Chapter Fifteen: Surprises

John had no idea what was happening. He had a feeling that if he tried making sense of Sherlock's mood shifts, he would be the one with a permanent headache. Did the man want John, or at least his presence, or did Sherlock hate him as well as the world at large? The doctor, for his part, knew what he wanted—had known it since he locked his gaze on this gorgeous, amazing man. It might make him sound shallow. But why would any sane man renounce his desires when everything he discovered, even the most puzzling details, only fed his fascination?

He admitted (to himself, for now) that—despite the feeble medical excuse he had whipped up on the spot—he had remained in the room simply because Sherlock was more wonderful than all the art he'd seen in the museum. Abandoned on the bed, half-naked, and breathing softly, all John could do was not to tousle his hair. It was exactly as soft as it looked, like John had just discovered, much to his delight. Looking wasn't a sin, though, was it? It was just… looking. What he would do with the images now imprinted in his brain…well, that was for later. Seeing how Sherlock didn't yell at him, at least not yet, maybe the man understood that, too.

If now he could help, even without such precious rewards at stake (oh my God, he sounded ridiculous) the doctor was more than ready. For all his claims, Sherlock didn't sound sure, and John would rather not see all the care he'd put into relaxing him go to waste. Available to repeat the experience at any time as he was, he would prefer it never to happen again than have his favourite detective endure more pain.

"Want to annoy him back?" John asked.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock's eyes looked like silver mist now, brilliant with amusement, and if they'd lived a few centuries ago, John would have sworn there had to be some Sidhe in his bloodline. "Probably he's just caught up in his work, though the professor gets the questionable honour of being the first to make him skip mealtimes. Would you mind sneaking into the museum again? We could even pass it off as more investigation. Why was he at the crime scene just after you got there?"

"I haven't asked him. Bit busy with the whole misunderstanding leading to my arrest. But you're right, nobody mentioned that. I suppose we'll have to ask him ourselves," John said. Sherlock walked around him, heading to the door. Despite the beautiful scene it painted—and the ensuing public delight rather than scandal—he still called out, "Maybe you should put a shirt on first."

The detective's nape flushed, and he ducked for the one abandoned on the bed. John was awfully tempted to ask him to turn around...and preferably get permission to fasten some of the buttons himself. Just to have something to do, beside staring at Sherlock's back. Fine, also for sheer tactile joy, even if it was the reverse of his deepest wish. Mind out of the gutter, Watson. Investigation first.

The night air was far less stifling than the day had been, and at least half the town seemed to be milling around still. They (more Sherlock, John would readily admit) attracted more than one admiring glance, but their purposeful stride kept people from chatting the pair up.

The museum was closed, but Sherlock lead them around the palace, until they reached a side door. "This is your chance to leave. I can open this, since lock picking is included in the curriculum of becoming Sherlock Holmes, and the biggest pain in the arse I can be. You're already in enough trouble with the police. If there's an alarm connected to this door, I can talk my way out of it, or at least I assume so. Lengthening your police record sounds unwise."

Did the man seriously think he'd back down out of fear? "I'm here, am I not? Besides, as you said, I'm already in trouble. Might as well have fun in the meantime. Open that door," John replied, nodding towards it.

Still, seeing Sherlock take a tiny lock-picking set (he'd taken it for a Swiss knife, at first) from his pocket, John wondered if the man he'd fallen for wasn't actually a criminal. "Do you carry that all the time?" he whispered.

"Yes." The temporary detective kept working on the door, and seconds later it opened under his hand. "Mostly for today's goal—continuing to annoy family when they have had enough of me and are deluded enough to believe that they can keep me out."

John slipped in after him, the door closing gently behind them. Perhaps the man was a professional burglar, but his excuse felt oddly believable, given John's own experience. "Let's check if Mycroft is still talking, then." Their steps sounded loud on the stone staircase, but no one was screaming at them yet.

The director's office was dark and empty. Locked, too, but the chance of sneaking in on a conversation so confidential that his brother felt the need to seal the room proved too tempting. Sherlock didn't even pretend to worry about further breaking and entering

"What do we do now? Just tiptoe back and hope for the best?" John said.

"Or we could have a look around. It might not tell us why Cecchini went to see his niece, but you never know. Maybe he got news that he wanted to share." The detective headed to the desk, turning the pc on. He snorted. "Not even password protected. Someone's very confident that no one would dare to snoop."

"How much do you bet that the email's password is going to be memorised?" John asked, turning on the light. No reason to huddle in the dark. Besides, if Sherlock was going to check the pc, he might as well look through the drawers. Snail mail still existed, and even without knowing the language, he could see if something bore the date of the murder.

