Chapter Three: Going On An Adventure
John kept staring at his phone. When should he text Sherlock? How soon was too soon? His military past had taught him not to linger too long, giving the enemy the time to reorganise. He shouldn't let his new acquaintance alone long enough to ponder all his gaffes and persuade himself that John wasn't even worth wasting fifteen minutes on. Assuming he hadn't been pranked all along. He still couldn't believe that any sane person would call their baby Sherlock Holmes.
On the other hand, he didn't want to appear desperate. Because he wasn't. He could just go out and have his pick of girls, and guys, too. It wasn't boasting; a warm smile and being a good listener went a long way. And of course, even if he'd been discharged, for some people he still retained most of the allure of a man in uniform. It was all in the bearing, really.
Right now, though, he didn't want to hook up with anyone. He wanted Sherlock Holmes, the only one in the world. Or at least he hoped—it was awful enough that one child had to carry such a burden. At least to get better acquainted with him, even if things went nowhere. And this meant sending him that message he'd promised. As brilliant as the man was, you couldn't expect him to read John's mind, and when he wasn't even there to boot.
John was ready to finally send that message, when he received one from an unknown number. He almost deleted it, but then decided to check. At least to check that he hadn't accidentally signed up to some service that would eat up his funds.
My brother will accompany me for a week to Urbino, Italy. We'll leave tomorrow morning, and be *very* busy packing today. I thought you might want to know. Mycroft Holmes
The doctor scratched his head. Sure, it was obvious whom the man was talking about—and honestly, he would have recommended a psychiatric evaluation for the parents who thought this was a good idea. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Somewhere in the world, this qualified as child abuse, he was sure. Now, the question was: could he trust Mycroft? And if he opted to believe him, what was he supposed to do with his information?
Mark the date they'd be back, so that he could ask Sherlock out as soon as he was back on British soil? Surely a week would blur the memory of his blunder…or would it fix the negative impression in Sherlock's mind, with no new experiences to contradict it? Would the man think, text from the idiot, I'll just erase it? John would hate to lose his chance, but it wasn't like he could do anything else, could he?
Well, why not? asked an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like his sergeant. What keeps you here anyway? You don't know what to do with yourself half the time.
John decided to look the place up. He'd just…check the local sights, maybe the local food specialties. Who wasn't partial to Italian food anyway? Hopefully he'd find an easy recipe and find the will to cook again. No, he wasn't planning to drop everything and run after his new connection, no matter how brilliant the man was. Of course not.
…So the following morning saw John on a plane going to Ancona, Italy, naturally. There was a last minute offer that meant they almost paid him to go, and as for his room, once he actually landed he'd find something. Yes, it was a gamble, but he'd always liked betting anyway. Besides, it wasn't as if he was picky about accommodations. Not after Afghanistan, and definitely not with the place he was living in at the moment. He kept telling himself that he wasn't settled yet, but he knew that unless something unexpected happened there would be few chances to change his life around.
Maybe something unexpected just happened. He'd half-dreamed about meeting Sherlock at the airport, maybe even boarding the same plane, but of course that hadn't happened. He'd already slipped into a book somehow. His life turning into a full-blown chick flick at the same time, however pleasant, would have been eerie. God bless phones and internet, instead, because John doubted that he would have been able to organise this impromptu trip otherwise. For a town that, at least partially (from his understanding, at least) was the equivalent of a diminished county seat, Urbino was oddly complicated to reach.
Not that John was complaining. A cab brought him from the airport to the station, a train would carry him to Pesaro, and there he could catch a bus to Urbino. There was, technically, a direct bus Ancona—Urbino, but only one a day, and he didn't feel like spending a day in the city. Not with his goal so tantalizingly close, and time short. Seriously, it was one hour and a half…why wouldn't there be more buses?
He refused to let the small hitch embitter him, though. Not when he'd managed to snatch a window seat on his train and could admire the clear blue sea, as the railroad ran parallel to the beach. The sun glinted off the waves, and John imagined it was winking encouragingly.
Still, no matter how pleasant a sight that was, he was mildly terrified of missing his stop, so he kept repeating it in his mind like a mantra. He did manage it…only to find himself stuck anyway. That made no sense. The newsagents advertised bus tickets. He'd asked for some twice, only for the middle-aged woman behind the counter to blink owlishly at him and repeat her question. Sure, his pronunciation was likely to be a bit off. But how many towns nearby could have a name similar enough to cause confusion? He repeated it once again, slowly and loudly. Hopefully this time she'd get it. "Pe-sa-ro." Finally, he heard himself speak, too, and blushed. Oh damn. "It's…here, isn't it?"
Even if the cashier didn't understand English—especially an embarrassed English mumble—his pointing to the floor and sudden contrite attitude were obvious. So it was with a smile and a slight shake of her head—half "don't worry" and half "tourists, really" or possibly even "men"—that she asked, for the third time, "Bus. Per dove?"
Now, John didn't understand Italian, but he didn't need a language course to figure out he was being asked "Where to?" And also suspect that her apparent dull attitude before was a result of not being able to ask, "What have you taken today, mate?"
