Chapter Seventeen: My Sherlock
John woke up to a text, and his lips curled in a smile. It just suggested going together to give their statements, but like his grandma always said when he rushed into things, "One step at a time." Sherlock was definitely worth all the steps in this world.
They met in the square at the town's entrance, and John wondered if he was imagining things. He would have sworn that there was a new softness in his friend's attitude. He didn't look likely to bolt at the first wrong word anymore.
"So? Ready to lie in an official document?" Sherlock grinned.
"Hush!" John hissed. Not that there was any police around, but still. They were in public!
"Nobody cares about what we're saying. And with the Italian mentality, there's a chance someone would praise us. In fact, I'm sure that someone will say that his only mistake was killing someone. Especially a relative." Sherlock shrugged.
John chuckled. "Are you serious?"
"If you'll trust me, I'll be happy to translate the comments that will pop up on forums as soon as the news is made public."
"I've trusted you with worse than that, didn't I?"
"Why?" Sherlock pulled up short, even if they were only a few paces from the police station. "
You barely know me. I could have been the killer. Maybe I followed my brother to make sure that my murders were so spread out that nobody would connect them. It's what I would do…if I were a serial killer."
"Oh, give me some credit. My danger radar works pretty well; I'd be dead if I hadn't moved at the last minute once...and you never tripped it. Besides, you're a genius. Why would I refuse your help?" John shrugged.
The consulting detective pouted a little. Was it because John didn't consider him a threat? That was…kind of adorable, but he couldn't let it go on. "Hey, I've said you're not dangerous. Not that you're not strong." John was tempted to tease him about being unobservant, but the smile he'd earned was too bright to risk dimming it.
They entered the police station looking like a prince and his attendant. A few people threw glances their way, ranging from incredulity through suspicion all the way to hostility. Then again, having a complete amateur show you up at your own job sort of justified that. If a youngster without a degree came to work at the hospital and started operating better and quicker than John could, he'd be pissed off, too.
At least Gemma was there, her grin overshadowing the hostility in the room. "Sherlock! John! Here, I've got the documents ready, you just need to sign a few things. If you think the wording is imprecise we can change it, mind. Oh, and also we'll need you again during the actual trial. Can't promise it'll be in a day or two though, the judges' work is terribly backlogged."
"Does this mean that we will be obliged to come on holiday again? Oh no, how will we be able to cope with that?" John quipped, taking the folder.
Both his friends snickered. "I didn't think that you enjoyed your stay here," Gemma replied.
"You might be surprised," the doctor said, "though I could have done without the whole false accusation thing. But since without that we would have never got to the brilliant part, I'm not complaining."
"You two are insane." Her lips quirked.
"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Sherlock said, speed-reading through the documents.
Gemma smiled. "Point taken. Well then, if it's okay with you, maybe when you're back for the trial we can have a double date. I don't think I ever thanked you for matchmaking."
"Ah, no we're not—" John mumbled.
"Yet," Sherlock interjected. When the other's mouth hung open, he added, "Sign, John."
Seconds later they were out again. John felt dazed. Had he just… "Does this mean I get a chance?" he asked. If it was just a joke, he needed to know right now.
"Running away didn't really work, did it? Depending on how slow Italian justice is…I've heard of trial taking decades." The consulting detective shrugged.
John burst into laughter. "Talk about slow burn!" His laughter devolved into a nervous giggle. "I had a girlfriend once. She would rate the different kinds of romances in half-hour rants. Not thatI ever read..."
"John. Your taste in literature, or that of any past associates, will neither make nor break our relationship, however it develops. Besides, I doubt that it can be worse than mine, " Sherlock cut in.
"You realise you have to tell me your preference now, right?"
"Promise not to tell Mycroft?"
John made a show of thinking about it. "I mean, technically I do owe him for summoning me…"
At Sherlock's frown, he couldn't keep his face straight. "Of course I won't tell him! I actually want to stay on your good side, you know!"
"Paranormal. Give me a classic ghost story, a vampire detective, a werewolf boy. I don't care. I'll be watching it. Reading it. Whatever. Not very Sherlockian of me, huh?" It was the detective's turn to giggle, and rub the nape of his neck.
"Hey! You're not a carbon copy. You're my Sherlock. And if you like them, I'm up for a vampire and/or werewolf marathon any day." God knew that he'd been subjected to worse by past girlfriends.