"Nothing. I'd lose." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They worked in quiet companionship for a few minutes. "Oh well. Look here." Even without knowing what the paper said, it looked interesting. There were rows and rows of numbers, each next to a date and two annotations: a monogram and some sort of cypher. While some monograms were repeated, it didn't happen regularly enough to be plain administrative records. Something was fishy here. Or maybe he just didn't understand which part of the job would be quite so mathematically based, and Sherlock would set him straight.

The detective took the paper with his left hand, all the while clicking with his right. "Yes…oh." He laughed, and somehow it sounded even warmer and more intoxicating in the empty building. "I wonder if Mycroft knows what his new friend is up to! Let's go, John. We really need to ask the man some questions. And his home address is…here."

The doctor didn't bother putting things back how he found them, not with his companion already halfway out the door. Looking back, neither of them had used gloves this time. Neither of them was an experienced thief, were they?

Sprinting through the empty corridor, John felt the urge to giggle himself. He bit his lips, but a single look shared with his partner in crime, and the laugh burst forth. "I should have been a cop, instead of a soldier," he said, when his breathing was finally under control. "I never thought investigating would be so funny."

"John Watson, cop…nope." Sherlock replied, while locking the door again. Nice of him. "You wouldn't have been able to come along on a whim."

"Are you saying that you're happy I did?" he asked.

"I've not been bored once in your company. Though I can't recommend that you make a habit of being falsely accused," the detective admitted, grinning.

"I'll try my best."

On the way to Cecchini's house, John's fingers found Sherlock's again, by instinct, and their hands quietly joined. Only once Sherlock stopped in front of a door, John realised two facts. One, they were no more than two streets from their victim's flat. Two…were they really going to interrogate someone without Gemma? What if the man kicked them out?

Before he could voice any of this, Sherlock was already ringing the bell …and didn't seem willing to take his finger away from it until they were let in.

No wonder the professor answered the door with a thunderous expression. "You two!" he growled. "You dare come to my house, after what you've done. I'm calling the police!" He turned to take his phone from a dresser by the door…but that gave Sherlock room enough to squeeze himself in, John on his heels before he had the door shut on his face.

"Feel free to," the detective said, smiling. He looked especially young and even naïve at the moment, as if he didn't understand the seriousness of what was happening, but John felt an underlying excitement in him, not unlike a cute, fluffy cat ready to pounce. When the other man hesitated, taken aback by the reaction, he took out his own phone. "I can give you the number, if you've forgotten it. I've been collaborating with the agents recently…and in fact, I should really report what I've found."

"You're lying! There's no way they would trust the friend of a murderer, and someone who introduces people under false pretences. Your threats are empty!" Cecchini's bluster was belied by his taking a step away from them.

"Threats? Have I made threats, John?" Sherlock blinked exaggeratedly.

"None that I heard," the doctor replied, trying his best to keep a straight face even confronted with such acting. It was harder than field surgery.

"Actually, I'm here to commend you. Your 'loans' are certainly remunerative enough for all the necessary restorations to be covered. But what puzzled me is, none of them seem to have an end date," Sherlock remarked. "Straight up selling a good part of your collection is certainly a nice way to prepare for retirement, I'll give you that. Was my brother aware of that option, or did you judge that the institution he represented wouldn't want to risk acting outside the law? Or maybe you wanted more than he could offer, in his position, and this is what you were supposed to negotiate?"

The director's severe features went scarlet, and he started babbling. Even if he was unable to understand the man, his indignation was obvious to John. He was more concerned that they were about to have a coronary patient to deal with. Criminal or not, the emergency call would have been embarrassing. Especially since they weren't supposed to be here in the first place. So he bit back the, "Brilliant," he wanted to utter and said instead, "Breathe, please. There's no need to lose it."

His timing wasn't the best, going by Cecchini's glare and Sherlock's surprised glance, but he couldn't help it. His doctor's instincts didn't have a turn off button. He shrugged. "Okay, maybe there's some reason to lose it. But it's not like we're accusing you of killing someone. We stumbled on this, but all we wanted to know was why you visited your niece." And annoying Mycroft, but that was better omitted.

"Are you saying that you're not going to denounce me?" their host asked, regaining his usual composure. "I suppose you want something in exchange. As you pointed out, Mr. Holmes, your brother is not in the best financial straits; and if I remember well, you're a freelancer."

Wait, were they blackmailing him now? When had that happened? John had just said they weren't seeking evidence of the crime they found, not stated that they'd ignore it. Hadn't he?

"I'm not my brother's associate," Sherlock replied, "I thought the situation would make it obvious. And if I aimed for money, I'd be in a different career. Probably professional sport."

"So?" Cecchini's right foot tapped twice.

"So Watson told you—we're after information. When I'm not collaborating with the police, I am a journalist, after all."

Cecchini snorted. "Are you seriously expecting me to confess?"

