Never Better

The visit was, to John's disappointment (and—the doctor feared—Sherlock's relief) not as private as they expected. They discovered it only when they met, in the square closest to the art Academy. Besides Livia, smiling and proud, auburn hair tied in a ponytail and round eyeglasses that were obviously a fashion statement, a gaggle of her friends had decided to tag along. "Hello, pleasure to meet you. What should I call you?" she asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," the journalist said. At her glare, he added, "It might surprise your relative less than you fear. Since you do have a point, though, John is going by Wilbur. Wilbur Bell."

One of Livia's friends, a short man of about twenty-five wearing a white shirt and shorts, snickered at this. Three glares turned on him. "I thought you were joking!" he protested.

"Alex," Livia said. Just one word, but her tone reminded John of someone dealing with an unruly pet. John couldn't swear it, but he bet that the following, hissing Italian sentence threatened to leave him here unless he behaved.

Alex's hands went up in surrender. "Sorry."

The girl John had already seen at the park was with her, and she sidled up uncomfortably close to Sherlock, murmuring… "Mmm…your name might be fake, but your taste is true. Pearl-grey is so your colour."

"Down, girl. You won't have the future in fashion that you aspire to, if you can't even figure out when people need space to breathe," Sherlock snapped, taking a step back.

She flushed in anger, turning to her friend. "Livia!"

"Fiamma…No. Drama. Today. You want to come and see, you'll let people alone. Or you can go."

"But he," Fiamma screeched. At least John thought she did, if her gesticulating matched the words.

"He has a point, you know," John said, closing his hand in an attempt to stop himself from reaching for Sherlock's. The man had just spoken about wanting space, for God's sake. At her glare, he added, "Even if your aesthetic judgment is right."

"Besides, you know my uncle," Livia huffed. "He's set aside a time for us, and won't take it kindly if he has to wait." In English, as a warning to her new acquaintances as well. "So, anyway, John—well, Wilbur—you already met Sergio and Matteo, and the sensible ones who aren't putting up a fuss are Rachele, Andrea and Bea."

"Andrea's the boy," Sherlock breathed in his ear, having apparently snuck behind him while he was looking at the others. John had to stop himself from shivering visibly. He had no idea how Sherlock deduced that, and he didn't care.

"Troops, march!" Livia said, taking the lead and walking towards the museum. Everyone gave up their squabbles and followed, giggling at her cocky attitude. Only John, at the very back of the group, allowed himself to roll his eyes. Then again, nobody here knew his past. Nobody but Sherlock, that was. The brief glance of solidarity from him made the former soldier shrug. People being silly didn't bother him at all. He would have to give up some of his best friends, if it did.

He kept quiet, simply enjoying the company of the friend (and future darling, if he had his way) at his side. At the museum, they bought their tickets (to the Galleria Nazionale, Sherlock said, with perfect accent and a teasing look John's way). First, they nipped downstairs, for a quick visit to the basement—ancient stables, dyeing area, and other such places. Despite their acquaintances' effusive commentary, they walked right past a room, sporting a bright red 'Danger' sign…or would have, had Sherlock not ducked right in. His loud disappointment made John smile, when it turned out to contain nothing more than a water tank, a few coins littering its bottom.

"Anyone who manages to throw themselves in has gone to so much effort that they probably did it out of sheer spite for the misapplied warning," the journalist huffed, glaring at the plastic reinforcing and heightening its walls as if it personally offended him.

Bea laughed. "You're not wrong, but come back, please." Grudgingly, the other did.

Once back on the ground floor, John couldn't bite back the laugh when the ceiling of the now-empty library of the Duke was brilliantly decorated…with a sun embracing an emblem and, apparently, spreading golden sperm everywhere. "Not exactly subtle back then, were they?"

Andrea replied, "Not subtle at all, no, this is obviously a take on Pentecost, only it's the Duke's spirit—"

"So they called it spirit back then," the doctor quipped, suspecting he was interrupting a long-winded explanation. Did none of them have eyes?

Livia put a conciliatory hand on her friend's arm, "Let's go on. There isn't anything else to see, and, as you said, the symbolism is quite clear."

Andrea huffed, but conceded. The next room, at least, wasn't empty; big white tiles decorated in bas-relief, mostly worn from age, lined the walls.

