A.N. If you hate how I formatted texting...honestly I do too, but I don't know what is the proper way, how to make it distinct from italics for emphasis, and at least this way there should be no doubt about the sender. Someone please tell me what I should do?

Chapter Four: Coffee

Sherlock groaned. Why had he ever thought that following Mycroft (always Mycroft when he was angry) was a good idea? Leaving London was the right call, of course. He couldn't stay and risk caving to John bloody Watson's smile. But Italy in the summer? He'd melt. Couldn't his brother have a job somewhere with a beach? Or failing that, on a proper mountain, preferably near a glacier?

True, he was an adult. He could simply leave. But Mycroft would certainly run after him. Despite Sherlock having a job and a life of his own, the rest of his family still seemed to consider him a ten year old. Fine, sneaking into his brother's house to beg (no, no, demand) his help might not be the best demonstration of independence. But these were especially dire circumstances! How often did Sherlock Holmes meet John Watson?

All the time, in every universe, if you listened to mum. She'd never figured out that just because she sported a name out of Conan Doyle before marrying dad, it didn't mean that the real world was a Victorian story. If time travel was a reality, he'd go back and pay the man to have her eponymous character described as miserable instead of queenly. That should hopefully be enough to stop her obsession.

He needed air. With his room not providing any, Sherlock decided he might as well go out in search of a properly refrigerated place. That meant getting dressed, though…

Despite supposedly being at work—he figured that negotiating the loan of a Raffaello, even an early work, required the amount of parley normally dedicated to avoiding conflict between small nations—his brother found the time to text him. While being a smug smart aleck, too. –Ancient architects had to take care of making a place liveable without technology. In fact, I might need an extra layer here. Thick walls do keep a room so delightfully fresh. M

Well, the one thing that swamped the town was definitely old buildings. In fact, why hadn't his bastard brother picked a hotel in one? Sherlock threw a thin white shirt and matching shorts on, slipped his feet into a pair of sandals, and went down to the hall. "Can I ask when our room was reserved?"

The motherly woman behind the desk looked at him with concern, but answered, "Of course. Just yesterday. Your brother was very apologetic, but there was really no need to be. Are you fine, Mr Holmes? Can I help?"

"You already have," he said, striding out. Mycroft's trip had been planned for ages. There was simply no way that his brother had waited until the night before to book a room. He was too fond of his comforts. Which meant that Mycroft had originally considered what he'd texted, but then given it away and found this one. All to inconvenience Sherlock? His brother would suffer too…so, why would he subject them both to this? Just to ensure that his little brother didn't spend weeks holed up in their room? What was out there that his brother so wanted him to face?

The answer came to him when he was one step away from rushing inside the Duke's palace, which hosted the National Gallery. After all, if his brother had the free time to text, he had the time to hear what Sherlock thought of his plotting. It wouldn't take long at all. Yet another text alarm sounded. Half convinced that somehow his brother knew where he was and wanted to gloat, he checked, frowning already.

-How about that coffee? Watson

Sherlock grinned and took cover in the delightfully cool concourse of the palace. S– Sorry, can't. I'm 800 miles away. Well, 799.4 to be honest.

For a minute or two there was no reply. So, the man gave up that easily. Not even a 'when will you be back?' The journalist wasn't disappointed. Not at all. It was what he wanted in the first place.

But there was a reply. J –What a pity. So you're…where? Spain? Norway? Sweden? Poland, maybe?

There was no harm in telling him, was there? It wouldn't make John any closer. S– Guessing is not your forte, it seems. Italy.

Soon, the reply came. J –So…Orbetello?

Sherlock smiled to himself. You really could trust the man to come up with the wrong option. S – Urbino. On the other side.

This time, the text was immediate. Actually, a text barrage that gave him no time to interject even a 'fuck you'.

J-Seriously?

J-You won't believe me!

J-I'm in Urbino, too.

J-So, coffee?

J-Maybe this is the universe's way to make sure our first coffee together is amazing.

J-Can you suggest a place?

Sherlock glared at his phone. He had suggestions alright. S– What about we go to the police station instead? I'm quite sure this qualifies as stalking.

J-Ouch. You can just say no, you know. In my defence, I doubt stalkers usually have people's plans drop into their laps out of the blue. It wasn't technically an invitation, but…well, I'm not entirely sure what it was.

Mum would have done as much…if she'd known that he met a John Watson. But she couldn't have, so the only option was… S- I'm going to kill my brother.

J-So if you press charges for my stalking, and then commit a murder…will we have prison coffee? I doubt it's very good, Italy or not.

