went back to the site of Alcaeus' death, but I did not find much, so I went to Sebastos'."

"You what!"

Sherlock ran a soothing palm down Jon's neck as if gentling a foal. "Nothing happened. Well, nothing violent against me, but I learned a great deal."

Jon unclenched his palms and jerked his head for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock quickly relayed his conversation with Sebastos to Jon, who listened carefully and cursed and swore.

"That snake! Of course he's gone to ground. If he knew you suspected anything, which obviously you would, then he would have to flee."

Sherlock frowned. "It does not seem like him, though," Sherlock rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "He seems the sort to face something head on."

Jon scoffed. "He is a coward and a snake. Once he strikes he is quick to move on." Jon carefully crossed his arms. "He is clever, like you, only his heart is black and he cares not what damage he leaves in his trail."

Sherlock smirked. "You think I don't leave damage in mine?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "You leave chaos, not so much damage. At least not the kind that ruins lives."

Sherlock smiled fondly at his friend and shook his head. "And there is Sebastos to worry about. I'm certain he was complicit in his assistance. But he is also foolish, and I suspect Morsimus might set him up to take the fall, single-handed, should it be ruled murder."

"What do we do about him?" Jon narrowed his eyes and mumbled something denouncing Sebastos' legitimate parentage.

"I'm going to test the residue inside the skein and see if it is toxic. I'll then gather up all our evidence and go to Grigórios." He looked over his shoulder to his fallen rucksack. "Let me just get my pack and then we can go back inside so you can rest."

Jon nodded and watched as Sherlock trotted over to his bag and back.

"Here, get your arm round me again," Sherlock said. Jon fastened himself back to Sherlock's side, and they began once more for the house. "Has... anyone arrived yet?"

Jon nodded. "Your father is back, but no one else." He blew out a frustrated breath, and Sherlock gently squeezed his side. "We'll think of something. Do not worry."

A few more laborious steps farther, and Jon started shaking. Sherlock stopped immediately, then frowned to see that Jon was laughing. "What?"

"I was just thinking."

Sherlock arched a brow.

Jon turned to him with a delighted grin. "About when your mother sees you. She's going to yell so loudly."

Sherlock's lips thinned and he felt himself shrinking in on himself. Perhaps he should have told her where he was going earlier...

"Ohh, she is going to properly rip you apart." He elbowed Sherlock's ribs. "And it would serve you right."

"Yes, yes, my torture will be to your delight."

Jon limped along beside him. "I would never delight in your actual torture, though. I would despair. Which is why we are so upset with you."

They reached the courtyard and upon seeing the pair of adolescents, two servants rushed forward to assist. Sherlock sent one away to inform their mother of his return, and the other helped him manoeuvre Jon back into his room and upon his bed. They fluffed Jon's pillows and saw to his comforts, and Sherlock settled in to await his penance. When they were alone, Jon reached a hand out for his, and Sherlock sat beside him to twine their fingers.

"You mustn't leave me either, Sherlock," Jon murmured. He was reclining back with closed eyes, and squeezed his hand. "Not ever."

"Likewise."

When Alcestis' shriek sounded through the house, Jon chuckled and Sherlock winced.

"Rip. You. Apart."

"Shut up, Jon."

-*- φιλία -*-

Sherlock paced his bedchamber. His mother had forced him to wear one of his finer chitons, and he pinned on the biggest, gaudiest fibula he had. There was a sizeable ruby in the head, and his mother rolled her eyes as she helped to fasten it for him. Down the hall, Laodice was likewise assisting Jon.

"Stop fidgeting," she scolded when he kept trying to pull away. Sherlock huffed and ran a hand over his belly in an attempt to soothe his bubbling nerves. Her eyes flicked down towards the movement and she exhaled. She lay her hands on his shoulders and fixed her gaze on her son's.

"Sherlock," she began and then stalled. Sherlock watched with trepidation as she attempted to gather her thoughts for something dramatic. He swallowed nervously and shuffled on his feet. "I... you must be ill at ease," she eventually said.

Sherlock held still within her grasp but allowed a small dip of his chin in agreement.

She fluttered her long, delicate fingers against the side of his neck. "I know you are," she murmured. "It's... when Cleitomachus asked me to arrange a meeting with your father... " she sighed and met his gaze again. "We both know why he is here."

Sherlock felt his stomach clench again, and he jerkily nodded.

She bit her lip and nodded back. "I imagine you are feeling— "

"Jon does not want it," he blurted out.

