So, here's the longer one I've promised. Enjoy, and feel free to review! :-)
When John got up the next morning
(slightly stiffer than usual but trying to hide it, shouldn't sleep on a sofa for four hours, no dark circles under his eyes slept better than I expected can't be too upset about what I did, was serious about it yesterday, but is still here)
Sherlock was already dressed and looking through the files again
(where is the connection between the victims? He is trying to tell me something is it only that he knows I'm alive? must be more to it, he's too clever to convey but one message with this, where's the connection? not gender, not age, not profession, not heritage, not hobbies, not denominations, there's something I can't see).
"Did you get some sleep?" John asked
(concerned. Scanning my face for signs of tiredness, still concerned about my welfare, everything could be fine again, has to be fine again, it was so long ago but body held extremely straight, reserved feels awkward).
"No" Sherlock answered matter-of-factly
(he knew I didn't, only asked to make sure I don't miss the fact that he's concerned, knows that I sometimes miss those things, wants to show me we are fine, only does so after serious incidents. so it had been close last night, would him walking away have been deserved? Need to show I'm grateful he's still here).
Without taking his eyes from John he got up and called the reception
(young woman between twenty and twenty-four years old, from Salerno, parents with poor education, worked hard to get rid of that accent, lots of routine, bored, good at faking interest, has been working at the reception for two to five years)
for two cappuccinos
(which translates into "Are you still angry?" in normal people's language, normal people would talk about it, we aren't normal people but it needs to be discussed can't risk losing John now. he wanted cappuccino yesterday but didn't get it, will notice the gesture of good will)
John gave him a little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes
("Not angry, but disappointed.", angry would mean no smile at all, not disappointed would mean smile reaching his eyes as well, don't want him to be disappointed, angry is better, angry is yelling and blowing his cheeks in frustration, but disappointed is silence and absence of genuine smiles and being unsure)
and sat down at the table next to Sherlock
(unconsciously moving the chair away from me just slightly, disappointment runs deeper than he admits to himself, need to fix it, how? seldom tried to fix something like that).
Sherlock removed the cover from the scrambled eggs and shoved them in John's direction
(loves scrambled eggs for breakfast, but barely ever makes them for himself at home, always orders them at hotels, these are exactly as he likes them with chives and not too dry because I ordered them that way. "I'm sorry.").
John accepted them and skilfully piling them up on his toast
(another half-hearted smile that doesn't reach his eyes "I know.").
"So, what will happen now?" he asked, chewing the toast and eggs
(looking at the toast instead of me, but body now slightly leaning towards me, shoulders starting to lose tension, finally making eye contact, face open but still at guard. "Don't keep another thing like that secret from me!")
"Sebastian will let me know if he has seen me here. Until that, we'll wait."
(looking him straight in the eye again, completely open, no pretence, no faked emotions, deliberately not leaning closer to him, would think it's manipulation, movement on John's forehead tells me that he realises that I'm promising "I won't!")
"Well," John smiled a little, "there are worse places to wait for something than Rome, right?"
(hasn't made up his mind about the city just yet, always needs some time before falling for a place, but has already realised I love Italy, wants me to share it with him, "We're still friends, you know?")
"Absolutely. And as you've never been here before, it's imperative that we enhance your poor education by visiting at least a few of the more important sights."
(smile reaching his eyes now, sipping for the first time at the cappuccino I ordered, understands I want to share my love for Rome with him, knows I seldom do that, knows that I'm offering more than a guided tour, "I hope so.")
John reached for another slice of toast, shoving some of the food in Sherlock's direction in the process
(not accidentally, of course he noted I'm not eating, no need to voice it, discreet frown indicates he doesn't approve, so he still cares, not only concerned but actively convincing me to eat "We'll be fine!",)
and Sherlock pondered some of the fruit before obediently putting a single grape into his mouth
(only because John needs confirmation as much as I do "Yes, we will!").
The next three days had a touch of surreal. They were waiting for a signal coming from Moran, yet, as they couldn't speed up the process, they were able to enjoy something that felt a lot like ordinary holidays. It was like the quiet before the storm: peaceful, but bound to come to an end soon.
John had found out that Sherlock's love for Italy originated from very fond childhood memories of holidays the family spent there regularly before his father had died. After having revealed all about Sebastian Moran Sherlock was unusually eager to share his feelings and memories with John. Just like his father, Sherlock preferred the ancient Roman history to the Christian history, and so John had got his own private guided tour through ancient Rome.
