I couldn't remember if I had named Moriarty's building in Calais, so I named it in this chapter. I went back over previous chapters and couldn't find a name, so I'm hoping I didn't do that already. xp
Chapter 29: Ballet and Observation
X X X
They took a taxi to the theater. John couldn't stop staring at Jim—he looked delicious in his matte black tuxedo. André had dressed them to match, and John found he enjoyed being part of a complimentary set.
"Sebastian will be in the theater the whole time, and more staff will be nearby," Jim said quietly, though the driver did not seem to speak much English anyway.
"Are you telling me so I won't try to run away?" John asked, a little miffed.
"No, no. Just so you won't worry about our safety in such a public place."
"Oh."
BOTH, MORE LIKELY.
You don't even know what I said, Sherlock. "What about displays of affection in such a public place?"
Jim smiled a little. "Best keep it to a minimum, but we can make up for it when we get home."
"Oh, don't be too rough on me."
"Still smarting from last night?"
"Just a bit." Actually, a hell of a lot.
Jim took John's hand and patted it. "I'll be gentle."
The ballet seemed excellent, though John knew he was no judge. He took as much pleasure in watching Jim's enjoyment of it as he did in watching the ballet itself. During intermission, Jim took out his phone and checked his messages.
"So, how is it?" John asked.
"Not bad," Jim replied, not looking up from his phone. "Sebastian sent me an update: no signs of danger here."
"That's good."
"As for the ballet, their leading man is a bit weak for the role. The prima ballerina can't quite make up for it, but it isn't her fault."
"Are you enjoying it, though?"
"Oh, yes. I love the fluid movements, the grace, the balance. I know that years of hard work go into it; I appreciate hard work."
BORING.
Well sorry, Sherlock... don't you take any interest in the arts besides your violin? Or are you just miffed that he doesn't acknowledge your hard work?
The lights began to dim and Jim put his phone away.
John watched Jim's face, and from Sherlock's silence he knew that the detective also preferred watching the criminal to watching the ballet. He stealthily reached over and rested his hand on Jim's. Jim seemed not to even notice at first; then he turned his wrist and began playing absentmindedly with John's fingers.
If he was honest, he didn't pay much attention to the ballet at all after that. He began subtly trying to get Jim's attention and finally, near the end, Jim met him over the armrest for a quiet kiss. John persisted in keeping his escort's attention, teasing just enough to keep Jim from breaking off, knowing he wouldn't concede control for anything...
Someone behind them cleared their throat loudly, startling the two men a few inches apart. John stifled a breathy laugh and looked at Jim's eyes, bright in the darkness of the theater.
Jim leaned forward for one more gentle caress and whispered, "Behave."
John dutifully turned back toward the stage. He wasn't sure about the dancing, but the music seemed to be at climax. The action of the story would wind down soon, and the dancers would do their grand finale moves, or whatever. He imagined he could hear Sherlock yawning.
The curtain fell and the applause began. A few people rose from their seats and John gathered himself to do the same. Jim stopped him with a firm grip on his forearm.
"Wait."
John relaxed and they waited as the dancers took their bows together. Jim didn't clap until the two lead dancers came forward on their own. Most of the audience was on their feet by now, but still Jim remained seated and John followed his lead. Then the leading man stepped back and gestured to the ballerina standing alone at the front of the stage. At last, Jim stood, hauling John up with him.
Looking around the theater, John saw that a few more people had waited until this moment to stand—they all looked a good generation ahead of Jim.
JIM IS WELL CULTURED IN THEATER ETIQUETTE. THE ELDERS YOU SEE AROUND THE ROOM HAVE FOLLOWED BALLET FROM THE OLD DAYS, AND THEY KNOW TO SAVE STANDING OVATIONS FOR THE TRULY GIFTED.
John smiled. It felt good to be at a posh event with a date he could be proud of. It had been a long time.
Someone reached over to tap Jim on the shoulder. Jim's head turned back with a dangerous look at the older man behind them.
