Chapter Eighteen: Alone, Finally
"The walkways. They'll be closed if the weather turns," Sherlock said when John caught up with him.
John didn't answer. He just looked at the bright blue sky.
"Yes, but it's windy!" He realised he sounded ridiculous, but he had to get away. There were too many beds, and John's military self shone more than usual. It was only a matter of time till his knees gave way.
"Let's patrol, then."
John definitely wasn't helping. At least up on the walls, he could blame vertigo if the man's attitude—and the subsequent hasty rerouting of his blood—made him dizzy. He didn't actually suffer from it, but plausible deniability was his priority.
The itinerary was short, covering just a small fraction of the actual walls. Still, the narrowness of the wooden path under his feet meant that Sherlock had to be closer to John than he normally would be. The former captain's exclamations of wonder at the sight were one more delight the sleuth had to rein himself in against. Even Sherlock had to admit the landscape—from the sea to the hills (one of them possibly Urbino itself) on the other side—looked like a painting.
If they indulged, until other tourists came to claim a spot and eventually drove them off, it was logical. Absolutely logical.
With no more reasons to dawdle, the only thing to do was walk back to their car.
"It might be a famous crime scene, but someone is obsessed," John quipped, observing the shops. The amount of toy weapons and shields made sense, since everyone wanted to play knight, but almost every shop displaying a number of gaudy skulls made even Sherlock raise an eyebrow.
"I have to ask—do you have one at home? Human or not?" John winked.
"Human? Do you think they're often for sale, or that I would pilfer one for—for canonical accuracy?" he sputtered. There was "proving that his namesake was the worst," and then there was "earning a speedy ticket to a psychiatrist's sofa."
"Point taken." John kicked a pebble. "But you've not answered the 'or not' part."
Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't find one I like yet."
"And now? Roman soldier skull? Pirate skull? Huh…is that a 'human skull crossed with stegosaurus', or just punk, what would you say?"
"I suspect that even the people creating them aren't sure," he replied, smirking. Sure, they were ridiculous, and small, and wouldn't have the shock impact of Holmes' actual skull, but people got souvenirs from holidays, didn't they? If following Doyle as close as he had didn't affect mummy, and rejecting the character completely like his brother tried didn't work, would keeping close to canon and acting openly goofy annoy her? Possibly enough for her to realise how most people reacted to her naming choices? He almost went for the punk skull, but then decided it wasn't similar enough. The bare skull, with bright green fake eyes, though…that might do. Green like hope. He picked it and made to enter the shop.
John said, "Let me," and Sherlock decided not to fight about it. If things didn't pan out between them, he might as well have a souvenir of the time John Watson liked Sherlock Holmes. His subconscious better stand down. Honeymoon period was the worst possible thought he could have.
If their hands touched when John gave him the small paper bag, it couldn't be helped. "Do you mind if we visit this, too?" he said, a few steps later. "Medieval caves museum."
"We're not on a schedule, so whatever you like." John's smile was warmer than the sun over them.
Sherlock was about to apologise as soon as they entered. The 'museum' thought that dioramas were a good option to show the evolution of weaponry, and many things wouldn't have been out of place in a child's room. A child passionate about historically accurate weaponry since Roman times, but even so. The odd mix of actual objects—halberds, a guillotine, and a few classic torture instruments—made for a reprisal of their earlier conversation. His mouth went dry, listening to John discuss exactly the type of damage each would inflict, and how useful (or useless, if one sought the truth) they would be.
A mix of relief and disappointment took him when the underground level showcased more dioramas—about farmers' lives, and other dull subjects. At least his composure wasn't in danger of crumbling anymore. The actual medieval caves were a lot narrower than their names would suggest, and they found themselves staring at a bell beyond a heavy grid, the stone floor littered with coins.
"Why would anyone do that?" John asked.
"For luck. Trying to ring the bell."
The former soldier stared at some of the coins farthest from the bells, biting his lips. Sherlock wished that politeness didn't make his date suppress whatever comment on people's markmanship was obviously on the tip of his tongue. "Oh well, if it's tradition…" John fished in his pocket for loose change.
Before it even occurred to Sherlock to mention it was just a stupid superstition, the deep sound of the bell echoed around them. The cent had hit sure as a bullet, and just as quick. Sherlock would not go slack-jawed. He would not. He should have expected that, anyway. John had been…was…No matter how cold and damp they were, suddenly the place was harder to breathe in.
Especially when John just shrugged. "Done. So…do you want to try?"
Sherlock shook his head. In other circumstances, he wouldn't have doubted his ability. Right now, his mind palace (and most of his higher cerebral functions) were plastered with 'error 503—service unavailable' signs.