"And here we have the frieze of the Art of War, by Francesco di Giorgio Martini," Rachele said, sweeping her arm around, "Though it doesn't contain just weapons, much of it is actually a triumph of human intellect and engineering, and some of these machines were probably used in civil life instead of war. See, here there's a man with a plant in the background."

John wasn't certainly an expert of Renaissance engineering, and would nod along to any other tile, but this time he couldn't. "Believe me, this one very much fits the title."

"You think you understand these better than I do?" Rachele snapped, turning to face him fully. Her friends frowned, the guests suddenly unwelcome. John bit his lips. Maybe this whole trip had been a bad idea. He should have been quieter. He should have…

Before he could speak, Sherlock interjected. "Of course he does, don't be stupid."

"I was unaware that our guest was already an expert," Rachele grumbled, glaring impartially at both of them.

"Not on bas-relief, on war…Now, if the actual army captain will be so kind to explain," the journalist said, grinning at him.

To her credit, Rachele blushed violently, and the others spread out, all at once entranced by other tiles.

"Just saying, turn it upside down and it's a thing we still use to bring missiles up from underground storage. It ensures a smooth trip, and you really don't want to shake them up too much. Since a few of these tiles have firearms, I'm assuming that it would be used to bring down, say, a cannon if needed," he explained.

"Brilliant." It was Sherlock, though the students nodded, looking at him with something almost like awe now. This outing had been an amazing idea.

They trailed out and, finally, climbed the stairs to the 'proper' museum floor. John wasn't surprised to see the ticket checker fondly smile at Livia. But he was shocked when the man singled out with a glare not Alex, who was loudly complaining about having to buy a ticket in the first place, but Sherlock. What the heck? John was ready to come to the forefront of their group and give the idiot a piece of his mind, when a hand curling around his wrist stopped him. He turned towards his friend, and surprisingly flinty eyes warned him that it wasn't the moment for a scene. In fact, when it was their turn, Sherlock was extremely polite to the asshole…until the transaction ended. Passing him, he rumbled, "He'd benefit from worrying more about his own failings….and their own hazards. Unsafe sex—especially when remunerated—is dangerous."

Most people in their group—except Bea and Andrea, who walked hand in hand, leaning slightly forward, as if hungry for what awaited them—snickered loudly.

"How?" John asked instead, eyes sparkling.

Before Sherlock could answer, Livia turned around, hissing, "Enough!"

The doctor was almost surprised to see Sherlock obey, though not without throwing her a sharp look. Hopefully, that would bring some delightful deductions at her expense later. It was obvious that she was nervous about her uncle, and the prospect of having employees tattle on her friends. Still, no matter how much she tried to play the role, she wasn't (yet, at least) a teacher, andthey certainly weren't unruly middle schoolers.

His grudge melted when she started acting like a proper tour guide instead. It was hard to stay angry when everyone huddled together, and she whispered—in English, for their sakes—a brief highlight of the art in front of them, as well as the rooms they walked in. Especially since she peppered it with maybe not strictly historical but certainly funny, and sometimes even saucy, anecdotes, and some of the others excitedly interjected with more details. Almost every time, Sergio or Bea. And yes, the art was brilliant, too, of course, even if most of it was religious in nature. How many saints' and Virgin Mary portrayals could a country really need?

It turned out that saints weren't necessarily boring. Way too tiny for Sherlock's taste (though inevitable as it originally was part of a predella, the segment at the bottom of an altarpiece) they found the scene of a poisoning.

"So the Archdeacon Vindemius tried to poison the saint bishop Sabinus to take his position, but the bishop crossed the cup, and drank, and didn't have any ill effect…and at the same time, Vindemius, who wasn't even present, was struck dead, as if poisoned," Livia explained.

"Ridiculous. Vindemius thought he was so clever, just being the instigator and having someone else actually kill the bishop…but a good alibi won't do you any good if your hired killer can be paid to turn on you. People honestly thought this was a miracle? Did no one have a single active synapse?" the journalist snapped. John held in a snicker, mentally agreeing with him.

Livia shrugged. "It was a good story. And there are a lot of similar episodes in saints' lives."

"So if you were hanged or hallowed depended on your PR. Still, this is the most tolerable painting I've seen up till now," Sherlock replied. At the others' outrage, he added quickly, "But then again, I'm not an artist. I'm a scientific journalist."