Sherlock wanted to still be furious. But it was hard to do when you were snickering. S– They'd have to catch me first.

J-True. But you just confessed to premeditating the murder, so…does life on the run sound really that appealing?

S-Some sort of tropical paradise without extradition? He'd just sent the text when he shuddered rereading it. It was his turn not to give John time to reply.

S-Okay, you have a point.

S-I'm melting here as it is. I wouldn't survive.

S-My brother better be grateful to you.

John texted back J–Oh, I'm sure Mycroft will.

Sherlock was startled by the word. Mitch never, ever willingly used his given name. This looked less like a prank and more like a trap. If his brother agreed that he should avoid one John Watson, why had he told the man their plans? And if he thought that his brother was a drama queen who needed to face reality, why had he brought Sherlock along? What if Mycroft wanted to meet John himself, and had used Sherlock to attract him here? This required further investigation. And since Mycroft would certainly not come clean if he just asked, the only way to gain the necessary evidence was… S-Bar Il Cortegiano. He'd noticed it along the way—more like noticed the archaic spelling, actually.

J-Brilliant! Can I ask why the change of heart? The doctor sent.

Once again, Sherlock found himself blushing at the adjective. Which was completely unfair. The man shouldn't have such an effect on him without even being present! S- Wouldn't you prefer the answer in person?

J- Be there before you know it!

Since the bar was on the other side of the square, though just out of sight, Sherlock loitered at the palace's entrance, leaning on a corner and ignoring the few tourists that came in. Not just because it felt at least ten degrees cooler than outside. The chance to observe anyone without their knowledge was always more fruitful, and there was a fifty percent…no, more like sixty-six percent chance that he'd be able to examine John covertly. If his brother was interested in John enough to lead him on, obviously Mycroft knew something. Something Sherlock had missed; that was unprecedented.

In short order his new acquaintance was walking through the square. Despite his unblinking stare, the journalist didn't see anything that his last round of deductions hadn't told him. Sure, this time the former soldier oozed anticipation rather than embarrassment, but what would make his whimsical artist brother want him?

John turned around, catching his gaze, but Sherlock refused to lower his own. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Judging from the grin that spread on the other man's face, his surprise was without a hint of suspicion…Good thing for the country that the man wasn't in MI6.

"Don't tell me you got lost," John quipped, shaking his hand…perhaps a little longer than strictly necessary.
Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to complain, although he did roll his eyes. "Sitting around and waiting isn't my idea of fun." True, and at the same time dull enough to be immediately discounted, if the man was in cahoots with Mycroft somehow.

The blond chuckled. "I should have guessed that. So, shall we?" He glanced at the phone he held loosely—as if his companion wouldn't deduce that an app gave him directions— and pointed in front of him.

Sherlock nodded, and strode through the square without waiting for him. Thank God it was only a few steps, because otherwise the heat would have got to him, and slowing down would have been so awkward.

John kept pace. As always. "I'm starting to sense a pattern," he said, once the door closed behind the two of them. "Is it me you want to avoid or are you not used to companions under 6 feet? I thought that you agreed to this meeting."

"Both." Sherlock shrugged. Technically, he wasn't used to having associates at all—his family didn't count, as they were forced to be at his side—but why spell it out?

The barista–a young man whose green eyes twinkled above the apron—smiled at them, asking what they would like.

The current stressful situation called for some serious sweetening, so the journalist ordered a Marocchino: coffee, cream and cocoa powder. In short order, both of them received their cups and carried them to a table. They eyed each other's choices with surprise. John's black coffee could be a consequence of not knowing all the options, or their Italian names. But there was no justification, in Sherlock's eyes, for avoiding any and all sweeteners; John couldn't very well claim that he didn't recognise a sugar packet. What kind of twisted man honestly enjoyed bitterness?

"Are you seriously going to drink it likethat?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

The other's only answer was to take a sip, and lick his lips afterwards for good measure.

"I thought you wanted to make a better impression," Sherlock joked.

"Oh, I will." There was total confidence in John's voice. "Sweetie."

The journalist wanted to be angry. But his lips still quirked into a lopsided grin at the pun. "You'll have to do better than this."

"I look forward to that," the other retorted, eyes crinkling with laugh lines. "Speaking of looking, thank you for being in that hall. I was worried I had a case of paranoia, you know, feeling observed in a strange city. I was berating myself at the same time I checked, but there you were."

"If there's a madman at this table, it isn't you." Sherlock mechanically stirred his drink.

John chuckled. "I know you're a genius, but are you really going to play the 'genius and madness' cliché with me? What's the worst you could do?"

"It doesn't matter. You're not going to be around long enough to be bothered." He shrugged.