He needed to get out. Luckily, with nothing else of interest down here, it wouldn't seem odd. Still, on the stairs, he stumbled. One last display stuck out from the wall. A cage, for slow killing without bloodshed, and…a few XII century chastity belts. Sherlock wouldn't have noticed them at all, if not for, "That's a male one." And now he was stating the obvious. How low could he sink?
John braced him. The smile on the man's lips should have been illegal. "Yup."
Sherlock didn't move. He'd erased most of non-criminal history, but still this didn't sound right. Useful at the moment, maybe (not that they were for loan, obviously) but…odd.
"You do know that the chastity belts for crusaders' wives tale is bull, don't you? They'd have all died of infection long before their husbands came back. I don't know nearly enough to say if it is actually a part of the torture devices theme upstairs or it's just easier to pretend people weren't kinky back then, but I have my suspicions."
Sherlock squirmed out of the other's hold and rushed out of the museum, wishing it was winter. A long overcoat would have been brilliant right now. Or a jacket. Or...
John didn't rush after him or press the issue, bless him. No matter his current yearning, Sherlock refused to let his first time happen in a loo, or against a wall.
He was more composed by the time his date joined in, but the, "I probably should have put a hat on earlier" was weak enough to be completely believable. He wasn't sure this wasn't late onset sunstroke. Certainly, he didn't feel normal.
"We'll get you a bottle of water, and then…Do you prefer to find somewhere cool instead of historical and damp, or do you want to get back to your room right now?"
"Back," he said. John was a doctor and still trusted his complaints; the fine acting skills he had developed served him well. For the first time in his life, he mentally thanked Doyle.
In the first bar they encountered, Sherlock let himself flop on a chair. They'd been up and down stairs and climbing for a good part of the summer morning, but he was still surprised at how thirsty he truly was. He drank directly from the bottle, uncaring that a few drops of water escaped from his mouth, and trying not to think about his partner. John was observing him...and his concern warred with a fire of his own.
Soon, they were back at the car, and John didn't protest when Sherlock sat behind instead of beside him. "I'll do my best to drive us back quickly…but if you notice that I'm going badly off track, please say something."
"Sure." He needed to lie down, sooner rather than later, his brain unable to reroute or forget his obsessive thoughts, but it wouldn't do to let them be stranded.
Not that his intervention was needed. John was competent, and quick, and damn, the man should really start showing flaws if Sherlock was to survive.
Being accompanied to his hotel, on account of his health, was one more trial. Sherlock had to think of the most disgusting things he'd encountered during his scientific journalist career to keep a hold on himself. Now he just had to go in and could then ignore his partner till they were back in London. That would have been the wisest choice, except he discovered that he couldn't bear it.
"Dates usually include food too, right?" he found himself saying.
"Often, yeah." John still seemed more concerned about him than dating etiquette.
"I don't think I'll be up to lunch, but we might…maybe…have dinner together tonight?"
"That'd be brilliant! If you feel better. And please, if you need more than just rest—you do have a doctor on call." John gently patted his shoulder.
"I know. See you tonight." Sherlock slipped inside. His room. He just needed to get to his room. Then he would get himself under control. He was Sherlock Holmes. A rational man. He was above…oh fuck it,he was human, whatever his namesake might have been.
No matter how tempting, rash decisions should be out of the question nonetheless. Mycroft still teased him about that time in high school when he thought he had the solution to the unfair grading of his mathematics' professor. Outing the man's relationship with their principal, Mrs. Daniels, had been worse than stupid—it'd been incorrect. There was no need for her to put a good word in for her friends' children. Not when prof. Allen accepted bribes. Sherlock was the one who almost got himself expelled that time, and his brother never let him forget that he'd made a mistake in his deductions, and wouldn't have if he had taken the time to analyse the circumstances.
"…Or if you had as much common sense as a drunk bee, because it wasn't a matter for you to solve anyway," was Mycroft's usual conclusion.
For once, he would not make a mess of the situation. But how could he keep his wits about himself regarding John's stubborn courtship, when even entering his own room took his breath away? Memories of gentle hands made him look at his bed as if it would bite him if he lay down. A near-perfect recollection shouldn't be paired with any sentimental interference as to which memories to keep. Why hadn't he forgotten that yet? It didn't solve the case. It did nothing besides making him weak-kneed. As if he didn't have enough foibles as it was.
