A.N. I know, I know, 'soon' this time... but I'm trying to go back to some sort of regular track. Even if it'll probably take me another week or two. I'm a mess, I know.

Chapter Six: Not A Coward Anymore

Sherlock had obviously made a horrible mistake while planning his flight. He hadn't picked Urbino because he loved the town—or even Italy. The only important thing had been bolting, like a terrified deer…and like in the fairy tale, he trapped himself, instead. This would be his lesson not to trust Mycroft. True, they didn't always see eye to eye. But he thought that on the Doyle Issue—the bane of both their lives—there would only be support between them, despite the fact that they decided to tackle it differently. Why bother planning an international trip when his brother had already done so?

…Because he was now feeling like an idiot. Spending the whole week in his room was out of the question. Not just because of the heat, but because he'd go spare cooped up all the time. He couldn't exactly experiment in his room, there was nothing to write about and the telly was even more rubbish than he'd expected. Then again, wasn't it always in summer time? He could amuse himself with his phone, but the last thing he wanted was to have an eventual heat source in his hands, no matter how small. If he had to go out and buy a book—he really should have brought some, but he didn't think at all about entertainment while packing—he might as well look for a non-stifling environment to read in.

As satisfying as it proved to be, harassing Mycroft could only pass so much time, before he got in more trouble than his brother was worth. Which meant that he would have to go out…and possibly meet John again.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have assured anyone that he could outstubborn a mule, and that he feared no interaction in the world. When one was a perfectly logical being, a thinking machine, and others were…well, people, the winning side was already picked. And there was always a winning side, because there was always a fight. Deductions elicited anger. At-home chemistry caused disgust. His whole existence, outside of a strictly professional setting (and sometimes even during it) brought on yells, glares, arguments. And that was as it should be. Sherlock Holmes the detective wilfully ignored the minimum requirements of peaceful coexistence. He was an arrogant, melodramatic, neglectful of others' comfort and even health, often rude prick. Except the few times he wasn't, of course, but nobody needed a reminder of the detective's qualities.

John Watson defied his self-image with a grin and impromptu praise…and it was terrifying. Because if the man wasn't lying, then he'd misunderstood the source of all the hatred he'd welcomed. There was no evidence that his inspiration was despicable rather than exemplary. If Sherlock's imitation of his namesake wasn't to blame, he couldn't even decry his mum and her taste in names for what he'd been through. Someone else would have accused everyone who'd ever been cruel to him, probably. But in his mind, if the hatred he elicited wasn't because of "Sherlock"—it was him. Just him. Because John got the whole Sherlock experience…and loved it.

Someone was wrong—and it couldn't be him. He was going to prove it was John. What a pity the man would hate him for it. That would've happened anyway, though. He only had to demonstrate that his persona was the one that any sane person would mock and despise. Then, John would leave himself, unwilling to even share a nation with him.

He hadn't wanted to see that happen. Stupid. He'd acted in fear—fear of losing what shouldn't have existed in the first place—and look at the mess he got himself into. This stopped now. He didn't have feelings. Had refused to have feelings for so long. So why had he been indulging such…such animal instincts? Maybe Mycroft had been right, if for the wrong reason, in forcing him to confront his bogeyman. A cheerful, supportive bogeyman. Only him…then again, he'd never pretended to be normal.

Taking a decision was one thing. Going through with it, he discovered, was quite another. Sherlock stared at his phone, striding up and down his stifling room…until his distraction made him walk into the corner of the dresser. Surprisingly sharp, for old furniture. The journalist swore loudly, hopping for a few seconds, and reflexively clutching his phone to avoid dropping it. So hard, in fact, that it was odd he didn't crack the screen.

If the universe was kicking him in the shins—literally—it was a sign to stop dawdling…or at least to stay still. Not that Sherlock believed in signs or supernatural nonsense of any kind, but he did believe in data to be interpreted. And this was definitely cold, hard fact.

Sherlock sat on his bed, sighed and called, unsure if he hoped to receive an answer or not.

Two rings, and John answered. He could feel the man's grin even through the phone. "Sherlock! It's brilliant to hear from you."

The journalist smiled back reflexively. Damn mirror neurons. How was he going to earn this man's hatred? And why did he want to, in the first place? All the reasoning of seconds ago had suddenly vanished. He shook his head, trying to get John Watson away from him, too. Nerves clogged his throat.

"Sherlock? Are you there? Sherlock?" The words became louder and louder. "Sherlock! You might have dialled by mistake."

A way out. Of course, this was the truth. It had been a dreadful faux pas. He could just ignore his phone until John was bored and hung up. Maybe the disappointment would be just enough to make John see what he was. But no. Sherlock Holmes was hateful, true, but no coward. Fine, no complete coward. "I'm here, There must have been some trouble with the connection."

"Mobile phones are annoying like that. But you know, if I was the type to believe in such a thing, I would think you're psychic."

Sherlock snorted. "Thank God that sentence was a third conditional type, because I am not equipped to deal with insane people. Not in a medical sense, at least."

"Can I surmise that you want to deal with me, then?" John asked.

"To be honest? Not especially. But I refuse to overthink things in order to be able to avoid you, either. If you want to talk, talk. If you want to see me, I don't even mind that. And if you know a way not to go mental with boredom, please share."

"This is why I said you're psychic. I just had an unexpected offer. What about a private tour of a Renaissance palace and art that people don't usually get to see? With a special guide, too."

Sherlock had never heard someone talk to him in a voice you could describe as fond. It had to be fake. "Where's the catch?" There always was one.

"You'll have to use a fake name. Now, before you think I'm being an asshole, I'll have to do the same. And while I could get away with keeping John, I think, I won't, because you're not going to be able to be Sherlock. Apparently, the director of the…Galley Nationale, and I don't think I'm saying that right, wouldn't take kindly to what would sound like a made up identity. I promise that I will go along with whatever you pick. Go wild!"

The journalist snickered. "As I see it, we have a problem."

"Oh, do we?" the doctor teased.

"If the director is opposed to false identities, wouldn't he object to my introducing myself with a different name every time we meet?" Sherlock lay back.

"Wait, did you meet the director already? So, I'm useless, am I?"

"Not at all. I didn't exactly get a tour, more like a boot to my arse, so I'd be delighted to bother him some more." And bother Mycroft, especially. He could just imagine his brother's face when he got 'behind the scenes'—again. "We might have to change your name, though. As a pair, we are rather ridiculous. Still willing to let me pick?"

"Sure." The journalist could swear he'd felt the other's shrug.

"Then, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilbur… Bell." Sherlock stretched his arm, expecting the reaction to be ear-splitting screaming. Instead, from the phone came a boisterous…laugh?

"You don't pull your punches, do you? Fine. I'll text my new friend, and let you know when Sherlock Holmes and Wilbur Bell will have their private tour. In the meantime, is there anything you'd like? Can I suggest a stroll? An ice cream? Anything?"

"Don't push too far, Wilbur." Again, his only reply was a hearty giggle, before John said goodbye.