Another chapter up. Hurray! Enjoy :)
-Awhoha
Sherlock Holmes fidgeted in his chair, a half-bored expression playing languidly across his features as his heart beat nervously. Dark chestnut locks swept up to the side on which the consulting detective had slept on the previous evening, the man rightly neglecting to tidy his hair. Full lips wrapped around the narrow bit of maple pipe, the tobacco burning restlessly in the chamber, the mans brown eyes fixated on the door. He sniffed, leg crossing over the other as he listened. A sound outside the flat greeted his ears: a limp followed by the simple thud of a cane, the unmistakable squeak of rich leather against the wooden floor. In a flurry of arms and leg, Sherlock lept up from his seat, briskly removing papers and various other objects that had taken over the room at a rather alarming rate. At the sound of footsteps verged outside the door, Sherlock dashed towards his chair, a hand quickly sweeping through the wrinkles in his clothes. He leaned back just as the door knob clicked, legs settling on the three legged stool before closing his eyes.
"Holmes?"
Sherlock remained unmovable, mouth casually dragging at his pipe in his grasp as the familiar voice of John Watson filled the flat. The footsteps drew nearer, the consulting detective twitching slightly. He heard the scrape of a chair being drawn forth, the movement of cloth—John had worn a new suit; the smell of new cloth and the odor of the shop still clinging to the fabric, the slight stiffness in the fluidity of movement. Sherlock peeked open an eye finding the doctor gazing down at him, a smirk playing behind his neatly trimmed mustache. Sherlock abruptly shut his vision, nose flaring in delight. His mind cataloged the doctor: tight fitting gray throw, periwinkle waistcoat followed by black neck tie holding a white silk shirt in place. Bowler hat, ornate cane, black leather gloves, dark breeches and leather brouge shoes—four holes for the laces, two tone.
"Holmes, I saw your eyes moving."
Holmes opened his eyes, both this time, and sniffed across at his friend.
"Watson." He puffed, a perfect smoke ring issuing into the room. John smiled at his friend. Sherlock lounged on the chair dressed in a white shirt buttoned to the small of his throat, a woolen scarf hanging casually around his broad shoulders. A set of dark gray breeches, the suspenders lying at his thighs, clung to his hips. A knock on the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, a tray of tea held in her hands. John stood respectfully as the landlady placed the tray on the fine wood table beside him, Sherlock giving her a twitch of a frown in distrust.
"Tea gentlemen." The woman stated, the tray meeting the wood with a soft clink. Warm buttery bread cut into thick slices sat next to the fine china, the smell of fresh cream and strawberry jam mixing in with the tobacco smoke.
"Thank-you very much, Mrs. Hudson." John gave a polite nod as she smiled up at him.
"It's a pleasure to see you again Doctor Watson." The landlady said. Turning to Sherlock who was eyeballing the tea with suspicion, she asked.
"Will Mr. Jefferson be joining you this morning?"
"Mr. Jefferson?" John inquired, trying to push the irritation from his mind. His eyes were drawn towards the extra cup, cursing himself for not having noticed earlier.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be,hum? Plotting your evil schemes, nanny?" the consulting detective said, voice rising at the last word. Mrs. Hudson seemed to roll her eyes, but left the two men alone, her tray of dirty cups clinking in the distance.
"Who is Mr. Jefferson, seeing as how you failed to mention his name sooner."
"The new flatmate." Sherlock was now picking at the strings of his violin, the dark wood waxed to a high gloss. His bare arms flexed as his fingers moved, producing random notes of music. The parrot squawked, John looking up to find the source of commotion. "Don't spare him a glance, dear fellow. He might swoop down and attack."
"Yes, I know the new flatmate, you mentioned him last night, but who exactly is he?" John demanded impatiently.
"Just an old goat."
"Who exactly is an old goat, Holmes?" A deep voice broke in. John turned instinctively towards the interruption, heart hammering in his chest. The voice had spoken quite suddenly, startling the good doctor who almost spilling the tea in his hand, snapped his eyes towards the new arrival.
A man, taller than the doctor, leaned against the solid beams, a playful wink in his bright green eyes. He wore his black hair cut short, military John deduced, his handsome face without any hair. John was speechless as the man, clad only in a thin open shirt and a pair of trousers, sauntered over. John tried to keep the jealousy from clawing up his throat as the man, Mr. Jefferson, leaned behind the detectives chair.
"I'm addressing one at present," Sherlock muttered against his pipe, eyes traveling across the room.