Thankfully, that quieted them down. As for John, nobody asked, but his favourite piece—in the area open to the public—wasn't a painting at all, he discovered. As much as the Duke's small study was breath-taking, with its feats of marquetry (he kept learning things today, and seriously, it looked as if he could have grabbed that sword—among the many things pictured there), he liked the alcove best. The colours were surprisingly fresh, and the idea of having one's bed not in a vast stone cold room, but in a small wood enclosure, brilliantly decorated with fake marble and trees, so that lying in bed with your wife you'd feel as if in a lush garden… If you had way more money than you knew how to spend, this would have been a great idea.

Frankly, he didn't expect that it would take them over three hours to visit just the public parts of the place, but when others were trailing towards the exit, dragging their feet, Livia opened another door (one with engravings in perspective, and John, who'd never been good even at drawing, was especially awed) and grinned, announcing, "This. This is just for us. And we have a very special chaperon." She guided them to an imposing door and rapped on it. After a moment, it was opened by the director himself, looking more imperious than ever.

The academic looked down on them (never mind that Bea was actually taller than Sherlock... nothing so inconsequential would change an obvious decades-old attitude), and his eyes finally zeroed on the journalist. "I didn't expect you back so soon, Mr. Holmes."

"I thought I'd have a look with your authorization, for a change. Professional bias, I'm afraid. We freelance reporters are a nosy bunch." Sherlock shrugged.

"Your brother didn't inform me," the professor grumbled.

"Since I didn't inform him, I'm not surprised."

"Come on, uncle, can we come in? You promised!" Livia interjected, taking the professor's arm. Funny how she could go from aspiring teacher to professional guide to puppy. "Andrea hasn't slept all night, he was so excited! And never mind Sherlock, will you have me lose face with his friend?"

Her uncle sighed. "His friend?"

Well, that was John's cue. He came forward, announcing, "Doctor Bell. Wilbur Bell." He didn't even crack a grin. "I want to thank you for giving us this chance, Mister…"

"Professor Cecchini, Doctor." The man's glower might have intimidated someone more sensitive than John was, and in fact Rachele, who was the closest to him at the moment, physically recoiled a step. The man had undoubtedly been impressive in his teaching days….to people who had never known anything worse.

"Of course, I'm truly sorry, Professor. I hope you won't hold my slip of the tongue against us all. Can we step into your castle?" Gosh, John felt ridiculous, but it's not as if he didn't have his share of arrogant teachers. Heck, his Pathology prof. obviously considered the day wasted unless at least one pupil burst into tears. He'd learned long ago how to placate their kind.

As expected, Cecchini dropped his watchdog attitude, stepping back from the threshold to allow them in. The others (except Sherlock) threw themselves into mumbled apologies, until a stern look shut them all up.

This time, Livia just beamed proudly, without venturing to add a word. It was such a pity that her uncle took over the role of tour guide. John was as sensible as anyone to beauty, but the man's attitude showed he expected everyone to whip out a notebook and start jotting down dates and names. Even if they didn't all sound like tongue-twisters to him, the approach would have made all his passion fly out of the window - which got its own architect mentioned, too. Seriously? Unsurprisingly, all art students did just that.

Sherlock, instead, seemed to be mostly looking around at his own whim. As for John, he tried to imagine what would have happened in the rooms when they were more than a museum (or in some cases, a glorified warehouse—art warehouse, sure, but still) and people actually lived in here. Their guide's arrogance was fitting for a place where nobles lived, for sure. But according to what Livia was recounting before, a lot more plotting, dancing, feasting and even fucking would have enlivened the rooms, besides the art collecting and commissioning the professor was lecturing about. That'd be much more interesting than which architect planned which bloody brick during the bloody Renaissance.

Nobody dared to interrupt the man's soliloquy, of course. Not until his niece, in one of the rooms used as art storage, piped up, "Wait, where's the Annunciazione I like so much? It was here the last time I came to see you."

"Didn't I tell you? Nantes requested its loan. I couldn't refuse, as the director is a college friend of mine," the professor said, waving away her words.

Her disappointment, when she mumbled to Bea—who'd obviously heard much about this particular painting—was so deep as to be almost comical. Loaned things came back, didn't they? How long did an exhibit go on for? A few months?

Cecchini was more than ready to resume his lesson, when someone else interrupted him. Sherlock, this time. "You do have a lot of art on loan," he remarked airily.

"Why would you say that?" the professor snapped. Man, he didn't like when anyone stopped him from hearing his own voice, did he?