"Careful with your words. I might hold you to them some day."
"I'll have you know, I never volunteer unless I really mean it. You don't get to chicken out in the army," John said.
Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed noticeably. With no looming worry about murders or assumptions that the other hated him at the moment, some details lined up in John's brain. He wouldn't claim that it was the same rush as figuring out a case, but his scientific education insisted that this definitely warranted an experiment.
"Are you busy today, or can we have a proper date? If I'm supposed to woo you for a decade or so, better start early."
"My plans consisted of slipping inside the chemistry lab again and making use of their equipment.
I was terribly tempted to try something more explosive than the last time I was there. A few people would certainly be grateful to you…if they knew you got me to postpone that. Actually, there's something I googled the first night which sounds like a good distraction." Sherlock looked at the floor. "If, that is, you don't mind me picking. I realise my tastes are a bit peculiar, but I think you might enjoy it too."
John hoped that his enthusiastic nodding would convey his opinion, because he was too angry with whoever made Sherlock think any proposal of his equated to a bad idea to speak properly.
The detective noticed his exaggerated motions, despite his averted gaze, and looked up. "Problem is, the transport information I found turned out to be outdated. But I think we can solve that snag, thanks to our recent investigation."
John laughed. "Don't tell me we're going to steal Cecchini's car."
"Nope, but someone now owes us a favour. Come along!" Oh, there it was. The imperious young man he'd follow literally into crime, given the solution of their case. Minor and justified crime, but still. John was lucky that Sherlock's mum wasn't a dedicated Moriarty fan. As much as he had always believed himself to be an all-around moral person, he wasn't sure how well his ethics would fare against the mix of compelling reasoning, a domineering attitude, and John's own wish for more. More time in his company. More appreciation. More anything that Sherlock found himself willing to dole out. God, he was fucked, wasn't he? (Fine, he wasn't…not yet .)
If the man weren't a journalist already, John would have suggested that career to him. Sherlock tricked information out of the owner of the restaurant that Gemma had recommended. with consummate ability. They had all the personal details of their waitress before the owner's mind even stopped spinning from Sherlock's lies.
Next step was tracking her down. She was on her balcony, watering a yellowing geranium. "Oh! Hello!" the detective said "What a happy coincidence."
John couldn't help it. He guffawed.
"Hello?" she replied, eyes shifting between the two of them.
"Okay, yes, it's not exactly a random happenstance, your boss might be under the impression that we've been sent to find you because we need information for a police investigation. But we do need your help, and he saw us with Gemma. It was the quickest way," Sherlock huffed.
"And would that we include Gemma?" She smiled and put down the watering can.
"Not yet, but she did suggest double dating, eventually. I just need to persuade him that dating at all is a good idea, you see," John, finally in control of his lungs, interjected.
"Oh." She clapped. "And what kind of help would you need?"
"I was hoping you had an independent means of transport, or that you could point us to somewhere to borrow or rent one. The place we were hoping to visit isn't very well served by public transit," Sherlock said.
"Thirty seconds," she promised, disappearing inside. She kept her word, and was promptly at the door, putting a key in Sherlock's hands. "I have an old, grey Punto, but it's not going to leave you stranded. You can find it on the second floor of the Mercatale parking lot." She rattled its plate number.
"Thank you." Sherlock grinned at her.
"Hey, anything for love!" She winked as she turned away.
John was curious about their destination, but preferred to keep quiet on the way to the parking lot, enjoying Sherlock's presence–and the way his fingers almost covertly laced with his own.
In the car, Sherlock said, "I'll need your help. I can't drive and keep an eye on the map. Look up the way for Gradara, will you?"
John nodded. "Sure. What's in Gradara?"
"You'll see." Sherlock's smile was more enigmatic than Monna Lisa's.
After a while, the journalist was swearing under his breath. The navigation was much harder than the man expected it would be. It wasn't John's fault, to be fair. The app suggested inner roads that should have been quicker (probably were for locals), and were peppered with too many roundabouts.
John bet that trying to remember to drive on the wrong side of the road didn't help, either. Even he was startled sometimes, and he did have more than enough overseas experience. Mercifully, in little more than one hour they finally saw their destination. "Please tell me the pretty castle is where we're going," he said.