"Won't you introduce me to your colleague?" The dark haired man smiled down at John in a friendly manner, the doctor's lips twitching in what seemed to him a grimace.
"Doctor John. H. Watson," John placed his beverage down, reaching out a hand. Common courtesy, nothing more. The mans grip was firm, something that caused the irritation to further press against his chest.
"Lieutenant Paul Jefferson. Holmes has spoken quite highly of you."
"A most invaluable companion," Sherlock interrupted rising a high note on the instrument. John felt his heart swell at those words, which had indeed been spoken before, but had never sounded so sincere as they did now. The sensation ruptured as quickly as it had formed, for the lieutenant reached from behind Sherlock and plucking the pipe from the detective's lips, something John had never attempted to perform.
"Old badger," Sherlock plucked the strings harder, eyes narrowing as the man emptied the pipe's ash in the fireplace. John raised a brow, trying to sort out these new turn of events and discovering that he didn't like it. Not one bit.
"Eat your breakfast, Holmes."
John watched with growing frustration as Sherlock (Sherlock never did as he was told) huffed but replaced his violin with a spot of bread laced with jam.
"You're eating." John managed trying to keep his voice under control as Sherlock licked the jam from his fingers. The detective gave his friend a blank stare, tongue sneaking out between his lumbrical. John felt a heat creep down into his abdomen, a blush rising in his pale cheeks.
"Are you living in London then, Doctor Watson?" the lieutenant asked, tearing John's gaze away from the man currently devouring the bread and jam.
"Yes. My wife and I have found a quiet home near the river Thames."
"Married then?"
"Yes. About half a year."
"Children?"
"No. Are you a family man, Mr. Jefferson?"
"Not for a long while, I hope."
John noted how those green eyes glanced towards Sherlock Holmes, how they lingered for a fraction too long. The doctors stomach flipped, his knuckles tightening on the hilt of his cane.
"Would you care to join us for lunch this afternoon, Doctor Watson?" Paul asked from the hearth, throwing a few more logs into the fire pit. " I would love to hear the tales—you were Holmes' biographer, or if you would allow, read some of your work."
" I must regretfully decline, I am meeting Mary this afternoon."
"Tea?" Sherlock disjoined rather rudely.
"No. We are going to look at furnishing for the new home."
" How pedestrian of you, Watson."
"Behave," Mr. Jefferson chastised, but it was more playful than demanding.
"How do you two meet, you and Holmes?" John probed, wanted answers as turned his conversation back to the lieutenant. Who exactly was this man to Sherlock Holmes?
"Its a rather intriguing story is it not, Holmes?"
"Most interesting," Sherlock agreed rather offhandedly, a handkerchief brushing the crumbs from his lips. The detective stood, walked over to John, a hand expertly snatching the doctors bowler atop his own head of dark locks. Sherlock glided to the window, brown orbs surveyed the aggressive streets below. His fingers tapped against his chest, without a steady rhythm .
"I was in London—an ex army lieutenant, looking for work, when I stumbled upon an article in the newspapers requiring young able bodied men to transport goods out of the city. I signed up-"
"A grievous mistake, old goat," Sherlock broke in earning a grin from the other man.
"I took the job but something didn't seem quite right-"
"The objects in question were highly dangerous materials being imported off from the Harbor, most sinister." Sherlock's finger drummed against his throat, mind deep in thought.
"I find my throat rather parched. Holmes, if you will." Paul grinned, as he took Sherlock's vacated chair, pouring himself a cup of the brew. John rested a hand under his chin, as Sherlock inhaled deeply.
"Right. As I was saying, most sinister. The cargo consisted of a most powerful chemical compound- aqua regia also know as royal water or kings water: an acid containing one part concentrated nitric acid and three parts concentrated hydrochloric acid. This chemical combination will attack most metals but most predominantly aurum or more commonly know to the masses as gold." Sherlock briskly walked to the back of John's chair, arms encircling the sides. John reached up, reclaiming his hat as Sherlock continued in a husky voice.
"Aqua regia dissolves gold, creating pure gold precipitate. It is a fine way of smuggling the metal—the gold contained in the acid causing it to resemble a common chemical which in turn can then be re-cast once extracted. John, is that a new cologne I sense on you- it doesn't suit you. Yesterdays was better, more..you and not so female. As I was saying, I was following a case, alone-" Sherlock's eyes drifted to John's briefly, giving off a highly offended sniff as the doctor squared his jaw rather tightly. " on the recent theft of gold jewellery. I followed a pair of shady goons- oh no need to look so concerned, Watson! I had my revolver. I believe, though can't quite recall, but no matter. I made my way to the Harbor to find myself in a situation."