"Can no one else see the dust? It's obvious that in the room we passed there had been many paintings, altarpieces, and other assorted relics that aren't here anymore," the journalist replied, pointing at many odd dust patterns around them.

"Yes, well, I didn't expect that you'd be the one to protest this custom. That's what happens when, as a nation, you have an extravagant percentage of the world's art. Of course, some of these pieces are at the restorers', instead. Is your brother aware of your dislike of this practice?"

"My brother knows that we don't see eye to eye on almost any subject, and in fact that ruining his day is my main goal most times, not that he doesn't deserve it. This was mere curiosity, not critique, though. It makes one wonder how you do interpret art's message, when you can't hear what's plainly stated. Or is it that you're so used to assuming meanings that you do it with anything?" Sherlock retorted.

John had to keep himself from clapping by making a fist, and he did so only because with every word their guest turned redder and redder. As a doctor, he was afraid that Cecchini would have a stroke any moment, and he did swear to do no harm. He might have not exactly followed that rule in the army, but being a pompous arsehole didn't qualify people for death. In fact, better that he bite his own lips before an ear-splitting grin took over his face.

The youngsters in their group, instead (John turned 28 this year, but God, he felt ancient) barely dared to breathe, their eyes shifting between the two arguing like the public of a tennis match. All but Livia, whose gaze was helplessly wandering.

Poor girl! She obviously wanted to show off a bit, and look what happened. Maybe he should buy her something to apologise. Despite not knowing Sherlock for long, John doubted that he would care about the spot he put her in. Then again, none of this had been Sherlock's idea in the first place, and Cecchini had certainly overreacted. John should really have stuck to the conventional—dinner and a movie, maybe. At least, if his attempt to know the other better and hopefully date him went haywire, nobody else would have been caught in the crossfire.

The professor finally hissed, "Leave. Now."

His genius didn't need it repeated, but allowed himself one Parthian shot. "And this confirms that you do."

John turned on his heel, too, and wordlessly followed Sherlock through the maze of corridors.

The other didn't seem to notice him, until they had turned a corner. "I'm pretty sure that I was the only one he banned, you know. Everyone else is sticking around."

"You've forgotten a couple of things, though. One, it's you I was looking forward to spending time with, in the first place, not professor what's-his-name or even the secret wealth of art hidden to the world," John said. His companion's blush alighted the room more than the sun streaming from the windows. "Two, are you kidding? Even if I hadn't, there was way too much lecturing to admiring ratio. You were the best thing that happened today!"

Flint eyes melted into a cloudy haze. It was more fascinating than all the masterpieces John had seen today. "I thought that you would come to your senses, once you saw people reacting to me properly," Sherlock mumbled.

"I've just seen a prick being a prick….and I don't mean you. Did you really think that this would affect my opinion of you?" John huffed. Control lost, he sought the other's hand, squeezing it.

It was too soon, to judge by the way Sherlock wriggled away and took two steps forward. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't. Sorry, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I meant it as reassurance," John replied, raising his hands in surrender. "But Iam a bit confused. You could have said no again. You could have not called me or answered my texts, despite your brother's meddling, I would have got the hint. I might be an idiot, but I'm not that much of an idiot. Instead, you agree to see me…and then you seem angry that I don't loathe you. I've never seen someone so doggedly trying to be hated."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." And the man shrugged, as if that explained everything. Was he drunk already?

"Yeah, and? You're not a consulting detective at least. I'm a proper army doctor John Watson, but it doesn't mean that I loathe myself, or automatically expect others to. Jokes? Hell yeah, I'll joke about it too. Anger, or spite? Why would anyone do that? Were you traumatised by Agatha Christie fans?"

That got a snort of laughter out of Sherlock, at least. "You have an odd perception of mystery fans, army doctor John Watson. I say this having one as my mum, and she's completely barmy, mind you."

"Isn't anyone's mum?" John quipped. He loved walking back by Sherlock's side, and hoped he wouldn't clam up back in the museum.

Sherlock chuckled. Again. God, his laugh was adorable. "Well, yours might be!" the journalist said. He shrugged. "But honestly, I just modelled myself after canon. If mum wants a Sherlock Holmes, she can have him...And even she understood that it's a nightmare to actually have him around. I don't know why you are the only one blind to that. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Never better." John grinned. "Never better."