"Ouch! I thought that you were giving me a chance here." The doctor winced dramatically.

"You won't want one. Not when you spend more time with me. Hence why I agreed to this meeting. I need answers."

"I'll prove you wrong, but sure. Shoot." John's fingers drummed a short staccato on the table.

"How do you know Mycroft?" Sherlock stared at him in a way that most people, in his experience, found intimidating.

Judging by the soft smile on John's lips, he found it amusing. "I don't. Honest to God, I was surprised by the text myself." He took another sip of his coffee.

At least the most obvious of his deductions was confirmed. "If you haven't met, why would he reach out to you?" There were no obvious tells of lying, but why would Mycroft lure someone he didn't know?

"It's your brother. You tell me." John replied. "I assume Mycroft is his actual name, too?"

"Yes, but again – he goes by Mitch. He hates his name. So why would he use it with you?" Sherlock took a spoonful of chocolatey cream.

"Because it was easier than writing 'hello, I'm Sherlock's brother, he gave me this number and this is what you need to know'? I mean, how many Mycrofts do you think are out there?" John quipped.

"If God was merciful, there would be none."

"Sure, he's meddlesome, but – can he be that bad? What did he do, start a war?" John smiled.

"Oh, no. You're thinking of politics, really? We aren't in a book, you know. But if dad had talked mum out of Mycroft, there wouldn't be a Sherlock, either." The journalist crossed his arms.

"Ok, I see your point. But you have to admit that it fits you, genius."

Sherlock blushed. "I made it fit. The most annoying parts of me."

"You keep putting yourself down. Could you stop for five minutes, maybe? At least while you drink your coffee?"

"Why? So you can indulge in some misdirection? Do you know what my brother wants from you?"

"Let's pretend we actually are accomplices – do you think interrogation will work? On a former soldier? Give me a chance to ramble, and who knows what you might discover…"

Sherlock flashed him a glare—nobody lectured him on how to deduce—but then took his cup and started drinking.

It wasn't even surprising that John decided he needed time to reflect right then. He seemed to have in common with his brother the habit of being as frustrating as possible. Another pointed look made him speak.

"About your brother—I honestly have never seen him, or talked to him, and I literally had only one text from him and didn't even answer. So he has no idea that I'm even here, and frankly, I'm not even interested in why he sent it. I'm just happy, because you're the most amazing man I've ever met. And yes, a bit grateful to him, because we wouldn't both be here otherwise. If you can suggest a gift he'd appreciate, it'd be lovely."

Sherlock was glad for his drink, as the scathing answer he almost offered would have stopped any stream of consciousness, and he still didn't have enough clues.

His face wasn't as controlled as he thought it was, though, because John continued, "Nope, huh? Never mind. He's not why I'm here. And the whole Holmes & Watson thing isn't why, either. Yes, it's funny that our names match, but I would have followed whatever our names had been. And don't think I'm not aware of what a madcap decision coming here was. Probably I'd follow you even if we met in four decades, and wouldn't that be ridiculous? I just want to know you better. A lot better. And for all the flaws you claim to have, all I've seen is intelligence and frankness. And I like that."

Sherlock had finally drained his cup…and now sported a shadow of cream-and-chocolate moustache. If he hadn't realised, the focus of John's now hungry gaze on his mouth would have been hint enough. The blond almost reached out, but before his companion could touch him, Sherlock was dabbing at it. "All I heard is that you make judgements before having all the facts. Too common to be disappointing, but still—go back home. Why would you want to stick around until your opinion of me changes for the worst?" he said then.

"To prove you wrong? I bet it doesn't happen often. Besides, I did book a room. I won't pester you, promise, not if you don't want me to. But a holiday before going back might not be a bad idea anyway," John said. "See you around, Sherlock Holmes."

"I thought you would leave me alone!" he snapped.

"Oh, I will. But have you seen this town?"

Failure. Complete, frustrating failure. Sherlock glared at the other man, who cheerfully waved at him after settling their tab. The journalist didn't feel any closer to understanding anyone's reasons than he was this morning. He would need to get the truth out of his brother, and spend a whole week here without melting. All while he avoided John Watson, despite the small size of the damn town. It was one thing to escape someone in London. In a medieval, fortified hilltop? It would require only a bit of stubbornness to track down anyone…especially anyone who didn't have the chance to hole themselves (up) in a private home. He hated Mycroft. What was his brother thinking?

He could leave, of course. Get on the first bus, and then a plane, and leave the man behind. Mycroft didn't actually need him for his business. In fact, even his brother didn't strictly need to be present at all. But why would he disregard a chance to visit and see so many more artworks than the one he was planning to borrow?

