John felt a little uncomfortable as he rang the doorbell, Sherlock standing behind him quietly. A few moments later, an attractive woman in her late fifties opened the door.
"Mrs. Baresi? I don't know if you remember me. Dr. John Watson? We met once, after Paolo's Achilles' tendon surgery?" John made his expression into his friendly doctor one.
Her dark eyes warmed with recognition. "Oh yes, Dr. Watson! Please come in." She opened her door wider, and gestured for him to enter.
The terraced house had been extensively remodeled, making the interior very modern and beautifully decorated. John took a seat on a plush sofa, with Sherlock sitting beside him.
"Mrs. Baresi, this is my friend Frank." He kept the introduction simple, and felt relieved when the woman nodded at Sherlock, with no apparent signs of seeing through his disguise, as she sat down near them.
"Please, call me Greta. Shall I make us some tea?" Her English had a light Italian accent.
John shook his head. "No, thank you. I just wanted to stop by to say how sorry I am for your loss."
Her gaze dropped, her posture wilting slightly, before she looked back at John. "That is kind of you. I am still having a hard time believing he is gone."
"I didn't know him that well, but I could tell he was well loved by you, the rest of his family and his fans. He had a great career." John said softly, not wanting to press too far. This woman was obviously still mourning her son.
She shook her head, pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her eyes. "His career." She sighed, looking back at John. "He should have retired a couple years ago, but he kept pushing for more and more. That's what killed him."
"Why didn't he retire? I could see he wasn't doing as well when I operated on his knee last year. I encouraged him to consider it then." John shifted forward, really wanting to hear her side of this. It had been troubling John for a long time.
Greta shifted, leaning back in her chair, and crossing her legs. She looked around the room, and waved a dismissive hand at it. "All this. We were poor, and Paolo loved his success. Loved the money and fame. The lifestyle. He insisted on moving me into this fancy place, and bought a designer flat with his model fiancée. Always the finest for him."
"But Felicity wasn't pushing him, was she? Was she discouraging him from retiring?"
She shrugged a shoulder. "I think she really loved him, but would she stick around if he couldn't keep up their lifestyle? I'm not so sure. And neither was he."
John was grateful she was being so open with him. Perhaps it was because he had known Paolo at his peak, before he was with Felicity. Plus, John had a friendly manner as a doctor that had patients and their families trusting him.
"So, do you think he put his health at risk, trying to stay a professional athlete so long? Was he doing dangerous things?" John asked, and noticed Sherlock stiffen up beside him. He had been remarkably quiet this whole time, letting John take the lead.
She lifted the handkerchief to her face again, her body trembling slightly.
John instantly felt horrible. "Oh, Mrs. Baresi...Greta...I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked you all these questions. It isn't my place. We should go." He shifted to stand up.
"No, stay." Greta said, her voice breaking slightly, as she waved John to stay seated. She took a moment to collect herself, taking some calming breaths as she mopped up her tears. "It is good for me to be able to talk about this with you. You understand the medicine, you knew him."
John nodded, trying to keep her talking.
Greta glanced away, sighing. When she met his glance again, her eyes were sad yet resigned. "Paolo was my dear boy, but I think he was foolish those last couple years. He went to that chemist, I forget his name...that I understood. He has a good reputation in the league. But the others..." She just shook her head.
"So, he was getting treatments, procedures, from other people? Not just that chemist?" John leaned forward, wanting to grab her hands, anything, to encourage her to say more.
She nodded. "He wasn't telling me everything, at the end. He knew I didn't approve. I thought of going to his fiancée, talking to her, get her to convince him...but I left it too late." She dabbed a lone tear that ran down her cheek.
John did take her hands now, squeezing them gently. "You raised him well, gave him so many great opportunities in his life. He worked hard to get where he did, thanks to the values you imbued him with. I work with a lot of athletes, and Paolo was a very special man."
He was sincere in his comments. Paolo had done incredibly well in his career, but had also given back a lot. He worked with young athletes, and was a spokesman for many charities. He had been a warm, generous man.
She nodded, clearly appreciating his words. Sherlock touched John's back lightly, and John looked at him.
With a final squeeze, he let go of her hands. "Thank you for speaking with us today. I'm looking for my own answers to what happened to Paolo, and you have helped me a lot."
She walked them to the door, giving John a quick hug in goodbye. She simply nodded at Sherlock as he guided John out the door, clearly thinking they were a couple, and Frank was there for emotional support. It raised fewer questions, so John left the impression alone.
...
Walking back to the flat from the station, John wasn't even that surprised that Sherlock was holding his hand. They had been doing it most of the day, and it was probably best to stay in character as much as possible. It was hard to know when they could be seen by someone they knew in public areas.
It felt oddly right, somehow. Sherlock's grip was firm, but not too tight to be uncomfortable. They navigated easier through the crowds, leading each other past slower walkers.
It was handy now, tugging on Sherlock's hand to get him to stop walking. He gave John a questioning look.
John glanced towards the secondhand clothing store nearby. "I think we could get you some other clothes for your stay. Then I can return the borrowed ones."
Sherlock tugged at the ill-fitting garments with a look of distaste. "I thought anything would be better than this, but used clothing? Used by strangers?"
Rolling his eyes, John just tugged him into the shop. "Don't be such a snob. The clothing is all washed and in good condition."
It was a good-sized store, bustling with customers of all ages. Energetic instrumental music was playing over the store speakers, a chaotic mix of drumming, accordion, violin and band instruments. John steered Sherlock to the men's clothing area, seeming unfazed as he started pulling out clothing. He heaped the pieces in Sherlock's arms, sorting quickly through several racks.