"What situation, Holmes?" John asked, the breath of his friend close to his ear. He tried to keep the worry at bay, voice gently catching. He cleared his throat, blue eyes watching the lieutenant sipping his tea, green eyes observing Sherlock.
"A group of men fighting to the very death!" Sherlock bellowed, startling both men as he moved across the room, a sword suddenly in his grasp—most likely retrieved from under a pile of loose notes. John watched in amusement as Sherlock spun, blade slashing through the air, his foot work precise. John remembered that Sherlock had taken fencing lessons when still a child.
"I, seeing a fellow man in trouble jumped into the fray, saving not only the man before you, but managed to recover forty barrels of aqua regia and thus solving the case of the gold jewellery, not to mention bringing down a couple of high ranking mobsters in the process. Mr. Jefferson was in need of help, so I offered my assistance. He had been living in London, struggling to survive, and seeing as how my last flatmate abandoned me, I had a spare room available."
"I did not abandon you Holmes!" John growled, blush rising forth once more. " I got married."
"Tone, Watson. You'll upset the bird." Sherlock pointed the sword at John, examining the blade as if it were the most riveting thing on earth. A knock on the door broke off any further argument that may have occurred.
"Come in," chorused both Paul and John, each giving the other a glance as the intruder opened the door.
"Mr. Jefferson, is Mr. Holmes in?" A man, an officer of Inspector Lestrade, leaned in the doorway, looking slightly out of breath.
"He is. What is the matter?" Paul asked, voice concerned. John felt the rush of how it was when he and Sherlock had been summoned for a case, the same energy now filling the room.
"There's been a murder, sir."
Sherlock looked up from his sword, the weapon now sorrowfully forgotten. John saw the fire burning within his eyes, the slight twist of his lips, the straightening of the consulting detectives spine.
"Or rather murders," Sherlock all but purred, the sound drawing every eye to him. The man grasped hold of his scarf, the wool warm to his touch. Holmes smiled widely, John finding the grin rather distracting.
"Murders? How could you possibly-"
"Your pitch is off key when you uttered the word murder, your eyes keep darting across the room as if hiding something. Not very adroit, are you, no. Your hand is trembling, sweat beading at your brow. You just arrived, not by foot- the hems of your trousers are still dry, clearly you haven't walked on the cobbled streets so you must have taken a carriage, do to the obvious fact that London was plagued by rain fall, so hansom or cab. You arrived in hast. A murder in London- something must be erroneous; wrong; dreadfully most dreadfully wrong for you to be here at my door."
The man gaped at the detective, his hands wringing nervously.
"Tell me, is he right?" John pressed, addressing the officer..
"Indeed he is, sir."
"The nature of these unfortunate incidents? No, wait, don't tell me!" Sherlock rushed to grab a sheet of paper, spilling ink over a set of books in his urgency. " Write the address down. We shall follow right behind you."
"We?" John asked, prepared for another discussion about how they had worked their last case together, though John madly hoped his friend would ask for his company and assistance. He glanced at the officers scrawled handwriting, before looking back up into the brown eyes that shone like stars.
"Myself and Mr. Jefferson. We wouldn't want to keep you from your tea with Mary."
"Shopping." John cut in, his chest strangely hollow. He watched as Jefferson pulled on a coat, hurriedly fastening his buttons. Sherlock ran to and fro, gathering his possessions, oblivious to John's state of turmoil. "Surely you are in need of some assistance."
Sherlock paused to regard the doctor, his eyes unreadable, just like the man himself.
"Don't you have other pressing matters to attend to?" Sherlock catechized. His heart was beating wildly in his breast; having John's eyes boring into his own. He felt tingles run across his back, felt the sweat from at the nape of his neck. He didn't moved, didn't dare break the stare from icy blue. Sherlock felt the hurt itch, his heart reminding him of John stating he wanted nothing to do with any future cases. Yet here he was, in his flat, wanting to follow.
"No." Came the reply.
"Tea?" The retort echoed back.
"Shopping. I still have a few hours." John straightened, trying to appear unaffected by Sherlock's words. They stared at each other for what seemed a life time, before Sherlock sighed, waving a hand in the air.
"Do as you like." The detective muttered. John tried to smile, but a frown formed in its stead. He was not wanted? He shook the feeling off as the men bustled out of 221 Bakerstreet, vanishing into the brisk London city.