If Sherlock left, though, he would eventually have to explain his reasons to their parents. There was no doubt that Mycroft would tell on him if he didn't get his way...whatever his way was. The last thing he needed was a concerned mum asking why he ran away. Once their mother was aware of the situation, the only way for him to be rid of John Watson would be to straight-out murder him and ensure the body was never found, which the journalist would rather avoid. As much as they had to dodge each other, for everyone's sanity, John hadn't done anything to deserve death. Yet. In fact, if he'd been called something—anything—else, Sherlock would have accepted his invitation without a beat. Not many people (fine, let's be honest, nobody to date) praised him. Not after being the object of his deductions.

As heart-warming as that was, it was just one more detail that made him wary. John Watson, finding Sherlock Holmes and appreciating his brasher side? It just wasn't true. A prank. It had to be a prank. But his brother's? The universe's? John's nonchalant attitude towards their matching names only made the situation more suspicious.

He'd been the butt of too many jokes to miss one when he saw it, though even the cruellest of his classmates would at least try for some plausibility in their traps. This one was so blatantly fake that it could almost be true. Still, it was best to get away from the situation before the other shoe dropped. After all, did it matter whether that meant 'John Watson' confessing that his name was George Smith, or John Watson realising that Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, intolerable?

His brother better be done with his parlay, for the morning at least, because Sherlock needed answers, and he needed them now.

Back to the National Gallery it was. Walking into the inner courtyard, he was shocked to find the ticket office at the opposite end of the wing from the main staircase marked as the entrance to the actual museum. No one and nothing was stopping him from just going up. Did they expect an honour system to work? It went against Italians' fame as dogged rule-breakers. Or perhaps, it was the reason the director, according to his brother, loudly complained about lack of funds. But if it was so, no one would be that idiotic…or was he?

No one was, because upstairs a portly man behind a counter loudly asked for his ticket. Sherlock smirked and picked up his pace. There was no way that he'd be caught—and in fact, the man didn't even make as if to follow. His smugness was short-lived, though, as a uniformed man (a private guard, not a policeman, at a glance) interrupted his analysis of the layout, in order to figure out the probable quickest way to the director's office. This had just turned fun.

It had been a long time since he'd played tag; now was his chance. The guard was unarmed, after all—no one would risk a bullet damaging priceless art, or even centuries old walls. Sherlock was surprised to see his pursuer sit down after chasing him through two rooms, but then he was almost intercepted by a different guard. Even though all of them made a token attempt to catch him, they didn't seem overly concerned. He didn't get close enough to any of the art pieces to damage them (or even slow down enough to see them) and their priorities were driven deep.

Oddly, once he abandoned the expected route to slip into the area reserved to offices, in order to track down his frustrating sibling, the chase ended. The guards didn't seem to be concerned about anything happening beyond their area of competence. Either there were more men beyond these doors, or they didn't care much for their superiors' privacy.

Finally slowing down, Sherlock allowed himself to observe the place. Typical of his brother, finding a museum that once was a Duke's palace. Sherlock wandered through the halls, with their half-faded frescoes and painstakingly engraved doors, and wondered if Mycroft was planning to eventually take over the director's job. It would definitely be in his style…and having him a few hundred miles away might actually make him more tolerable.

Before he could pounce on his maddening sibling, Mycroft himself stumbled into him, turning a corner. "Would it kill you to not embarrass me for once?" he hissed, pushing him backwards.

It was obvious why, once what Sherlock assumed was the director walked after his brother. He was a wiry man of about sixty-five, with an undoubtedly cultivated (possibly even with a minor plastic surgery) likeness to Julius Caesar. Oh joy. The journalist might have just found someone more full of himself than his sibling—and with Mycroft's chosen alias, Mitchell, meaning "who is like God", that was a feat.

"Who are you?" the man said, managing to give the impression of looking down on him, despite being a good four inches shorter. He wouldn't be surprised if the guards thought the director was scary enough on his own not to need backup.

"No need to call security, I assure you, prof. Cecchini. This is my brother, who should really know better than to cause a ruckus at his age," Mycroft interjected, wringing his hands.

"I asked him, Mr. Holmes," the director snapped.

Mycroft paled, but Sherlock grinned at him, offering his hand. "Sherlock Holmes." As expected, that made the other man frown. "And no, mine is not a fake name." Finally, the man shook it. "Since we'll be here for a whole week, I thought that I could steal my brother for a while, no matter how many details you need to sort through. It's an important matter."

Cecchini waved them off. "Take your brother away, Mr. Holmes. And I expect you to resolve any family matters like reasonable people, from now on."

