Gabriel buried his face in his pillow as a faint sound cut through the edges of sleep, jerking him half-awake. He ignored it and settled down again – he needed to sleep and noises in the flat be damned.
He had taken John's advice last night and had company – and had kept any and all weight off of his leg. Now he was going to take John's advice about sleep. He was worn out as it was and the meds weren't helping but at least – he grinned a sleepy evil little grin – he'd got some exercise again.
Now, sleep. Whoever was in his flat could wait.
His eyes snapped open at the sudden realisation that someone was in his flat and he sat up fast, swallowing a groan as he yanked himself painfully from semi-consciousness. It wasn't that he worried about who it was – there was only one person it could be who could come in unannounced without setting off the alarm.
It was more that he wasn't wearing anything.
He hadn't moved that fast on the crutches yet but incentive helped. So did the fact that he kept a pair of pyjamas folded on the chair near the bed now so that he didn't have to shuffle across the room to change in the evenings – he could nab the pyjamas and sit down on the bed and deal with putting clothing away in the morning.
He wasn't going to have time for that and it wouldn't escape Sherlock's sharp notice that Gabriel's clothes were more than a little strewn about but he didn't care. Sherlock had certainly walked in on a similar state before and had refrained from commenting except for cocking an eyebrow – which for him was worse than a pointed remark, actually. It was amazing what he could say with one simple raised eyebrow.
Gabriel glanced back at the clock and felt his eyes widen in something combining shock and relief. Sandra had left only fifteen minutes earlier in order to get home in time to change before her shift at St. Mary's.
Right, he thought just as Sherlock strode in without any apparent concern for or acknowledgement of the concept of privacy. He evaluated Gabriel quickly – Gabriel was used to that, Sherlock did that to everyone – then the room.
And raised his eyebrow.
Right, Gabriel thought again. He had no real problem with Sherlock coming and going because he'd known Sherlock for eight years and trusted no one else quite as much as he trusted the curly haired genius.
Yet.
And it was just who Sherlock was. Gabriel was used to the other man's little eccentricities and his ideas – of lack thereof – about personal boundaries and space. He hadn't really cared up until this point but he did now.
Fifteen minutes, he thought. Too close.
He didn't want to have to do this, but he did it anyway.
"John said you should be resting and recovering," Sherlock pointed out.
"Sherlock, I need you to stop coming in here unannounced," Gabriel said at almost exactly the same time.
They both paused, waiting for the other to take up the verbal space, then Sherlock frowned.
"Sorry," Gabriel said, because he didn't want to see disappointment there, but he wasn't taking the chance. Fifteen minutes was far too close.
He had no issue with it, but he was pretty sure Sandra would have, especially given Sherlock's game of partners at the hospital. He was a difficult man to understand – Gabriel had gone through that initially. They all had. The difference was Gabriel had chosen to work for him. Sandra wasn't his friend or his employee and only knew him from his huffy overprotectiveness at the hospital.
"But you have to call in advance or give me some warning," he continued.
Sherlock turned his head slightly, evaluating him, then seemed to decide since he was already in the flat he could make himself at home. He sat down in the chair near the bed and crossed one leg over the other at the knee and keeping his thoughtful gaze on Gabriel.
"This has never been a problem before," he commented.
"No," Gabriel agreed. And it hadn't. Sherlock did have a fairly good sense of timing and had never actually caught Gabriel in a compromising position, but he had caught him with overnight guests still in the flat before.
And it hadn't actually mattered, it really hadn't. Gabriel had liked most of those people – he'd admit to not knowing the names of one or two – but he'd never imagined or wanted anything more than a brief romance at best. To him, they'd been passingly interesting and he'd always disentangled himself if he thought the other party wanted more or was getting too involved.
He wondered if anyone had ever tried to establish and keep personal boundaries with Sherlock. Mycroft, probably. Charles most likely. Gabriel suspected no success with the former and success with the latter only because what Charles had wanted was what Sherlock had wanted.
"This is different," he said.
"Is it?" Sherlock enquired.
"Yes."
Sherlock evaluated him again and Gabriel kept his features open deliberately – Sherlock had told him on more than one occasion that he had a tendency to make himself look blank and he'd done it so long he hadn't even realised until it had been pointed out to him. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had noticed him in the first place. It took effort not to smooth over his reactions – years of dealing with his family, he thought.
It was different, too. Sandra was – brilliant. Beautiful and smart and funny and interested in him of all people. The fact that she could see past the patient who'd been shot and the man on the mess of medication meant something. She picked up on things that no one else who didn't know him would. And she'd taken a chance on that.