The days were a constant switch between sightseeing and coffee breaks, during which Sherlock would scan any newspaper lying around for signs of Moran taking action again, while John would just let his mind wander and basically came to a rest he hadn't felt for a long time. The nights were spent at the restaurants, where Sherlock usually charmed the waiters into recommending only the best home-made dishes, sometimes even creating new dishes simply by telling them how important their opinion was to him.
Who would have thought that "Sherlock Holmes" and "holidays" were not two concepts that excluded each other?
At noon of the fourth morning, the peace came to its inevitable end. It happened rather fast: a call from Mycroft, a frown from Sherlock, and before John knew what was happening, they were sitting in a train heading towards Umbria.
Thanks to someone's influence they had a six-seat compartment on their own, and as soon as the train left Roma Termini Sherlock pulled a new folder out of a outworn bag that fit perfectly to the Barry-Smith-and-Otis-Elseworth-disguise they were still wearing. "House owner shot during burglary." he explained, handing the files over to John.
Written in Italian again. He sighed, but Sherlock was still in a very courteous mood. "Banker Ronaldo Adigi, killed last night inside his study. Door was locked from the inside, window wide open, a reasonable amount of money missing from his cash box. According to the police a burglary with accidental casualty."
"But we don't think so?" John asked, looking closer at the photographs attached to the file. Adigi had been shot in the head from behind, his desk a mess, the cash box lying open on the ground. "Why?"
Sherlock placed a map of Umbria on the small table. "Adigi lived here" he pointed at very, very small dot right in the middle of nowhere, "in a small aggregation of houses that belong to the community of this little village." He pointed at another small dot. John eyed the dots curiously. "So?" "It's the mountain village where my family used to spent the better part of the holidays. We owned a house there. Sebastian accompanied us a number of times."
Sherlock's eyes drifted out of focus for a moment. He seemed to watch the scenery outside the window, but John doubted that he noticed much of the landscape they passed on their journey to Valle Umbra. "We stopped going there when father died. Sebastian knows that I've always talked about returning there one day ..." "But you never did?" Sherlock just shook his head, and the rest of the journey was passed in silence.
When they arrived at the train station, the tiniest bus John had ever seen was already waiting for the passengers, and soon it was taking them uphill the serpentine, offering John a fascinating view of the valley they had just passed through, up to the little village located at the hill's peak.
More fascinating, though, was the expression it created on Sherlock's face. It was a faraway look, with a smile that made his eyes wrinkle a little. He seemed to lazily observe the surrounding, probably comparing them to those from his childhood memories, and made eye contact with John every other minute, his smile broadening every time he saw that John smiled back.
After only a short stop at the hotel (the best around, of course, but "only" four stars, what a pity) they finally arrived at the house of the Adigi family. Located in the midst of hills with olive groves, detached from the other houses, a perfectly idyllic place to live, had it not just been the backdrop of a brutal murder.
They had decided to continue using their journalist identities, but Sherlock had also made clear that some prejudices concerning the Italian police were not really prejudices and that Mycroft's involvement gave them unlimited access to the crime scene. Sherlock was already circling the house before the local police officer had a chance to greet John.
Carabiniere Pezzutto was a nice young man, eager to please them (who knows what he had been told – or what he had been given) and completely overchallenged with a homicide. "This is the first murder in our community in forty-seven years!" he explained as he let them into the house. "We've been told that we should not touch anything until you've seen it, so we didn't!"
He smiled at John, and if he thought this order to be weird, he never let it show. It was good that they didn't really had to act out their disguise, for no watcher would have believed Sherlock to be John's assistant. Unlike the Pantheon, this crime scene turned him from Undercover Avenger to Consultant Detective in mere seconds.
He hopped around excitedly, eyed the corpse at the desk with critical interest and disappeared for several minutes while John took some more time to look at the late Adigi. The upper part of his body was lying on the desk, his dead eyes wide open, the large, strangely smeared puddle of blood underneath his head turned to brown. Flies were buzzing around his head. It smelled. Italy in spring probably wasn't the right place to let a corpse lie around uncovered for a couple of hours.