"I'm sorry to have er... interrupted you earlier," the white-haired man said, looking a little flustered.
Jim's feral look melted into his shy/pleased smile. "That's quite all right. There is a time and a place, after all. Being old-fashioned isn't a crime."
"No indeed. It's rare to meet younger people who know good ballet."
"Yes, I'm a bit of a rarity, as John can tell you." Jim took John's arm. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
"And you."
They shook hands, and John felt somewhat disoriented. How can he be so bloody charming like this and then... blow up passenger jets full of kids?
Somehow between their seats and the exit, Sebastian joined them, walking just behind Jim on the left. "There's been a possible Bichon sighting. Not positive, but it's best if we get you right back to the Mâchoires."
"Very well. I suppose you should send the cab away and we'll ride back with you."
"Already done, sir."
"Hm, taking initiative again? I don't know whether to scold you or praise you."
Sebastian ushered them into a sleek black car and got into the front passenger seat.
"So, who are the 'Bichons'?" John asked when they were on their way.
"That's my name for suspicious Frenchies."
"Thought your reputation here was above reproach. No one can touch you, you said."
"Not legally. Doesn't mean no one's desperate enough to try. No one's tried a serious attack yet, but there are people my security is keeping an eye on."
John took Jim's hand. "They'd better not try it."
"You leave the body-guarding to Sebastian. He knows what he's doing. In a crisis I want to be sure you're keeping yourself safe. That's the best way you can protect me. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
They arrived without incident and John got his first good view of the front of the building.
"So, this is the Mâchoires?"
"Short for Mâchoires Tigre. Tiger Jaws."
"Nice."
TAKE A GOOD LOOK.
John moved his eyes over the building and the path leading up to it.
THAT WILL DO.
"Is that what it was called when you bought it?"
"No; it was named after some state official or other. This name suits me better."
"It does. You're okay with me knowing the location and all?" John asked as they walked inside.
"As I've said, no legal action can be taken against me. I suppose when Sherlock knows where it is exactly, he'll get a plan in place for his brother to get in touch with the embassy here and arrange a covert strike should the need and opportunity arise. So far I don't think he'll do that. He needs me to be free if he's going to find out the extent of my influence and if he wants to find all my associates... it's a big job for him, and Mycroft would only get in the way at this point."
"What would that do to politics between England and France?"
"I imagine the French would have something to say about a free man being attacked on their soil without jurisdiction, but the bit of turmoil would be worth it if the right time came."
"Supposing Sherlock were closer to that point than you thought... you've taken precautions?"
"That's what Sebastian is for."
Sebastian came with them into the lift on the first floor and went with them to Jim's room. "With your permission, sir, I'll make sure it's safe," he said, standing between Jim and the door.
"I'm sure it is, but go ahead." Jim turned a bored look on John. "Sometimes he's almost too thorough."
Sebastian pulled out a handgun from inside his jacket as he entered Jim's bedroom. He turned on the light and John could hear him open both the closet and the bathroom door. Then he went to the French windows, opened them and stepped out onto the balcony. The windows closed and a moment later he emerged.
"All clear."
"Thank you, Sebastian. Once you've seen to the security you may do as you please tonight. You can check my room for surveillance devices in the morning. I want a report after breakfast. Oh, and I'm not to be disturbed before then."
"Good night, sir. Captain."
John nodded to the sniper and followed Jim into his room. "I've said it before, but I'll say it again—he's good."
"Mhm." Jim's appreciation for hard work seemed to have waned since they left the ballet. He closed the door and dropped his jacket over his chair. "Help me undress."
"My pleasure." John began unfastening Jim's buttons.
"So, all your questions earlier—planning to tell Sherlock it's time to strike?"
John knit his brow. "No... just honest curiosity. I don't want Sherlock sending anybody in here... it feels like home to me now."
When John reached the end of the buttons, Jim pulled John's jacket off before slipping out of his shirt.
"Do your own now," Jim directed. "I believe you about the curiosity. But even so... I'm thinking of sending you back to Baker Street tomorrow night, and I'm trying to decide what you can safely report to him."