He owed it to her not to have Sherlock barge in unexpectedly.
"Please," Gabriel added simply.
He was willing to bet Mycroft had never said that to his younger brother, because "antagonistic" would be a good way to describe their interactions. Mycroft was overbearing, Sherlock chafed under this and they danced round each other with verbal barbs that would make MPs in the House of Commons green with envy.
And Charles? Well, Sherlock had probably heard "please" from him for very different reasons in a very different tone.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"You are my second-in-command," he pointed out. "I require you be available."
"And I am. Or I will be once John lets me go back to work. By phone, Sherlock. Half the time you call me anyway. Just switch the other half to the same thing."
He refrained from saying he'd never asked for anything before. While this was broadly true – excepting small things and being allowed to live uneaten by alligators – he didn't want to resort to the guilting he knew Mycroft used. It wouldn't get him anywhere. Sherlock was already displeased – Gabriel could tell. He was keeping his own expression pleasantly neutral but there was the telltale darkening of his light grey eyes that Gabriel had learned to watch for in the eight years he'd been working for Sherlock. He'd never seen it directed at him and knew that this meant the odds were good that Sherlock would keep himself from being too upset.
He usually reserved that for those who were irritating him – annoying clients, the police, Sebastian…
"I know it's your building and I work for you and I don't pay any rent – which I will if you want or I'll buy the flat from you outright. I'm not asking you not to come in. I'm asking you to call first. That's it."
There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock nodded.
"Very well," he said, a little stiffly. Gabriel repressed a sigh; well, he'd known it wouldn't go brilliantly, but it could have been worse.
"Now, what is it you need?" Gabriel asked. "Because I'm about to fall asleep sitting here talking to you, so you should probably make it quick."
Sherlock paused again.
"Nothing urgent," he replied and Gabriel did a quick evaluation to see if he was lying and decided he probably wasn't. Always hard to tell for sure with Sherlock and being tired and on meds didn't help his ability to read his friend.
This would probably need more smoothing over, because as aloof as Sherlock liked to pretend he was, his feathers were easily ruffled. But it would have to wait, both because Gabriel needed sleep and Sherlock was not going to be receptive to anything right now.
"You should sleep, as John instructed."
"I'm going to," Gabriel replied. "Smart man, that John."
At this, Sherlock's lips twitched and Gabriel knew he'd hit the mark. Although Sherlock probably hadn't realised it yet. It was fun to see the hints but he kept his silence. Let them sort it out – it was too soon anyway. Sherlock didn't like to be told about his own behaviour and Gabriel had certainly done enough of that for one day. Possibly for a month.
"Quite right," his boss agreed, hopefully not to what Gabriel had just been thinking.
"Good night, Sherlock," Gabriel sighed.
"It's after seven in the morning."
"Good morning, then."
"I will come by later. And I will call."
It was a small admission but enough of one. Gabriel nodded his thanks, waited until Sherlock had closed the bedroom door behind him, then crawled back into bed.
All of the post was vetted, of course; nothing crossed her desk here that hadn't been checked by the equipment in the mailroom. The pink envelope therefore did not alarm her. Rather, it intrigued her. It stood out among the white and manila envelopes that were standard fare and often didn't warrant being opened. She did so anyway, of course – better that than lose a lead. It had served her well, once or twice.
This one…
Greeting card-sized and postmarked from Paris. She checked the date. Yes, sent the previous week, on Thursday. Someone had sent it secure in the knowledge that it would reach her the day after Valentine's Day.
And it was a Valentine's card. Veronique knew that without opening it, given the colour of the envelope. The other options were Easter, her birthday or a congratulatory card for a baby girl. It was too soon for Easter, a month late for her birthday and she knew for a fact that she had no children of either sex.
She eased it from the pile of post that had been deposited on her desk early that morning and held it lightly between her right index and middle fingers – the same fingers between which she held her cigarettes. EU regulations forbade smoking in public places and government offices, of course. Strictly speaking, she answered to no governments and all governments, which made it a blurry area, but she bowed to the general consensus within the building and did her smoking outside.
As such, her office smelled of nothing but the circulated air from the heating system and her morning coffee, both smells to which she had long ago adjusted. Even the daughter of a long line of perfumiers could inure herself to scents if she became accustomed to them. It didn't hurt – or perhaps it did, depending on how one viewed it – that she was a smoker.