She paused and her eyes widened. "I'm sorry?"

"Cleitomachus," he said, lowering his voice. "He... he does not wish to have an erastes."

Alcestis' eyes softened, and Sherlock went on before she could refute him. "He has told me. I know that, for some, this man's asking would be an extreme honour, I know that. Jon knows that. But he still does not desire it."

His mother's eyes searched his for a long moment and Sherlock felt his pulse thrumming at his neck, right near her fingers. Finally, she nodded and looked away.

"You know this for certain?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. Perhaps she would have her say on Jon's behalf to father.

"I know change is difficult, Sherlock, and the two of you have always been so close— "

"I tell you he does not wish it, mother," he insisted again.

"And do you honestly believe that if your opinion, your own... feelings, were not tied up with his that he would deny this opportunity? Think hard on this, because for a boy of Jon's background, this is a blessing very few are graced with."

Sherlock felt his stomach flutter with guilt and panic. His palms grew damp, and he could not look into her eyes while his thoughts were no doubt laid bare for all to see reflected within his own.

"But it is because of mine that he..." he whispered, hoping desperately that she would simply understand. "I... we... he is all I know, and I for him..."

"And children grow up to follow new paths, to learn of and from others. That is part of life."

"He is not ready," he said, fierce in his convictions. "He wants to study medicine, he wants to be more than some poor boy forced into a helmet, given a weak blade, and sent to fight for a polis that has not even given him full rights. He has a mind that can be used for more than hurling a spear. If you send him away with Cleitomachus he will lose that potential! It is cruel and unfair!"

"There!" Alcestis cried, smile radiant. "And that is what Jon must tell your father and Cleitomachus."

Sherlock felt as if he had missed a step and fallen, so unexpected was her reply. "What?"

She took his upper arms in her hands and gently shook him. "That is the angle you must play upon if you have a hope of convincing your father to let Jon continue his studies after tonight."

Sherlock recoiled. "He would not possibly force Jon to— "

"No, but if he felt there was the slightest hesitation, simply to spare your feelings he would. You know he would," she said, urgently. "I love my husband, but Zeus knows the man sometimes gets blinded by connections, and politics, and he has always wished for someone in the family to follow in his father's footsteps. Of course that will never be you or your brother, but with Jon, as his patron, he would hope to achieve glory for the family through him, and Jon is so very talented."

She smoothed the fabric over her son's chest, and arranged the graceful folds that fell from his waist. "If Jon wishes to one day continue these pursuits, that is perfectly fine." She looked up. "But not yet."

Sherlock's smile broke upon his face and he kissed his mother's forehead. "This is what I have been telling him! He agrees, naturally, but— "

"Well, just be sure to have Jon say all of this. He can delay. If you think I want to see him get sent off to that kind of life, and this young, you must be mad. Now, I will work on your father, if you're certain Jon feels— "

"He does, I swear he does."

"Also," she continued, "I invited Grigórios tonight."

"You... what?"

She smirked. "I had my reasons." Like Jon, his mother had the annoying habit of smacking Sherlock when she was worked up and frustrated at him, too. "Whatever you learn from... whatever it is you have found regarding that poor boy today, and don't you ever do such a thing on your own again or I will skin you alive, you must go to him with it. He is a trustworthy man."

The faintest carry of voices met their ears, signalling the arrival of the famed warrior, and Alcestis turned to go before she could be seen. Sherlock frowned and wished not for the first time, desperately, that she would have been allowed to dine with them that night. But, as per tradition, she would be hidden away in her chambers, with her maids, probably fretting herself to near-hysteria.

"Do not get worked up. It will all work itself out. Be there for Jon." She paused. "Be there as the reminder of what he is choosing..."

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm and he stammered. "I... w-well, I will, obviously... " but she did not stay to hear him finish his awkward aversions, and instead slipped through the drapes and disappeared.

Sherlock blew out a puff of breath and shook his head. That woman. Athena had to whisper in her ear some days, he was sure of it. Grigórios would be a perfect buffer in order to diffuse the formality of the night, and he'd be willing to bet that Cleitomachus did not know of this last-minute addition. Oh, his mother was cunning.

With a shake, he fussed once more with the folds of his chiton, and then steeled himself before rushing off to quickly share this news with Jon. And then they would have to leave to face his father.

And the man who would try to convince Jon to part from his side.

-*- φιλία -*-

A/N: Apologies for the delay last week. I was sick with some form of bastard plague.

Again, so much gratitude for the kind and encouraging words. :)