When John woke up the next morning, he was not at all surprised at the position he found himself in. They had shared a bed before on several occasions, and he already knew that Sherlock Holmes didn't just lie in a bed. He inhabited it.
So John woke up on the edge of the bed, without blanket or pillow, bound to fall out should he move another centimetre. Sherlock, on the other hand, was stretched over the entire rest of the bed, both blankets wrapped around his torso in an impossible knot, his arms outstretched from one side of the bed to the other, his head resting on John's pillow, his belly resting on the other one.
Sometimes, John somehow wished that situations like that would surprise him or make him feel more uneasy, but they didn't. So, instead of complaining, he got up and crept into the living room. There, on the table, breakfast had mysteriously appeared, and with it two bags filled with clothing, wallets and two tubes of dye. John eyed them curiously. One of them read "Dark copper blonde", while the other was labelled "dark auburn". Which, according to the pictures, simply meant "brown" and "red".
"The secret of hiding is decency" he heard Sherlock's voice from behind. "If someone was looking for us they would search for a tall dark-haired man in expensive clothing and a small blonde one in jeans and jumpers. We won't need that much of a disguise to hide!"
So, after a bathroom session that must have looked a lot like what Harry had been doing with her friends when she was 14, John was successfully turned into a redhead. Sherlock had straightened his now brown, no, dark copper blonde hair, and styled it into a side parting. That in combination with the faked round glasses and the jeans-and-jumper-outfit made him look several years younger and alarmingly innocent. John on the other hand found himself dressed up, trousers and shirt probably costing more than all the clothes he owned together.
He secretly had to admit that he liked the look. And he liked the way the perfectly fit white shirt and black trousers felt on his skin. Incredible how comfortable looking good could be if you only invested enough money. No wonder Sherlock always wore stuff like that. A bit scary though that Mycroft had been able to have perfectly fitting clothes tailored without ever having John measured.
"So" John wondered while they were having breakfast (which meant that John was having a wonderful luxurious breakfast and Sherlock was having a cup of coffee he drank while ignoring the rest of the rich offering) "how will we get access to the crime scene?" "Oh, boring" Sherlock answered dismissively. "A member of the local police office will be waiting for two British journalists this afternoon. All we'll need are faked IDs, with press cards and an old fashioned camera. You'll be..." He grabbed the wallets from the bag and poked into them. "...Otis Elsworth, London Times journalist, and I will be...Oh!" His face fell, disgust spreading all over it "Barry Smith, your trainee. Damn Mycroft!"
Curious, John picked up his wallet and inspected the fake cards inside it closely. Many included pictures of him, always dressed up nicely and with red hair, though the hair style changed slightly from picture to picture. There was even a photograph attached that showed him with his...wife and three children, all five of them grinning happily into the camera. Creepy.
"Barry! Can you imagine me being called Barry?" Sherlock ranted on meanwhile. "What can you possibly achieve in life with a boring name like Barry?" John gave him a somewhat sour look: "Well, you do remember my real name, do you?" Arrogant sod. "Oh, come on," Sherlock shrugged the matter off "you got rightfully saved from ordinary by that funny Robert Louis Stevenson-like second name your parents gave you!"
Camouflaging themselves might have been a quick thing, travelling to Italy without being easily traceable wasn't. It was a good thing that John liked going by plane, for their flight plan from Spain to Italy included so many stops and different planes it would have been a nightmare for someone afraid of flying. They first went to Hungary ("Oh, right, you don't speak Hungarian, for whatever reason!"), then to Sweden ("Really? Not a single sentence?"), then to Morocco ("No Arabic language at all?"), to Greece ("Not even ancient Greek?"), Albania ("Oh, please, you should know at least one of the languages spoken here!") and finally entered Italian airspace on a scheduled flight from Moscow ("Then how can you ever be helpful when we have to deal with organised crime from Russia?").
When the plane landed, Sherlock was still sulking due to John's very determined reaction to the last question regarding his language skills and had therefore disturbed a promising flirtation with a good-looking stewardess by telling her why exactly her daddy had never loved her and that justifiably so.