Certainly it must have dulled her sense of smell and occasionally her father despaired of her lost abilities but she had not noticed such a drastic decrease as he liked to imagine. Veronique often thought, within the privacy of her own mind, that smokers who truly lost their senses of smell and taste were simply not trying hard enough to cultivate and retain them.
The scent of her cigarettes remained exquisite, as did her coffee when she first poured it. She only relegated the coffee to the background while working. Her sense of smell had solved one case already, identifying a subtle and cloying cologne worn by a man wanted in France and Belgium on murder charges.
She smelled something very subtle now. Not cloying, no. Familiar.
Veronique raised the dark pink envelope and sniffed it delicately. She did so again for confirmation and then smiled. If the smile was somewhat cold, it was also triumphant and appreciative.
She was no stranger to admirers but this was not one. Or, if it was, she may have to track him down and marry him because he had chosen perfectly for her. She knew it must be male – this scent was made for men and a woman wouldn't send it with the suggestion that Veronique should wear it. Her body chemistry was all wrong for it.
It was from her family's own line and one of the most expensive. A subtle musk with only the barest hint of vanilla, one she could smell but that she doubted nine others out of ten here would. At least not consciously.
Veronique withdrew an ivory-handled letter opener from her desk. Somewhere, she knew, an elephant had died for this and she herself was not a proponent of poaching – she was an Interpol agent, after all – but the elephant had died well over sixty years ago and nothing was to be done about that. Her grandfather had given this to her and he'd had it since he was a boy.
She slit the envelope open in a smooth motion and pulled the card out gently. Veronique set the envelope and letter opener aside and sniffed the card – there was a faint trace of the cologne on here as well but absorbed from the envelope.
She twitched an eyebrow up in approval. He had not overdone it. He wanted to be recognised but not aggressive.
The front of the card was a print of a Monet, Water Lilies. A French painter for a French woman from what was undoubtedly a French man. Parisian, too, she was certain of it and not just because the card had been sent from Paris. Just a hunch, but she'd developed good instincts and knew when to trust them.
Veronique flipped open the card, unsurprised to find the inside blank of a pre-printed message. No, he would want to avoid that. There was a personalised message, if it could be called that, written in lazy and confident cursive. A man's handwriting, definitely. That was simple enough to pick up.
8 Mars, 13 h. Charles Chauvière.
8th of March, one in the afternoon.
Veronique raised her eyebrow again and picked up the envelope. The return address was for a post office box, of course – this did not have to be a problem, since they could arrange with the gens d'armes to locate the post office in question and have it monitored, but anyone who sent her a message such as this would know that and avoid said office.
And it was not a threat.
It was an appointment schedule.
No location but that was simple. The card had been delivered here. The address for their rendezvous was therefore already established.
Veronique called up her calendar on her phone and set the appointment. Then she smoothed the card's crease to keep it open and flipped up her laptop screen.
His was not such a common name that she would have difficult tracking him down and Veronique spent a very instructive half an hour learning about Charles Chauvière. Identifying him from the handful of men with the same name who lived in or around Paris was simple. None of the others were men who would send her a card with an appointment time and expect it to be met.
Nor was he entirely unknown to Interpol, it seemed. From his photograph, she was not surprised. Any man with his beauty and skill at languages had enough assets that he should have come to their attention long before he had – eight years ago, she noticed. They should have recruited him. If she had known about him, she would have. Six languages, the same amount she spoke, but not all the same ones.
And working for a large international real estate firm based in London. Manager for all of the French operations. Veronique felt her lips curl a bit at that one – dry amusement and a knowing suspicion. Nothing in his file indicated any hint of criminal activity, which was dubious at best. Why had he even come to their attention with a record this meticulously clean? Ah, transporting champagne to London had got him stopped at customs once in England, although he had the proper paperwork for imports and had been let go with minimum fuss. Someone with an eye like hers had flagged him and had left it at that. Nothing since 2002.
Oh yes, she thought, tapping her lips with her index finger. M. Chauvière, I very much doubt that.
She sent a brief email to one of their liaison officers at the Police Nationale in Paris requesting more information. She was unlikely to get anything – the "large international real estate firm" in London undoubtedly covered its tracks very thoroughly and very carefully and judging by the way Charles Chauvière appeared in all the photographs stored in their database, he took quite good care of himself. This was not a man to make a misstep.
Contacting her had been a calculated action and he would want something specific. Veronique knew that she wouldn't learn what it was until the eighth of March. There was no point attempting to contact him before hand, not unless she valued wasting her time. She put the card upright on her desk, slipped the envelope and the letter opener into a desk drawer, and returned to work.
