A.N. Sorry, sorry, I know I'm so late...I got distracted by other writing over the weekend. My bad. Please don't hate me. I don't forget my head only because it's attached to my neck, I swear.
Chapter Five: New Perspectives
John sighed. He had hoped so much that the message meant that he was wanted, but of course that was demanding too much. The sheer fact that Sherlock hadn't been the one texting him should have been all the hint he needed; the man was certainly not afraid to say what he thought. Coming here had been a stupid whim. Still, he refused to leave. They might never be friends—much less anything else—but it wasn't a good reason to let one person determine what he did.
There was no reason not to have fun in the meantime. He looked through his phone, trying to remember who everyone among his new contacts was. He might as well take some of them up on their offers. Not Viola, definitely. Now, who should he text? Chiara had looked on the brink of an exam-related panic attack, so no. Claudio? No, he tried to flirt and John wasn't yet ready to give up on Sherlock. Gloria? She was the last one to give him her number, and seemed to do it mostly because everyone else was doing the same. He'd rather not bother her. Matteo? John found himself laughing again to a joke the boy told him.
A woman asks the chemist for arsenic, and the chemist asks why she needs it. "To kill my husband," she admits.
The chemist refuses to give it to her, but then she takes a paper out of her bag. "Oh sorry Ma'am, you should have said that you had a prescription!"
He typed quickly.-So, how is the revision going? John
-Let's not talk about that, will you? Organic Chemistry II is tomorrow. Matteo.
-Good luck! I remember that. Ugly beast. J.
-You remember? You wouldn't go take my exam for me, would you? M.
-I doubt that seven years (I'm taking a guess here, might be wildly off) worth of difference would go unnoticed. J
-Pity. The test is way too early in the morning, so tomorrow I'll be done by 11 at the latest...one way or another. Want to meet after? M.
-Sure. Text me. J. Oh well. With an idle few hours ahead of him, he'd have to explore the place on his own.
The small streets sloped at a sharp inclination, flanked by ancient-looking houses. As much as John recognised a good defensive move when he saw one, he wondered why Sherlock would choose such a place instead of a more accessible one, especially if he didn't expect John to follow. A sudden holiday might have brought someone else to a more mainstream place. Florence, maybe. Or Rome. But Sherlock preferred a tiny town where you practiced climbing every time you left your room. John wanted to know why. He wanted to solve all the mysteries trapped in his silver eyes. It was fair, after all—Sherlock knew everything about him on sight.
Thank God that the army had reinforced his already decent sense of direction, otherwise he would be hopelessly lost. All the alleys—and somehow, every street was an alley in this place—looked similar, as soon as you left the only two squares that apparently existed here. And if you left the straight ones (small mercies) for the cross streets, it could be a maze. At least, he discovered a cinema, and a number of restaurants and food places of all kinds, from proper restaurants to not-really-pizzerias specialising in a local flatbread. Called crescia, it proved to be surprisingly delicious, especially when you could make up your own filling and have it toasted on the spot. At least he wouldn't starve or get bored with his food any day soon.
Most of the people walking around seemed to be college kids, and John was hit with nostalgia for that time of his life. Before the army. Before being shot. Before he felt lost and latched on the first human being that made him look forward to the next day in weeks. He hoped that none of them would ever have to feel so adrift.
Oh well. Brooding wasn't going to help any. Going back to student life for a week might be fun. If he managed to persuade Sherlock that he was worth speaking to, interfering brother aside, so much the better.
Part of him thought that he was being an idiot, still hoping to get through to Sherlock while leaving further meetings to chance. His major would have been very disappointed in him. No plans was an awful plan, and a sign of sloppiness. Then again, he'd given Sherlock his word. With how paranoid and how clever the man was already, lying would have sealed the last nail in the coffin of their acquaintance, and rightly so.
If his dreams that night were a bizarre mix of sensual and tempestuous, a nameless, faceless body joining him in an outside escapade, while the rumble of thunder sounded like someone he recognised…nobody was going to know. Not even Sherlock Holmes could read dreams. It still beat the nights when he returned to the battleground. A good summer shower wouldn't have been out of place. Maybe that was what he was missing. Yep, that.
It was 9:30 when Matteo texted him that he'd finished his exam. -Come along. I'll show you my favourite place. M
They agreed to meet in the square where he met Sherlock, since John had found a room nearby.
"Have you? Damn, you have more money than I expected. Staying next to the palace and all that," Matteo quipped, green eyes glinting with a new respect.
"Nope," John replied, popping the p. "I was just lucky to find an affordable place. Actually, I've been having quite a bit of luck lately. I'm half afraid of when destiny will present the bill." He chuckled.
"Well, let's start with a bit of expiation then. My favourite place is the highest spot, so we have a good deal of climbing ahead."
Despite that, their walk started by going down. Once they arrived to the other square, though, Matteo gestured dramatically at the climb in front of them
John eyed curiously a couple of houses sporting both the European Union and Italian flags, but as soon as he opened his mouth to ask, Matteo said, "Save your breath."
He gave in. Even if he didn't need to, it was obvious that the other didn't have any to spare for conversation. In fact, when they arrived at a clearing on top, Matteo stopped for a few seconds, panting. John looked around, eyes zeroing in on a monument a bit ahead, but his new friend said, "Ignore Raffaello. There's much better to come."
Matteo led him left, through a tiny, slightly meandering alley, flanked by houses painted in warm colours. "Here we are," the younger man finally said, proudly.