Then again—what was the worst that could happen, if he did give in? If he let himself fully feel the ball of desire, admiration and—dared he call it love?—that was threatening to overcome him any moment? Their acquaintance was too recent for such a weighty word. He was tired of squashing down any attraction as 'out of character',though. The only emotion he'd allowed himself growing up was spite for the idiocy of the whole of human kind, and his parents more specifically. He wasn't a child anymore, acting out to prove a point. Sherlock had already solved a case with the talents he'd learned with the express purpose of being as obnoxious as possible. Simply ignoring John's plight hadn't crossed his mind. Despite never wanting to be a consulting detective, army doctor John Watson had made him break his first rule. It still felt ridiculous to even think of the man's description in real life, but damn if the real deal wasn't even more impressive than Doyle's character. Any other self-imposed standard might as well follow suit.
If he was to not jump John the next time they met, he needed to get him out of his system, for the moment at least. He locked the door, hands almost trembling with his decision. A dash to the en suite bathroom, to get a still unopened voyage-sized shampoo container. Only when his image in the mirror reminded him of it, he put down the bag with his shopping. The skull didn't need to see this, anyway.
Back to his room, Sherlock sighed and lay down. He arched, shuffling off shorts and pants at the same time. If he had any of his famed logic left, he'd have done that first, but he needed the sensation of his sheet, to amplify the tactile reminder.
Sherlock closed his eyes, and let himself fall deep inside his memory, before manipulating it. He could feel John's gentle touch—but this time, his doctor didn't stop at his back. Mind Palace John decided that his legs were too tense, too. Sherlock's own hands started rubbing his thighs. Slowly, they advanced upwards, with the care and gentleness he knew John would use. Even his imaginary partner lost patience soon, though. It wouldn't do to be surprised by his real self coming to check how their date was feeling before the game had even started.
Sherlock bit his lip as he finally allowed himself to touch his hard, aching cock.
The John in his fantasy laughed. "You won't find so easy to keep quiet when I'm here in person," he promised, with a voice hinting at burnt honey.
It startled a whine out of him, though he managed to keep it at a manageable volume…or so he hoped.
His hands' rhythm along eager flesh quickened, each caress more intense and hasty than the one before. He just needed…needed…
"Slow down." How a fantasy could order him around like that, against his will—and obtain obedience—was a mystery for a different time.
"If I'm out of character this won't work," his mental John added, and—damn, he had a point, but feeling a rapidly approaching orgasm recede still made him groan.
"Please," he found himself imploring, voice breathy, but there was no one to answer his question, or disrupt his fantasy. Twice more his mind captain refused to let him topple over the edge, leaving him trembling and needy.
When he couldn't help himself anymore, he found that being quiet was, too, out of the question…His only salvation was that John's name, which wanted to be screamed out loud, was mangled in an hopefully unrecognizable way. (Where was Mycroft? If in the room next door, there was no way that he wouldn't have seen through that.)
Most of his body blushing, Sherlock slipped inside the bed and pulled the sheet above his head. If he was lucky, there would be an earthquake and he'd be swallowed by a sudden pit before he had to face anyone else.
He'd never been so loud before. This was all John's fault. Everyone in the hotel—or maybe Urbino—would look at him in disapproval now. John better make it up to him tonight for the embarrassment he'd have to endure.
He didn't notice at all the next hours slipping away, his brain too busy concocting scenarios of what was about to happen. His behaviour had been entirely instinctual since he met his Watson, despite the way he tried to rationalise it. And look where he'd ended up.
No, he needed to prepare, so John wouldn't keep freezing his higher brain functions up. His tiny cocoon was sweltering, even with just the sheet trapping him in. Ridiculous as it was, that actually helped him concentrate, the lack of stimuli keeping his neurons focused on the task at end. He faced an unexpected problem, when his brain cut down, 'To do list: examine John Watson's likely behaviour', to, 'To do list: John Watson'. Despite being recently (and, if he said so himself, spectacularly) sated he was still contemplating other than conversational scenarios.
He huffed and stalked down to the shower; a cold one should set his brain back into gear. He sighed in relief as soon as the water hit his body. Obviously, the weather was playing a part in his behaviour. Why hadn't Mycroft picked a seaside town, again? True, they'd be back home tomorrow anyway, but it would still be kind of his brother's entourage to provide another crime to keep him—and John—busy. Productive. Unfocused, his mind settled on unruly subjects. Blond, bold, flattering subjects. Seductive and terrifying and...
Was it time to go yet, before he lost his mind completely? He didn't feel ready, but he was starting to believe he might never be ready. The last thing he needed now was to worry the doctor into taking care of him again.
The water should be colder, shouldn't it? When had his life stopped making sense? He knew, of course, but running away had not worked. Nothing seemed to work properly anymore.
If he put on the shirt that had been complimented before the case started, it wasn't a flirtatious move. Okay, it was, but only as a side effect. It was a war move. If his brain would be scrambled, the least he could do was to make sure John's was, too. Considering the look he received, it was a success.