Finally grasping his precious ticket, he followed her directions, using few English words but plenty of theatrical gestures. Even if they'd managed to misunderstand each other once again, there was about a dozen twenty-something boys and girls. In his research, the night before, he'd noticed that Urbino had an university. He hoped they were going there, too, or at least, that one of them would speak better English.
Both assumptions turned out to be correct, luckily for him. They were going back to take exams...so at least half of them were all too eager to concentrate on anything but their own fears. Before the bus even arrived, the former soldier had collected a handful of phone numbers, with offers to show him the best places to eat at, and promises to celebrate together if their tests should go well.
Viola, a tall girl with a blinding smile and ringlets of black hair to the small of her back, won the 'honour' of sitting by him on the bus by virtue of being a Foreign Languages student and trying for an English exam in two days. And, John suspected, because she could glare people down in a way that she probably thought was subtle but that he had a hard time not snickering at.
To his dismay, he spent most of the following hour being grilled. He didn't mind chatting, and it was a relief that her exam wasn't about literature—the last thing he felt like doing was trying to remember trivia he hadn't touched since high school to help her. He'd only confuse her and himself. But knowing something about her life here would have been nice. He'd hoped for any info on the place he was supposed to stay at without making an arse of himself. He doubted his ability to seduce Sherlock if he failed even at ordering a coffee.
When Viola heard he wasn't here for leisure, but following someone he had feelings for—even if these feelings were intense fascination and curiosity at the moment, he wouldn't go as far as to say he'd fallen in love at first sight—she exclaimed, "Aaaawwww!" He'd never heard that, or even seen it outside internet forums, but there was no other sensible way to spell what she said. "If you run into any problems, just text any of us. We'll hunt her down for you!"
"Him, actually." Would that change her attitude? It was a long time since John had come out as bi, but every new person was still an unknown quantity. Good thing that he'd stopped caring about people's opinions long ago.
"That's so cuuuute!" she honest-to-God screeched, and John cringed. Better than being lectured or insulted, sure, but not much. Luckily for his eardrums (and sanity), they were almost there.
In fact, another one (Stefano, he thought, the boy with the glasses and auburn hair) yelled, "Look!" The road was winding, upwards and upwards, so without that warning John would have missed the sight that caught his breath. It was a palace, its front offered to the cliff side. Renaissance, if John had to guess. Two slim towers framed the façade, whose middle was decorated by a series of overlapping, arched balconies.
Before John could even think of taking out his phone, much less take a proper photo—or a dozen—the road curved and it was out of sight. It was strangely fitting for Sherlock to take refuge here, he thought, smiling to himself. Elegant, tall, breath-taking beauty, enchanting you and disappearing before you could do anything about it? It was a perfect description of their relationship. Maybe Sherlock was the spirit of this place. It would explain a few things. The obviously fake name, the sudden flight…the man wouldn't make a poor impression in a Raffaello painting, dressed in a doublet. John chuckled mentally, and told himself sternly to cut it (out) with the bad poetry. It was the only way to be sure that such ridiculous fantasies wouldn't slip out once he found the man in question. Even if he appreciated art, the former soldier doubted that anyone would enjoy being told he looked like a ghost.
As much as he'd wished for guidance in his new environment, one hour was more than enough for John to decide ditching his new friends was his only option. At least for the rest of the day. He even shrugged (off) their suggestion to reach the city centre by way of the elevator inside the shadowed, cool tunnels (Viola hesitated on that word, but he couldn't very well correct her, could he?). Even when the other option was a steep climb, the sun beating on his head. Good thing that I pack lighter than the army made me do, he thought wrily. His second thought was, I'm doing things in reverse. I should have stopped here coming back from Afghanistan. Give myself a chance to ease back into a normal temperature, rather than have a bit of a shock, twice over. I can just see my major's face if I suggested the army finance holidays in the Mediterranean for every soldier that needs to be shipped back. He grinned, waving at his new friends. The monumental entrance in the town's thick walls looked like a more auspicious beginning for his travels than sneaking in the tiny arch at the base of a fortified tower jutting out from them, anyway.
The little shops on both sides of the street attracted his attention. Even if he wasn't strictly a tourist, it didn't mean that he couldn't look. Especially at the shop (he really wasn't sure what they sold) in whose window a birdcage reproduction of the palace sat proudly And if the smell wafting from one stopped him in his tracks…well, nobody was waiting for him. He'd been so nervous about the trip that he'd eaten one apple all day, keeping himself functioning with a good amount of tea. Surely one slice of pizza was worth a pause. Or two. After all, he was in Italy.
Once again, John experienced a little mishap, which prompted a Very Important Note to Self. Pepperoni gets you the veggie pizza. Also, feel free to devolve to pointing unless sure of what you're saying, nobody will glare at you for being rude. He was surprised by the sheer size of the slice—it looked as if you could have used a whole pizza as a tablecloth—but the taste… Eating a pizza tablecloth didn't sound like a bad option, if this was what you got.
Feeling better equipped to face the world after his rest, John sped up the rest of the climb despite their paving—tiny, irregular (but thankfully bevelled) black stones— seeming expressly built to trick your foot into falling if you weren't careful. A handful of minutes later, he found himself in a smallish square, with narrow streets departing from it. He was officially in Urbino. Now what?