Centuries-old fortress walls cradled what had to have been its ward, given the squared, turreted stronghold in the middle. Not that much of it remained standing. Now, though, the place had been turned into a lovely park. Gravel paths littered with wooden benches sneaked around wide lawns. Pears, heavy with fruits, were growing along the paths, and some young olive trees and a mix of evergreens peppered the lawn. Some modern art fit strangely well against the ancient fortress, though John couldn't figure out what most of the metallic creations were supposed to represent. The only obvious one was a rusted, highly stylised representation of a cannon. Instinctively, John went to it and lightly patted one of its gigantic wheels.
"Leave that decrepit thing alone and look, John," Matteo quipped, a sweeping arm pointing at the vista.
They could see the town right under them, with its brown roofs and walls, the back of the cathedral's dome, and the palace John had glimpsed at his arrival, even if sideways, one of the slender towers barely visible. But the place hadn't been picked for the borough's view. Whoever had created this had a keen eye for strategy.
The fortress dominated the surrounding area, and they could observe the road twisting among the hills, with shadowy mountains as a far backdrop. Light green and golden fields spread for miles, with darker green spots at the opposite far ends. A cluster of cypresses stood behind a church on the left, while a bigger woody area covered the right side. After the alleys of the town, the majestic expanse felt almost heady. …And of course, John's brain processed it all by saying, "Fuck."
Matteo, grinning at his side, as if he personally owned all this, frowned. "Don't you…?"
He never finished that sentence, because John rushed to explain, "I do, of course. It's just—fucking gorgeous, you know? Sorry, I have a bit of a mouth on me, but. Well. I didn't expect that. History, yeah. Art, yes, that's what you always hear from people prattling about Italy. Though I suppose there's a reason if art is such a staple, huh?" He nodded towards the clutter of young men and women, laying on the grass, most busy sketching something or another. A few had abandoned their drawings on the grass and were munching on pears that they'd just picked.
"Well, the Art Academy is nearby. You can't blame them. I actually think I read this landscape is in the background of the Monna Lisa." Matteo walked towards one of the groups, composed of two women and a man, all around twenty, if John was any judge. "Ciao, Livia!"
A redhead sat upright, smiling at him. "So? Did you get the cum laude, or what?" she asked – or at least John assumed she did, since he did recognise the word laude at least.
Matteo laughed, his voice a tad higher than before. If he was asked to subtitle him, according to his face, John would have said that he was brushing aside her excessive expectations… of himself and his professor's efficiency.
Thankfully, his guesswork ended there, because Matteo switched to English. "Anyway, I was talking with John, and since art came up, I thought I'd ask the most reputable source we have here."
It was Livia's turn to giggle. "Don't give him ideas! I'm just an art student, you know. And Sergio's grades are actually better than mine." She nodded towards the boy sitting with her.
"Yeah, but I'm not the nephew of the director of the Galleria Nazionale. I bet you listen to much more droning on about art than I do…or that even either of us would like," Sergio quipped.
"Just a question – is this seriously the backdrop of Monna Lisa?" John asked.
"Oh, that—yes! Actually, one evening uncle invited both me and the lady scientist—a geo-something, sorry, I'm the worst at science—that discovered it. Fascinating! If you're interested in art, I'd be happy to give you a tour. And maybe we can talk uncle into letting us see some of the things he has to keep off the museum floor proper. Or just explore the castle. Just one tip: if you want more details about that, call her la Gioconda if you must, but don't let uncle hear you use the single n foreign version. In one of the Italian dialects, that'd mean C-word Lisa."
John choked a laugh. Oops... She waved away his embarrassment.
"That detail aside. I always think he's the luckiest, you know. Wouldn't you want to work into an actual Renaissance palace?"
"It might be a bit much for me. I do know someone who'd fit right in, though. Maybe you wouldn't mind including him in such a tour?" John replied.
"Oh, well. If he loves art, and doesn't mind me ranting about it, sure. But who is he?"
"I'll tell you if you all promise not to laugh," the doctor said.
The other girl, who'd kept drawing till then, ignoring the chatter around her, put aside her pencil to turn penetrating brown eyes on him. "Fun? Oh yes, we need it. Come on, I promise I won't laugh…now." The others nodded, too.
It had to be good enough. Honestly, he'd giggled about it in private himself. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Yeah, and I'm Irene Adler!" huffed the one who'd been eager for it.
"Are you?" John shrugged. "No, seriously, it's tragically not a nickname, or alias, or anything like that. At least from what I've been told."
"And you believe it?" Sergio snorted.
"Well, why would you fakethat?" he retorted, raising an eyebrow. "Besides, I'm a John Watson."
Livia sighed deeply. "That's it. If we're having this tour—and I'm all for sharing art with anyone who appreciates it—you're both using aliases. Uncle is a Very Serious Man. With capitals. He won't take it kindly if he thinks that you're…taking the piss, is that the word, yes? Not even for me."
"Duly noted," John said.
"Now, if you don't mind, we were trying to figure something out—and our prof. won't be happy if we can't," the other girl said, waving them away and frowning while she put her sketch under Livia's nose.
"Yeah, sure, sorry." John hurried off. He was usually good at reading mood! How had he not realised that they were bothering the group?
"So…is she awesome, or what?" Matteo asked, nearly walking into a tree.
"Which one?" he asked, after steering his new friend to safety.
Matteo turned to stare at him, almost scandalized. "Livia!"
John smiled. "Oh. Yeah, sure. Nothing objectionable at all about her."
"Nothingobjectionable?" the other echoed, glaring.
"Well, you don't want me to like her just as much as you do, don't you?" the doctor retorted.
"Don't even joke about it!"
"Apologies." John shrugged.
"It's okay," Matteo mumbled, but sped up, red-faced.
John mentally wished him luck in love. Then again, his beloved was not paranoid about him. Maybe John should wish himself luck.