"And?" Sherlock's voice suddenly asked right next to him, and John couldn't help but jump. Damn. He looked up quizzically. "And... what do you want to hear?" This of course brought him only an "Isn't-it-obvious"-look. "Tell me something about the victim!" Sherlock commanded, looking at him expectantly.
"Well..." John carefully considered what kind of answer Sherlock was looking for, then gave up and simply summed up everything he had gathered so far: "Shot in the back of his head, small bullet at high speed, dead for about six hours, um..."
"And now the brilliant part, please!" Sherlock prompted. "And that would be...?" It was always interesting to watch how Sherlock was able to express annoyance, arrogance and expectation at the same time.
"Tell me how we know that the murderer has not been in here!" Now Pezzutto came closer. "Er... sorry, but of course the murderer has been in here. Can't you see all the hints?" They both stared at him for a moment.
Sherlock took a deep breath, opened his mouth and John unobtrusively kicked his shin. "How did he get in, then?" Sherlock asked instead, with the nicest smile on his face. "Well, through the open window." "Without leaving any kind of footsteps on the freshly raked flower bed underneath the window? Without using the ladder that has not been moved in four weeks, according to the spider webs? Without disturbing the adhesive residues of a glass of coke that has been standing on the inside of the window sill three days ago?"
Poor boy, John thought. Pezzutto seemed to think the same. He started to sweat a little. The nice smile on Sherlock's face grew a little broarder. "And could you please tell us what you think the murderer has done in here?"
Pezzutto shrunk a little, but bravely ventured on: "Well, he shot Adigi in the head..." "Without making Adigi turn around at the sound of someone entering his room through the window? Without leaving gunshot residues?" The Carabinieri's eyes started to blink rapidly.
"Um...and... he took the money from the cash box and..." "What money?" "Excuse me?" Pezzutto squealed. He now seemed like he was close to fainting. Hopefully Mycroft's involvement meant lots of money for him, for he surely deserved it.
"You say the murderer took money from the cash box!" Sherlock explained very friendly and gestured to the little blue box lying on the floor next to the desk. "Why do you think so?" "Because according to the accounting book there should be at least 50.000 Euro more in it." Pezzutto looked like he instantly wanted to vanish from the face of the earth.
"Oh, the accounting book says so!" Sherlock mocked him, voice so friendly it raised John's hair. "Well, apparently Adigi would never fake the balance sheet, right? He surely had better ways to cover the fact that he was a compulsive gambler who had lost nearly all his private money, right?" Still smiling Sherlock produced several papers he must have collected when he had left the room for that few minutes: borrower's notes, bank statements, lottery tickets, tickets for horse racing.
Pezzutto just stared. Sherlock smiled back. "But the murderer ..." the Carabiniere stuttered, "he dropped the cash box on the floor and ..." "Otis?" Sherlock prompted, and John needed a second to realise he was meant. At least he knew now what he should have answered earlier on. "He got shot into the occipital lobe of the cerebrum. Theoretically nothing can be said against him surviving for a minute or two. He could also have been able to move his arms."
A brutal picture formed in his mind now, one that Sherlock must have seen at the very first look: Adigi had got shot in the back of his head, sunk to the desk, but had been aware of it at some level, trying to fight it, maybe trying to hold on to something, smearing his own blood all over the desk with his arms in his final death struggle, and with that pushing the cash box down on the floor.
John shuddered. He felt Sherlock's glance fixed on him and met his eyes. A brutal murder, just to show them Moran knew they were after him. There was no false friendliness in his voice anymore when Sherlock matter-of-factly explained: "You will find that the victim got shot from the empty house on the other side of the street using a special kind of long-range rifle. Never mind finding the sniper, we'll see to that!" And with that he left, John hurrying to stay by his side.
"No!"
Sherlock's angry voice made John wake up with a start. He sleepily looked at the alarm clock at the bedside locker. 4:12 a.m. With a sigh he got up – and stopped almost instantly in astonishment. When he had fallen asleep last night, Sherlock had been sitting at the table, head bent over the files he had collected. Now one entire wall of the hotel room was covered with sheets of paper and photographs. Some of them simply hung there, others were covered with Sherlock's surprisingly neat handwriting.
He himself had turned his back towards John and was muttering something unintelligible at an incredible speed. "You've been busy," John stated drily, which made the other man jerk. That was not good. A jerking Sherlock was barely ever a good sign. When he avoided to meet John's questioning glance the dreadful feeling in his stomach grew worse.