Mycroft nodded sharply, and he would have dragged his brother out, if Sherlock hadn't been quick to retrace his steps, with a muttered, "Bye."

Some tourists looked surprised as the duo—the twenty-something arrogant seeming man and the slightly older one with a chagrined appearance—locked the door they came from behind them. A mother of three (no, one was her nephew, really he should be more focused) loudly protested about not being allowed to see as much as anyone else.

Mycroft claimed they were employees, which Sherlock didn't deny only because the lady forced him to prove it. His sibling offered her family a guided tour of the paintings, while the kids (ranging from five to ten years old, at an estimate) continued to play tag in the room. Which was a better use of their time than listening to his brother.

Leaving the room, Mycroft plastered a rueful smile on his face, bowing his head to each security officer they passed and stealing longing glances at the paintings they strode by. Sherlock smirked at the guards, but his attitude didn't garner any reaction. The security details were here for the art, and didn't waste energy caring about anyone who didn't endanger it. His brother offered a nod and an apologetic shrug to the ticket checker too, whose mouth hung open at the transgressor's uncuffed return.

Down the stairs, Mycroft finally rushed the few steps to catch up to his brother…and grasped his elbow. "Someone better be dead in the family…or someone will be very soon," he hissed.

Sherlock laughed at him. "You'd never dare. At worst, you'd sketch me headless. Not exactly the same thing. Besides, you are the one who needs to apologise, not me."

"I what?" his brother roared, before ducking his head and looking around. He dragged the journalist outside, and led him literally around the corner...to point at an open door, tagged—in Italian—"Directions. Please announce yourself."

The younger one shrugged. "It's too hot. You can't expect me to wander around." He half expected his brother to scream, but Mycroft's keen awareness of what was appropriate won over his penchant for theatrics. With a silent glare, his brother led him the few steps to the cathedral. Not the church that was right in front of them, if he needed a holy place. Unsurprisingly, aesthetics won.

Sherlock barely contained a snort. Of course Mycroft wouldn't make a scene here, where someone could overhear and report it to the director. In fact, the setting he chose for their discussion meant that he wanted to avoid a scene at all, if possible. Small town, people would talk. His reputation had to be as immaculate as possible. Well, he should have considered that before plotting.

They sat in the rearmost pew, the shadows—after coming from the blazing sunshine—doing nothing to hide both men's scowls. "So?" Mycroft ground out.

"Do not pretend you don't know what this is about, brother mine," the younger one snapped, his voice echoing much more loudly than he intended. He bit his lips. Mycroft trying to force him into behaving was a brotherly tradition.

"Oooh, you're quoting the man himself, this is serious. No, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. What couldn't wait an hour or two?" the older man replied. Of course, his voice was perfectly modulated to allow them privacy. Damn.

"I would have been more than happy to leave you alone for the whole duration of our stay and then some. Pity that John Watson doesn't agree. What. Are. You. Trying. To. Do." Sherlock glared at him.

All the tension left Mycroft's spine, and he cracked an amused smile. "Trying? Wrong word, baby brother. I'm not trying." He'd never know how close he came to being strangled, holy ground or not.

"I thought that we had an agreement that John Watson and I should be as far away from each other as possible. Just because I didn't flee to Australia, it didn't mean that you're authorized to invite him along." Sherlock kicked the pew in front of him, ignoring his brother's chastising look.

"We agreed that you shouldn't be unsupervised. More brawls would only lead to you eventually having a criminal record, and I'd like to avoid that. I do care for you, you know," Mycroft said.

"And it didn't occur to you that our being apart would be the simplest way to avoid brawls?" he hissed.

"How many people have you met that don't mind your deductions? Running away—well, this is one of the rare times you're idiotic, Locket. I'm not saying kiss him, or live with him, or anything that absurd. But name-induced panic is below you," his sibling huffed.

Sherlock snorted. Again, it sounded loud in the church, and a middle-aged tourist, busy snapping photos, turned to glare at them. The journalist refused to even pretend to be apologetic. He hadn't chosen this venue. "If you have the gall to say that…then I suppose you won't mind me using your own given name from now on. Though people might wonder why you've been lying to them all this time."

"It's not the same at all. I've stopped mum and her obsessions from controlling me, and the name change was part of that. You—well, I've never understood why you would do what you did, but you need to stop." Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Mycroft continued before he could so much as breathe, "I'll support you, Locket, to the best of my abilities. But I expect you to let me do my job without interference."

Sherlock's glare said what he thought of Mycroft's hypocrisy. Rather than arguing more, he rose and left without a word.