"If I don't tell him the exact location of this building, I won't be able to tell him about the ballet. He'll need to think I spent all my time inside. That will put a gap in my timeline... what should I tell him?"
Jim slipped his arms around John. "Tell him we went to bed early and had lots of sex."
"Could do, I suppose." John kissed him. "How about that old duffer sitting behind us, eh?"
"Yes, that was fun," Jim said with a laugh. You really ought to control yourself better on formal outings."
"You're just so hard to resist."
"I know. But you hardly made an effort." Jim unfastened John's trousers and then his own. "Here. No need to resist now."
John eagerly accepted the invitation, putting one leg between Jim's and pulling their bodies closer together. this method caused little pain to the areas still sore from the previous night. He trailed kisses over Jim's jaw and gasped as Jim thrust against him.
John came before he hit the bed and Jim followed soon after. Round two was a rough blow job for Jim. Then the mastermind got out the condoms and John knew to expect a lot of pain for round three. To add insult to injury, Jim sent him back to his own room after, and John found without surprise that he was bleeding.
He slowed the blood flow with toilet paper while he ran hot water for a bath. Good thing I'm going back tomorrow. Give me a chance to heal up a bit.
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
John looked up and then down to answer in the affirmative. Tired, bloody ... bloody tired. But I'll be fine.
YOU'RE BLEEDING A LOT.
Not really... just more than before.
WHEN YOU GET BACK, YOU'RE GOING TO A PROPER DOCTOR.
John looked from side to side.
YES.
No.
He tossed the bloodied tissue into the toilet and eased himself into the tub. Oh, cripes.
By the time he felt ready to haul himself back out, his skin was well wrinkled but he felt marginally better. He glanced in the mirror.
ROUGH ON YOUR MOUTH, WASN'T HE?
John fingered his split, tender lips. Nothing new there. Quit worrying.
X X X Two days earlier X X X
"What... the... hell?" Watson stared over Sherlock's shoulder at the laptop.
"It's a corset."
"Yes, I can bloody see that. Don't tell me Moriarty's into... into... all that."
"It's fascinating, isn't it?"
"It's..." Watson shuddered. "I dunno. But fascinating isn't the word I'd use. Oh, god... he's putting it on."
"That is why Jim gave it to him..."
"I guess, but... he's actually doing it."
The view shifted as John looked down at his now standing form, corset in place. His waist seemed very small.
"I think I'm gonna be ill."
"I think he is, if he leaves that on more than a few minutes."
Jim's words appeared on the screen and Sherlock leaned forward to type, "THE WHORE."
"Uh oh," Watson said. John had gotten onto the bed with Jim. "I think they're going to do it."
"Oh, do shut up. For heaven's sake, if it bothers you so much, go somewhere else for a bit."
The screen went dark.
"Thank god," Watson muttered.
Sherlock typed, "CAN'T ANALYZE WHEN THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE."
"Really?!" Watson exclaimed. "You want to see that?"
Sherlock tore his eyes from the screen and pointed at the door. "Out. Now!"
Watson turned sullen and shuffled toward the kitchen.
Sherlock stared at the screen, watching the movements with which he was still largely unfamiliar. It was strange to see Jim's obvious pleasure as he moved against John. He could see John's hands sliding over Jim's moist body. How strange to think that Jim, who hated to "get his hands dirty" would actually enjoy this activity. It seemed a little unlike him. But then... maybe John did know him better.
Then came a moment when when Jim froze, expression blank, a vein in his eye twitching. He lowered himself down onto John and Sherlock saw John's hands caressing him, smoothing back the villain's damp hair.
Suddenly, Sherlock felt a tingle in his groin. What's this? He frowned. I can be stimulated without touch now? Not good.
He had just decided that the feeling was a fluke when Jim put his mouth over John's nipple. The tingle returned. His first instinct was to look away from the screen, but something made him keep watching, following the movement of Jim's lips and tongue. He found himself a little disappointed when it stopped. All too soon, they were saying good night.