"John..." Sherlock groaned, as he put another shirt on the pile. "I'm only staying a few days. I don't need a whole new wardrobe."
Chuckling, John pulled him over to the change rooms. "Some of it might not fit you right or look good. Plus some of it is for me." He unloaded the clothing, hanging things on two separate hooks as he went.
Taking the items off one hook, John gave him a stern look. "Try those on and show them to me. I'll be right next door." He closed the curtain.
Sighing, Sherlock put on the first outfit. Everything seemed just as awful as what he was wearing before, all scratchy natural fibers in faded medium tones. Loose fitting tunics, jumpers, and trousers with drawstring waists. Hideous.
Sherlock dutifully let John see each selection on him, standing patiently while John pulled and prodded him, tutting over the clothing. Sherlock's complaints were ignored.
Finally, John seemed satisfied, and went to the counter with a pile of folded items. When Sherlock pulled out a credit card, John shook his head and pulled out his own. As the cashier finished the transaction, John leaned in closer. "Better not use your credit cards. They are traceable."
The whisper had Sherlock nodding in agreement. But having John close like that just made him want more. Tentatively, he wrapped an arm along John's lower back, resting a hand against his hip. It felt good when instead of pulling away, John leaned against his side, passing a clothing bag to Sherlock to carry while he took his own.
He had never walked down a street like this with someone, hips nudging against each other, matching John's stride. In sync with each other. It was a day of firsts...waking up with someone, holding hands, and now this. All in the safety of this odd situation. He could try things he normally wouldn't.
Back at John's flat was another strange situation. It was so much different from his own, John's lifestyle so much different. He watched, fascinated, as John unpacked their purchases and then peaked in the refrigerator.
"Are you OK with eggs and cheese? I was thinking of making an omelet and a salad for supper." John said, looking over at his shoulder at Sherlock.
Sherlock's hands stopped undoing his trousers. "Um, sure, that's fine." He went back to changing into some new clothes, leaving the borrowed clothes on a chair. John wanted to wash them before giving them back.
Awkwardly, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. "Can I help?"
John set out a chopping board and a knife. "How about you cut these up for the salad?" He rinsed some vegetables in the sink, and placed them on the counter.
Sherlock picked up the knife, and carefully started cutting things up, adding them to a large bowl John put out. He felt very aware of him standing nearby, whisking some eggs.
Chuckling, John put his hand on Sherlock's forearm. "Hold on a second..."
Setting down the knife, Sherlock gave a frustrated noise as he turned towards him. "Am I chopping them wrong? I'm not much of a cook."
John had a small smile as he shook his head. "No, no...you're doing fine. It's just that you are still wearing these. Funny how you seem to have gotten used to them." He reached up with both hands, pulling Sherlock's glasses off slowly.
Sherlock had taken off the cap as soon as they were back in the flat, and had changed clothes, but completely forgotten about the glasses. He looked down at John as he set them on the counter.
John's eyes were such a deep blue in the soft light of the kitchen, as he returned Sherlock's gaze. "It's nice seeing your eyes easier again, and your hair...". He pushed a hand into his curls, and Sherlock gave a small moan.
With a soft swear, he leaned in, kissing John firmly. All the little touches and looks all day had built up, a simmering hunger for this man. "John, please...," he moaned, kissing down his neck.
John tipped his head back, his hand still in Sherlock's hair. "Please what?"
"Please come to bed. Right now. I can't wait any longer." He bit softly into his skin, feeling John shudder against him. Still, he waited, not sure. John had turned away from him this morning. Would he again, despite the obvious attraction between them? Were things too much of a mess in Sherlock's life?
John's hand clenched in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back to deliver a deep, long kiss. "Bed. Naked. Now." He growled, his eyes dark with need.
Sherlock's arousal kicked into high gear at the words, and seeing that familiar look of pure want on John's face. In this, they had always connected so incredibly, and he was ecstatic John still felt it.
They abandoned their half-finished food preparations, practically running to the bedroom to strip and drop onto the sheets naked. Wonderful. Sherlock pulled John closer, determined to make him see stars before he was done with him.
...
"Are you really going to sit right there?" John chuckled, as Sherlock pulled his chair right next to his and plunked down on it.
It was a couple hours later, and only rumbling stomachs had been enough to drag their exhausted bodies out of the warm cocoon of blankets. They only pulled on briefs, stumbling to the kitchen to finish making the quick meal.
Sherlock shrugged, pouring them both some wine. "You are left-handed, I'm right-handed. I think this works fine."
John laughed again, loving how unapologetically clingy Sherlock was acting. They were sitting on the same side of the tiny cafe table, Sherlock pressed against his right side. If this kept up, by the next meal, he could put the food on one plate for them to share. It was ridiculous, but he liked it.
Maybe it was just the endorphins from the great sex, even more spectacular for having things build up over the last 24 hours. They had both needed a release of all that sexual tension. Being around each other so much was bound to intensify things.
Perhaps Sherlock was acting like this due to the extreme situation; being together so much, and having John's help in his time of need. If everything went well, and they figured out what really happened, would any of these feelings last? Would Sherlock still feel like this when he was back in his own flat, back in control of his life?
John wondered about his own feelings too. Would they last when they went back to their regular lives? Was the danger and excitement feeding into it?
As he enjoyed his Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet, John savoured Sherlock's company. While he was here, John might as well enjoy it. He would try to guard his heart from getting too deeply involved, hold back until they were out of this situation.
After dinner, they washed the dishes, and went back to bed. It had been a long day, and it wasn't surprising how quickly they fell asleep in each other's arms.
...
The writing went a little better this week. I may post another chapter by the end of the weekend. Thanks for reading.