Chapter Twenty: Looking Forward

Sherlock's mouth was suddenly as dry as if he'd been fed only lyophilised food, without even a droplet to rehydrate it. His lack of any reaction went on too long, if John's sudden frown was to be trusted. But how could he react? He was barely keeping control of himself as it was.

"You okay?" The doctor's fingers found his wrist even before he could answer.

"Of course." He wriggled his wrist away…or tried to. Gentle but unwavering hands kept him in place for the handful of seconds until it was obvious that he was not going to pass out.

"Are you going to explain?"

Sherlock's mouth firmed. As if "you hit me right in the military kink" was an acceptable reply.

"Training me in deduction, are you? I'll figure this out, too, I promise."

Frankly, Sherlock wasn't sure if that sounded more like a blessing or a threat. It certainly was a challenge, though. Take John under his wing and turn him into a proper investigator. If there was one thing Sherlock could never resist (and Mycroft used to exploit mercilessly) was a challenge. Instead of denying it, or explaining, or any wiser reaction, he quipped, "I'll look forward to it. Maybe someday we could have Holmes writing up the stories and Watson solving the cases."

John pumped his fist, before looking around. Not that anyone would notice; Italians talked with their hands all the time. "That'd be brilliant! I mean, I know it's not yet, or for a long while. But—imagine that. 'M tired today, you solve this one. It would have been quite another story, uh?"

"Definitely" Sherlock smiled. How had they even arrived at this conversation? He was a scientific journalist, not a consulting detective, no matter what he'd had to do this week. Consulting detectives didn't exist in real life. Was he seriously considering entering an investigative and sentimental partnership with John Watson, MD? There was something in their food. There had to be.

He didn't realise he'd mumbled that until John's soft, "Are you sure you're not sick?"

"Not sick. Drugged, I hoped. Madder than even I suspected, more probably."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"I knew there was a reason I liked you." Every time he panicked, somehow John—unlike his own family—managed to assuage his worries and make him smile.

"You know, maybe Doyle had a point. I should start a list." John leaned against a wall and looked up to him.

"Sherlock Holmes—his limits?" the other quoted, eyes narrowing. What would warrant that out of the blue?

"Well, I was thinking more of Sherlock Holmes—his turn-ons, and generally how to make him happy, but whatever you think it's best." John winked.

"That…might be an option. But you'd have to let me conduct a corresponding study." He tried to look down at John, regain at least an appearance of control, or sanity, or…who knew.

"That's generally the idea, yes. Sì."

Oh. So John had figured out at least one word during his holiday. One word that had no right to suddenly sound debauched. Sherlock took a step away. Breathed. That didn't help much. How was he supposed to gain a rational mind-set, when even the smell of moonflowers from the balcony over him conspired to keep his senses in charge of his brain? Looking around, he suddenly realised he had no idea where they were. This would have never happened at home. "I need to get back."

"Of course. We need you fresh tomorrow." John straightened, and…oh damn. He was staring at his lips again. It wasn't fair.

Sherlock kept his word, limiting himself to a quick peck this time, despite how difficult it had been not to indulge. John was startled, and couldn't deepen the kiss before he moved away again. Yielding was how Sherlock had become lost in the first place. But damn, the tongue that snuck out, almost to search for his taste on John's lips…If the captain had deduced his rule, it'd be his turn to snog Sherlock senseless, because he certainly couldn't look away.

"If that was an answer, I still don't know, but it would be a brilliant code to create. A snog for yes, maybe, and for no? A hickey? How many other words or even single letters could we come up with? Imagine the conversations."

"I'm trying not to," Sherlock huffed. But he certainly would later.

"Probably shouldn't in public, yeah. Sorry." John looked down, his sandals suddenly growing fascinating.

"Well, no one is perfect. And if they were, they would be boring."

John's gaze was back on him. Much better. "Would they? I mean, you're the furthest from boring I've met."

"And also the furthest from perfect. In fact, for the first time in my life, I'm not sure where we are. Shall I ask you or Google to get me back to the hotel?" Even while asking, Sherlock's hand went to his pocket. This town's alleys all looked alike.

"I can do that. For another kiss."

When Sherlock bent, trying to capture his lips, a hand on his chest kept him away. "Payment on delivery. I'm afraid we'll never arrive otherwise." John beamed.

Logical. Blast it. Why did reality have to make logic so frustrating? Along the way, they fell silent again. Some streets were crammed with groups of students celebrating a successful exam (and getting quite drunk in the process). Everyone talked loudly and took up more space than it seemed they should physically be able to. Other paths were empty and soundless. Those were John's favourite. Once again, it was logical...but this time, fascinating. Drifting among them, one could almost wonder if they'd slipped into a dreamlike dimension—one populated by long-gone ghosts. Or maybe imaginary creations. If he hadn't met John back in London, he'd have been seriously concerned about falling prey to heat-stroke and hallucinating the whole week.

They…arrived already? Time didn't behave properly here. He couldn't have been lost that close to his hotel. Sherlock stood still for a moment, and his companion took advantage of it to climb the hotel's steps. Now, their faces were properly aligned. If anything, John was half an inch higher.

"If you don't mind, I'd like my reward."

Sherlock very much didn't mind. He actually started to understand why people were obsessed with romantic attachments. He considered asking John to come up, if only to see his brother's face when he'd come calling in the morning. Then again, the other guests had been scandalised enough today. What if they met someone who needled him about it? He'd rather be the one informing John of his fantasies, thank you very much.

This kiss was slow and languid, both reluctant to give it up. They had to, eventually, and John took a step aside to let him in. "Good night," Sherlock breathed.

"Sweet dreams." John's hand trailed against his for one last time. "Honey" might have been added or not. The word was so hushed Sherlock couldn't swear he'd heard it...nor explain how he felt about it.

He shook his head and went inside. The week had been enlightening, even if he still found difficult to conceive that anyone could fall for him. He was glad for this time together, whether John and he actually realised any of their plans, or eventually parted ways. He'd told himself all his life that other people's opinions didn't matter, but seeking anger wasn't so different from seeking approval. Being his own Sherlock Holmes, without caring if he adhered to a textbook or not, if he annoyed or saved, left a good taste in his mouth. Or possibly it was John. Or Ascolane olives.

His room's door closed behind him, and Sherlock smiled to himself. He'd left a London he felt adrift in, running from too many things. He was ready to be back…and to finally run towards. After all, as someone said once, life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. That was what made it fun.