"Obviously. It also has the perk of being an ancient crime scene. Even if it was an open and shut case back then, too, I thought it might fit us," Sherlock replied.
"Only you could find it." John's tone had been warm, but given his partner's reaction, his wording left something to be desired.
"Only I and whoever has read the Divine Comedy or researched the area. The murder is mentioned in the poem, so. Bit of renown. Here at least."
"Show me this famous crime scene, then." John opted to keep up his enthusiasm rather than apologise. No need to make things more awkward, in case he had deduced wrong.
They parked and jogged up to the castle's entrance, ignoring the souvenir shops flanking the street. Sherlock felt the need to point out it was mostly a modern reconstruction. John stood by his word—it was a pretty castle, with its reddish brown walls and turrets, and the swallow-tailed merlons.
Sherlock insisted on paying for their tickets, since he'd picked the place. John tried to argue he'd proposed the date, but faced with the other's stubbornness, opted not to sour their mood instead. A smart move, because as soon as they abandoned the inner courtyard, a sign invited them to the 'Torture chamber'. Better not to have an angry companion! "And that's it, I suppose?" he grinned, already taking one step downwards.
Sherlock shook his head. "Crime of passion. The owner found his brother in bed with his own wife, and slaughtered everyone. He didn't take his time with them. I'm very much not against visiting it, though."
"Noted. You can come, but it's not as interesting as they promise," John said, leading ahead. The underground room just had a couple of chains affixed to the wall, a headsman's block and a few pliers and other instruments displayed.
"Someone was very crude and unimaginative. Then again, it fits with the owner's personality, I suppose." Sherlock pouted.
John shrugged. "As long as it gets the job done, huh?"
"Let's go somewhere less damp," his date urged. Despite the summer day, the stone basement was freezing.
They went up some wooden stairs to the main apartment. Here was his second surprise. Most of the rooms, besides the ancient furniture, held a few glass cabinets, with a variety of swords, helmets and old guns.
John admired them with a connoisseur's eye. He hoped it made up for his over-eagerness in pointing out every room as the crime scene…but to his (and the medieval victims') justification, almost every room (even the dining room) had a four-poster bed. It would be hard not to tumble into one or another. And judging from the signs pleading with people not to touch the furniture, someone else might have been tempted to.
The ancient crime didn't hold all of their attention. For once, John was the one expounding on the damage the weapons on show could inflict, and how effective the armours would be in absorbing the impact. Sherlock asked for details now and again, and soon they were neck-deep in an animated discussion. They analysed strategies and other weapons available, both at the time of the murder and centuries later, when most of the armaments shown were created. The sleuth inquired about ways to maximise damage, and how effective time-misplaced fighters would be in both war and assassination. John's expert opinion was that modern people wouldn't necessarily be superior, especially if they were the ones thrown back then.
"Modesty doesn't become you, frankly. Underestimating one's qualities is still a lie, and wilful lies should not be praised, no matter what people think. Of course you'd wipe people out if you slipped into the past somehow."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. How can you be so sure, though?" John looked for all the world absorbed in the details of a sword's hilt, while he actually studied his companion's reflection in the cabinet.
"It's a simple matter of deduction. You forget that I have some data on your fighting prowess." Not feeling observed, Sherlock had allowed his face to fall into an almost dreamy look.
"Sorry again about that, by the way, didn't mean to spook you." John laughed nervously. "But that's not much data, is it? I mean, you are clearly trained yourself in…well, I won't claim to be an expert in the differences between the various martial arts, so I'm not sure. What I am trying to say is, if you want a sparring partner sometimes. An intentional one. I'm here. It might be interesting to put different fighting styles to the test." Smooth, Watson. Real smooth. Damn. This was the time to be confident and, if Sherlock's attitude once his military past came up was any hint, show off a bit…and here he was, stumbling on his words instead. But the mental image of tussling together—Sherlock could send him back to his teen years without even doing anything.
Sherlock exhaled loudly. "I might take you up on that."
"I'm always available for a demonstration, inside or outside. Keep it in mind." John shrugged, turning towards him. Sherlock's eyes glinted with the same eagerness he felt. Despite it (maybe because of it?), that was the moment the man chose to dash away. Again. Never mind. John was used to following already.