Sherlock typed a message to remind John to sleep while he could. Then he pushed his chair back. "They're going to sleep now; you take over," he called to Watson.
"That was kind of quick, wasn't it?" Watson said, returning with two cups of tea.
"Compared to what?"
"I don't know... just expected him to have more stamina... both of them."
"I think John told Jim he was tired."
"Surprised that would have any effect. Anyway... you going to sleep now?"
"Yes; wake me if anything happens."
Sherlock woke early to take over from Watson, who was very sleepy and had probably missed some details in Jim's early morning conversation, but that could be reviewed later. He followed John's exploration and conversation with Moran with great interest.
Watson finally reemerged after noon and started fixing breakfast food for lunch. "Did I miss anything?"
"Moran may be our key to recovering Davies. I'm letting John try to get close to him."
"I feel sorry for Moran," Watson muttered. When his meal was ready, he carried it to his chair and listened to Sherlock's commentary while he ate.
"Ah. Here we go," Sherlock purred.
"What's going on?"
"John's asking him about his honorable discharge again."
"Thought you wanted Moran to like him... if he's got secrets, won't prying do the opposite?"
"He's close..." Sherlock began typing out his theories.
"I have no reason to tell you," Moran's words appeared as he spoke.
"Yes, you have," Sherlock said as he typed the words.
Watson left his chair and came to look over Sherlock's shoulder as the detective typed several more statements for John to read out.
"You want to be my therapist now?"
THERAPY HAS BEEN SUGGESTED TO HIM BEFORE, BUT HE HASN'T LISTENED.
"How can you tell that?" Watson asked.
Sherlock ignored Watson, watching Moran's reactions to whatever John was saying now. He smiled. "Yes..." YOU'VE GOT HIM.
After another few exchanges, Watson asked, "So, it looks like a dead end there?"
WELL DONE. "On the contrary. He's breaking down."
X X X
Sherlock watched the dinner conversation with what Watson thought looked like mounting concern.
"Jim's off."
"Oh, really? How can you tell? He always seems off to me."
Sherlock didn't answer.
"Hey, your tea's getting cold."
"Did you make tea again?" Sherlock asked flatly.
"Not much else I can do for you when you're like this."
"They've finished dinner... John's going back to his room. Jim's going to give him a hard time tonight."
"Oh?"
"Yes; he's annoyed. Possibly just because John was a little insubordinate, but there may be something else bothering him too."
"You think Hart's in serious danger?"
No answer. Watson didn't like that. He looked over Sherlock's shoulder again and read the warning as he typed it. The detective was fidgety.
"Look, why don't you take a little break now and I'll call you when Moriarty gets there? Your phone's been going off for an hour—load of texts, I think."
He expected Sherlock to argue, but he was surprised. "All right. Wake me if I fall asleep." Sherlock stretched and went to lie on the sofa with his phone.
Watson settled in front of the laptop and typed HE'S WORRIED ABOUT YOU ~W He didn't know if John would take any notice of that—he never seemed properly concerned about his own welfare. YOU SHOULD PROBABLY REST IF YOU CAN. MAY NOT GET MUCH SLEEP.
John closed his eyes and Watson sat back to wait until there was anything to watch on the screen. He had nearly dozed off himself when the screen lightened and then came into focus on Jim coming into the room.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock sprang up and motioned for Watson to vacate the chair. He sat and almost immediately began to type.
Watson spied something in Jim's hands. "Is that...?"
"Yes."
"This doesn't look good."
"You shouldn't watch this."
"Neither should you," Watson retorted.
"One of us has to. Get yourself out of the room. Maybe out of the flat. Go for a walk or something."
"It's raining."
"Take an umbrella. Call Lestrade; he's been trying to reach me. See if it's important."
Watson groaned. "I can call him from my room. No need to go out in that."