With their luggage being picked up at the airport by the hotel, they were able to take the train to Roma Termini without delay, and only when they got out there at Rome's main station John fully realised that they were in Italy. Not only due to the sunshine and the summer-like temperatures, so unlike London that time of the year. It was like an explosion of noise and people and smell, such a huge contrast to all these months John had spent caught up in his daily faked mourning routine. He didn't know where to look first, what to take in, what to blank out, his senses nearly completely overwhelmed, his brain trying to cope with the fact that he didn't understand a single word of all the exciting chatter around him. It was fantastic.
One look at Sherlock confirmed that he was deeply enjoying all this, eyes were darting around feverishly, surely taking in all details at once, but with no need to blank out anything, probably understanding what was said all around him, completely like a duck in the water, a satisfied grin on his face.
For a while John allowed himself to just drift while following Sherlock, moving through the crowd oblivious to the way, not trying to understand the people around him, just taking in the atmosphere. The whole place was buzzing with life. God, had he missed excitement!
Sherlock led their way down to the metro, impossibly deep underneath the city, an endless sequence of escalators and turns, crowded beyond compare, and more than once John had to speed up not to get lost. Reaching the platform seemed to take an incredible amount of time, even though Sherlock dashed his way through the crowd, but John enjoyed every second of it. He finally felt alive again.
And out of training! Sleep deprivation and undernourishment had left their traces, he hated to admit. Sherlock seemed to be unaware of his panting, or maybe he was just ignoring it. Didn't matter, anyway.
Inside the cramped metro they were squeezed against each other, and Sherlock used the closeness to fire random deductions into John's ear, so fast John could barely follow. "Couple over there: Both betraying their partners!" "That business man: on his way for an important meeting but knowing he's under-prepared!" "Watch out for your wallet, I've seen at least three pickpockets around!" "This woman: mother of three at least, married twice, working for a bank, diabetic, watch out, she's looking for husband no 3."
John giggled, the feeling of joy intensifying when he noticed the happy gleam in Sherlock's eyes. They both had missed each other's company badly.
When the doors of the tram opened, Sherlock dashed out at once, John close to his trail. They pushed through a crowd of tourists, businesspeople and thieves, making it from Piazza Barberini to the Pantheon in merely ten minutes.
They stopped at the crowded Piazza Della Rotonda in front of the ancient building that looked somewhat more dingy than John had imagined. Sherlock's lecture on the Pantheon had been broad, and somehow John felt that a building that had once been dedicated to every god there was and that still served as a church should look more glorious.
"It looks a lot more impressive from the inside," Sherlock had prompted the unspoken thought as they trailed around the building in one complete circle. "How did you..." John bit his tongue almost instantly, but it was too late. "Oh, a clever observation of your eye movement and the way your shoulders slumped slightly. Easy!" It looked even more ragged from behind, with parts of the back wall crumbling away and grass growing on the spurs. "Don't worry. Like I've pointed out already, the inside is more impressive than this. Just like that telephone thing in the TV show you forced me to watch."
John grinned. "Are you trying to make a reference to pop culture?" "Yes. Must be your bad influence." He grimaced in slight disgust, while John just shook his head. "You know, these references would be a lot more pointed if you would bother to remember the names of the shows." Last time that had happened on a case it had taken John nearly twenty minutes to find out which show Sherlock meant when he said "the one with all the lousy actors".
When they reached the square in front of the Pantheon again, Sherlock wordlessly hopped up the stairs of the Egyptian obelisk, came to a halt on top of them (less dramatic than usual, due to the jeans-and-jumper-outfit) and just stared at the scene around them for an eternity. Very exposed for someone who was hiding from the world, but then his confidence in their disguise seemed to be endless, so it didn't really matter. Did it? Knowing all attempts to reach him now would be in vain, John simply settled down next to him, secretly happy about a chance to sit and rest.
It was a wonderful day, warm and sunny, and even though the place was crowded with tourists the atmosphere was calm and easy. The women weredressed lightly. He really liked Italy, he decided. Every now and then could he hear some sentences in English, mostly people complaining about not being allowed inside the Pantheon for two days in a row. Probably Mycroft's doing.