"I don't know, did you do it?" John interjected. There was nothing to confess about the thefts, as they'd seen the evidence. Or not seen. Lack of art, and plenty of Euros. But the murder? This man? True, they assumed it was someone Livia knew…but John still couldn't imagine this sharply dressed (even at home, it was ridiculous) academic exploding in a murderous rage. Not that he didn't have the strength, from what the doctor could judge.

"No, Mr. Holmes did," the professor retorted, crossing his arms.

"I think I'd have noticed that," Sherlock said flatly.

John held in a laugh. He doubted that their host would appreciate it. "Weren't you accusing me when you opened the door? Pick one. After all, there was no trace of an accomplice on the crime scene," he said.

"Just because there was only one killer, it doesn't mean that there wasn't an instigator. I'm sure that my good friend the commissioner will see my point." Cecchini stared them down.

"So is that your new offer? We keep quiet about your crimes and you won't sic that madwoman on us?" Sherlock took another step toward the man. If John was feeling fanciful, he'd have said his companion prowled. "You realise that you confessed already, don't you?"

"Watson…or whatever your true name is…you might want to call an ambulance. Your friend is clearly having auditory hallucinations." Cecchini pointed at John, who made a show of taking out his mobile phone…and then turned, so that nobody could see which number he was typing.

He requested someone to come quickly to help his friend, ignoring Sherlock yelling, "But John! It's obvious!"

When he turned again, the director was smiling at him. "I'm glad to see you understand the reality of your situation. Once Mr Holmes has received the antipsychotic he needs, we can proceed with our own discussion. His currency might be information, but perhaps you won't mind something more material."

John shrugged.

"You can try," the consulting detective declared, encompassing them all in a venomous glare. "Your nurses might find it a harder task than they're trained for."

"Breathe, Sherlock," the doctor teased, "there's no need to be so confrontational."

"I'll give you confrontational," Sherlock snapped. "Change your name. You don't deserve it."

"I'll just ignore that," John said, manoeuvring himself in between the amateur detective and their host—just in case Sherlock felt like starting a brawl. At the moment, it looked like a real possibility. That wasn't the scene that should welcome…

Oh, the bell was ringing! Wow, that was quicker than he had expected. "Allow me," he said, preventing Cecchini from opening his own door.

Gemma was wearing a loose shirt with huge yellow flowers and denim shorts.

"Jesus, what are you two up to now?" were her first words.

"You're not from the A&E!" Cecchini yelled. In English, probably because he thought she was a friend of theirs.

She took her ID from her pocket. "Polizia di Stato. My priority was checking the situation rather than changing into a uniform. Who's hurt?" Her eyes darted around, looking for the emergency.

The director pointed imperiously to Sherlock. "He entered my home by force, and has been raving ever since. And the other—your suspect—supports him. I demand that you remove them from my home. I'll be coming to see Italia first thing in the morning to press charges."

"Italia?" John asked, frowning. Now who was that?

"The first name of commissioner De Giovanni. Didn't we talk about how you should have rested tonight?" Gemma replied, hands on her hips.

"Did you already have to deal with them today, agent? Is someone else interested in pressing charges?" Cecchini inquired, leaning towards her.

"I wouldn't count on it," the cop replied. "I'll just rid you of them, shall I?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock huffed, "it's him you have to arrest. For the murder, as well as a number of thefts. Oh, and attempt at corruption, but that's his word against mine, so I doubt it would stick. We can easily procure evidence for the rest, though. He basically admitted it."

"See what I mean? He's delirious. I never confessed…of course, because I never did anything. Let's add slander to breaking and entering." The professor paced a couple of steps to and fro, reminding John of an old lion he'd seen at the zoo.

"Did I ever make assertions without the evidence to back it up? I'll show you the receipts for the thefts; frankly, you'd think that someone with his education would have a bit more cleverness. As for the murder, I have no doubt that you'll find evidence if you bother to search. I'll be happy to help if you need me," the consulting detective declared, half-turning like a hound eager to be unleashed after his prey.

"Me, too," John chimed in, actually raising a hand as he had in school. If the bastard had contributed to the commissioner's attitude and her poor attempt at framing him, he'd be thrilled to look for the evidence to lock the bloke away.

"You can't allow that!" Cecchini yelled, narrowing his eyes. When Gemma shrugged, John was sure that they were lost. She'd cave in to the man's demands, and he'd be fucked because this wasn't a civilized country, but some weird set from the Godfather come alive.

"Exactly. I'm glad you understand. As much as having them participating is a bad idea, I can't allow such heavy accusations to go ignored. I'll have to investigate. You can stay here with them, or I can bring you to the station. In case you're guilty, the risk of you destroying evidence is simply too high. If you're innocent, you're free to add your complaints against me to whatever charges you mean to press tomorrow," Gemma said, with a soft smile.