Sherlock watched grimly as the scene unfolded. He blinked when Jim swung the riding crop. John had to be in pain, but he didn't seem to be complaining. He found himself taken aback by the sight of Jim's cold brown eyes looking down at John and the words appearing: "Not as sorry as you will be."
From the blurry screen and the occasional wincing, he could tell that John was suffering a good deal. Then the screen was dark and he could tell nothing about John's condition.
JOHN
He waited a moment. Then, JOHN, IF YOU'RE ALL RIGHT, OPEN YOUR EYES.
To his relief, light flooded the screen and slowly the view became clearer. Sherlock let out a breath slowly. He looked down at his hands and saw them trembling slightly on the keyboard. Adrenaline. He took a sip of the cold tea Watson had left for him and grimaced distastefully.
Jim pulled John onto his side and Sherlock had a view of the wall and ceiling as John squirmed for a bit. Then the screen got a bit blurry again and John was still for a moment before rolling over to embrace Jim. He could tell they were talking, but he couldn't see Jim's face; only his hand as it came up gently to move over John's hair.
Finally John moved back a little and ran his fingers over Jim's face.
"Oh, thank you, my pet," Jim said, smiling. "You're not so bad yourself."
John's eyes followed Jim's face as he leaned down to lick blood off John's shoulder. It was the first decent look Sherlock had gotten at the riding crop's damage, and he was sure this was just a small sample.
"I'm going to head back to my room now. I'll have someone look after you in the morning." A short pause; then Jim said, "You don't expect me to sleep on these bloodied sheets, do you?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I'll see you at dinner if not before."
Once Jim left the room, Sherlock wanted to go to John, to make sure he was all right. But he knew the uselessness of such a wish and put it out of his mind. He couldn't think of anything useful to tell John, either.
"Watson?" he called.
He thought he heard a groan from upstairs. A moment later, Watson came down.
"You're annoyed because I'm using your last name."
"Yes; well-deduced. Also because you've been ignoring Greg's texts, and he's got a right mess on his hands."
Sherlock indicated the phone in Watson's hand. "Is he still on?"
"Yes."
He took the phone from Watson and shooed him toward the seat in front of the laptop. "John's about to turn in; keep an eye on him."
"Fine."
Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear. "Gary."
"Greg."
"Right. I hear you've been busy."
"You might say that," the inspector griped. "A rash of suspicious deaths. Some look like accidents, some look like suicides, some look like murders."
"So, you're working with at least six cases?"
"Eight, last time I counted."
"What's your favorite?"
"What?"
"Which case are you most interested in?"
"Uh... dunno. They're all about equal; all got a corpse..."
"Which case did you think of immediately when I asked you," Sherlock said, losing patience.
"Adelaide Simon, I suppose."
"Good. Who's she?"
"Up and coming model. Died of food poisoning."
"Accident?"
"Ridiculous method for suicide."
"But you think it was murder."
"Well, she's a model, so I thought..."
"And you're absolutely right. Models are extremely careful about what they eat. They don't order takeaway. They eat moderate amounts of meat and are careful about how it is cooked. Someone sabotaged her diet. Motive?" Sherlock lay back on the couch and massaged his temples, Watson's phone resting on his shoulder.
"She's got a sizable insurance policy that benefits her parents and her agent equally."
"They may be in on it together, or one of them might have acted alone. I'd guess the agent; he'd be very close to her, but his sentiment wouldn't be as likely to get in the way. There might also have been sexual tension between them."
"Sherlock..."
"What?"
"You're terribly sexist."
"What?"
"Adelaide Simon's agent is a woman. A straight woman."
"Oh. Well, you didn't say that, did you?"
A sigh. "Look, this is all very well, but figuring a theory isn't the same as finding proof. I'd really appreciate it if you'd come down and look at a crime scene or two. We might be missing important things, you know?"
"Yes, I'm sure you are. All right, I'm not busy at the moment. I'll come down for a while."
"Thank you."
I thought you'd like to see what Sherlock was up to again, and how he's dealing with the freak show. xp Time to hear from you! Leave a review.