About half an hour later Sherlock suddenly leapt out of his frozen state and jumped down the five steps. "Come on, Otis!" he yelled, smirking, and John was barely able to follow in time. In front of the entrance a police car had parked, and an important looking man had got out of it. It must be their contact, John thought, thinking he was waiting for two journalists who wanted to see the crime scene before all evidence would be destroyed and the Pantheon opened for the public again the next day.
"Remember, I'm only your trainee who is here to take photos of the excruciating crime scene, so you have to approach the Commissario first. And the longer you can keep him talking, the more time I'll have to do the real investigation!" Sherlock whispered into his ear as they approached the man. As if they hadn't talked about it twice already. He went past Sherlock to introduce them without bothering to answer that.
Once inside, John couldn't help but stare at the enormous dome. Sherlock had been right, it was impressive. Commissario Mandini laughed. "Beautiful, isn't it?," the Italian remarked, waiting for John to finish taking in the scenery. The only light in the enormous room came from the hole at the top of the dome – the oculus, he reminded himself – through which you could see the blue sky. Directly beneath it there was the painted shape of the dead watchman. Too dramatic to be a coincidence?
"So," John said, while Sherlock was running around the hall on his own already, "what exactly happened here?" Mandini sighed. "Around three in the morning, four men somehow entered the Pantheon. They opened the tomb of King Vittorio Emanuelle II with force and took out the remains." Thinking about the fact that the king had been dead for one hundred and thirty four years, that could not have been a pleasant task. John shuddered. "Do you have any idea of why they would have done this?"
Mandini shook his head. "I must admit that we don't know. Vittorio Emanuele II is important to us, of course, but there was nothing inside that tomb besides his body. And to be honest... If you want to steal bodies from the Pantheon, why not start with Raphael's, for example?"
John looked at the marble wall that had been opened with sheer force. Sherlock had just thrown a superficial look at the site a few moments before. "This must have been extremely loud. Is this why the security team came in?" "Well, no," Mandini admitted "but that's not a surprise. Actually, just like the residents, the security team has been informed by a faked ministerial letter that there would be some disturbances at night due to construction works at the piazza." He reached inside his pocket and fished out a very formal looking piece of writing. "Barry, over here!," John shouted, wanting Sherlock to have at least a look at it.
But again, Sherlock only took a quick glance. He dutifully took a picture of it and dashed off almost instantly. While Mandini kept on talking about the historical relevance of the other people buried here, John kept an eye on his trainee. He was not showing any real interest in the crime scene any longer. Either he had already gathered everything he needed to know, or ...Well, there was no "or", really. Was there? "Any idea who could have sent this letter?" Mandini shook his head uncomfortably: "No, there were no traces at all. Nobody has seen it being delivered either."
"So, the alarm was turned off, you said?" John asked, curiously. "Yes," Mandini confirmed, "and again I'm afraid we don't know how or by whom." John considered that for a moment. "But if the security wasn't alarmed by the noise and wasn't called in by the alarm system, why did they enter the Pantheon at all?" By now, the Commissario was looking as uncomfortable as possible without actually squirming. "Well, one of them, Giulio Adessi, had a ... hunch. He insisted on checking out the building once more!"
Oh. "Julio Adessi was the victim, wasn't he?" Of course John knew that already, but he was still pretending to be an interested journalist and not a voluntary crime chaser who got his information directly from the British government. "Yes, poor guy." Mandini must have seen the suspicion in John's eyes, for he quickly continued: "My people have checked up on him closely. His work was nothing but exemplary. Served for ten years, but left the forces after his last tour to Sudan in 2006. Worked for one and the same security firm afterwards, never attracted any negative attention."
John kept recording it all, wondering about the incident and only partly paying attention to what Sherlock was doing. Still, something appeared odd about his friend's behaviour. He just couldn't put his finger on it right now.
After only seven minutes, Sherlock signalled him secretly. He was finished, and without waiting for John to keep up he dashed out. John sighed inwardly. Leaving Commissario Mandini abruptly would surely cause suspicion, so he kept talking to the man, feigning interest, while in fact he wondered why this hadn't taken Sherlock more time.
Sherlock had insisted on going somewhere else, and so after wandering the streets of Rome for a while, they ended up in a café right next to the Colosseum. Sitting in the sun, John just let his thoughts flow aimlessly, taking in the scenery, while Sherlock seemed to be lost in heavy thinking. A cute Italian waitress broke the peace after some time.
"Che cosa prendono?," she said, obviously ready to take their orders. John opened his mouth, but of course Sherlock was faster. "Due espressi, per favore e una pasta per lui. Quale ci consiglia?" Looks like he was completely out of her focus now, for she turned her full attention to Sherlock: "La torta alla fragola è fatta in casa. È molto buona." He nodded approvingly. "Perfetto!" "E per lui?" "Gracie, non prendo niente!"
All John had understood was "espressi" and "pasta". "Well, I ..." "Yes, I know, and pasta means something like pastries, so don't worry, I did not order noodles for you at three in the afternoon." "And you knew I wanted something sweet because..." "You were staring at the other plates with apparent longing. You were also staring that way at the cappuccino those Swedish tourists are having, but as it is only meant for breakfast in Italy you will surely prefer the espresso I ordered."
When John, who would have very much wanted a cappuccino anyway, thank you, refused to show conviction, Sherlock stated: "Really, ordering cappuccino after twelve is like attaching a mistletoe above your door on Easter Sunday! You wouldn't do that either, would you?" "To be perfectly honest, yes, I would have ordered it anyway. Had I had the chance, that is!"
"I'll store that knowledge in your room" Sherlock tutted and shook his head, probably still wondering how John could even have dared to consider drinking cappuccino after midday. "My what?" John looked at him curiously. "Your room. In my mind palace. Oh Otis, please try to keep up, will you?"
"I have my own room there?" John felt vaguely honoured. "Apparently. It used to be a wing, but I reduced it!" Oh. Well, leave it to Sherlock to make sure that feelings like that won't last. John did his best not to let his shoulders slump. Don't be silly, he told himself, most people probably don't even have a...
"You started with a box, like everyone else. But then I had to store more and more information on you, because you're so fascinatingly unpredictable. Your reaction to body parts in the fridge, for example. Toes drove you crazy, a head only made you shake yours. I made up a whole new box only for that. You are so much more interesting than other people."
"Well" John started, pleased, but Sherlock was far from being finished. "So first I built an extra shelf for you, then added a whole room, but information still kept coming in. I never want to delete anything I learn about you, and before I noticed it, the room had become a wing."
"That's flattering," John admitted, "but why did you ..." That earned him another "John, please"-glance. "Flattering? Apparently your mediocre middle class childhood has prevented you from ever living a house that is big enough to have wings." Now was he getting compliments or was he being insulted? John kind of lost track, but Sherlock seemed far from noticing and would continue talking anyway.
"Wings are cold and empty, while you are warm and caring. So I reduced the wing to a well heated living room again, with a comfortable armchair beneath the big window. One of those that face south-west, so the gentle evening sun permanently creates bright spots on the soft carpet and being there makes you feel safe and at home. I was fighting with the narrowness of space but solved it by including bottomless boxes."
A compliment, then. One that hit home. John smiled at him, a smile that widened when he saw Sherlock flushing ever so slightly. "I spent an unreasonable amount of time there after I left London" he admitted. Somewhat at a loss for words, John simply patted his friend's arm affectionately.
Then, when their order came, he braced himself for the inevitable posh lecture on why ordering cappuccino after midday was a really comprehensive school thing to do. But when he let it wash over him, he started to think about their visit to the Pantheon again. Why had Sherlock been that fast in investigating the scene?
When he looked thoughtfully at Sherlock their eyes locked for a moment, and John knew that within a split second his friend had deduced exactly what John was thinking. To his surprise, Sherlock looked away quickly again for a moment, then shook his head ever so slightly. All right, not here, then. John slightly nodded in return and they continued talking about Italian eating habits and the advantages of a mediocre middle class childhood. A stranger wouldn't have realised that something had been discussed between the two of them, a discussion that would have to be finished later, in private.
A big thank you to all those who follow, reviewed or favoured this story!I'm very glad you like it. Reviews are more than welcome, by the way. :-)
Biggest thanks of course to my wonderful beta-readers GoSherlocked, Liz Night and Bev for encouragement, support and everything else.