"I've been an idiot, and it is your fault!" Sherlock accused him, shaking his head in disbelieve. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?" John asked, moving closer. "I solved it!" "You found out what the victims had in common?" That should have been good, shouldn't it? Then why was John having the feeling that something was going terribly wrong?
"Sentiment" Sherlock spat at him. "I should have seen it so much earlier. But I didn't, because I didn't want to see it! Just like an ... an ordinary person!" He ruffled his hair in anger, then turned around to meet John's eyes. "I know exactly why these four people had to die!" Sherlock stated, his voice now barely a whisper. Instead of explaining he stepped aside and let John look at the papers hanging directly in front of him. Another very bad sign.
The vitae of the victims, all five in a row. In each of them, a single phrase was frantically circled with a pen several times. John frowned and stepped even closer. He skimmed over that of Lucia Mazzini, the woman who got shot at the bank robbery. The circle made of ink was curled around her profession. "Doctor".
Then his eyes wandered to the file of Julio Adessi, who died at the Pantheon. "Former soldier". Oh.
Romina Vendosso, the victim of the mafia gunshot. "Sister alcoholic" This was bad.
Then his eyes fell on the fourth person's vita. Ronaldo Adigi, the young banker who got killed here at home in a burglary. He looked at the single word inside the circle, and what had been an unpleasant mixture of astonishment and fear turned into a rush of anger. Really a much, much better feeling, he secretly admitted to himself. He furiously turned towards Sherlock. "What does that mean, "gay"?" he shot, and continued to study the sheet. "Here, look, he was semi-famous in Umbria for this blog he had! Why did you circle gay?"
"Oh," Sherlock said with his most insincere pleasing voice, "my mistake!" John glared at him, but he could have sworn that there had been the idea of a smirk on his friend's face. Sod! "All right then, why is your ex-John slowly killing me?"
Now Sherlock was all sober again, every hint of a smile washed away and replaced by something dark. "He's showing me his next victim." They stood in silence for a while, not really knowing what else to say. "Well," said John, "I think it's best if we start to ..." "That's why you are leaving in the morning!" Sherlock cut him off.
"I … what? Surely not! No way!" John looked at him in disbelief. He couldn't really think...With a swift move Sherlock turned around, literally running up and down the room, starting to randomly pick up things that belonged to John and piling them on the table. "Unacceptable," he murmured, then started speaking so fast John only understood single phrases like "leaving" and "Mycroft will arrange" and "won't happen".
"Sherlock," John tried to be noticed, but failed. His friend seemed to be completely out of reach now, still moving through the hotel room like a mad bouncy ball, talking to himself in sheer desperation. The pile on the table grew and grew. "Sherlock," John tried again, only to be ignored again.
He felt silent, just watched Sherlock for a few minutes, wondering if his friend could stop now if he wanted to. "I'm not leaving!" he quietly stated after an eternity. "Yes, you are!" Sherlock didn't even look at him. Didn't even hesitate for a second.
John hadn't been sure what he had felt before, but now it became clear to him that anger was rising in his chest. And Sherlock really gave him no reason to swallow it. "I don't know what you're thinking, but ..." he started sharply, and was cut off again. "Exactly. And you don't have to know. Just leave!"
Frustrated, John felt his hands clenching. "Oh, don't I have any say in what will happen to me?" He noticed that he was shouting now, but wouldn't back down now. Even though being the single goal of Sherlock's focused anger was not a good feeling. "No, you don't!" Sherlock shouted back, his eyes blazing, his hand clutching the glass he had just picked up from the table so hard his knuckles turned white.
That topped it off completely. "Who do you think you are?" John snapped at him, still too loud, still too angry. "Why do you think you can send me away like a stupid little puppy?"
"Because I CARE FOR YOU!" Sherlock yelled, and underlined his point with a glass forcefully smashed against the wall. Pretty dramatic, but it worked instantly to sober them both. John stared at him, his own anger melting away as he saw his friend trembling with exertion and ... fear?
"Listen," he said quietly, and when Sherlock averted his gaze he grabbed him by his shoulders, not willing to let him slip away now. "Sherlock, I'm not a damsel in distress, all right?" At least he got no audible objection here. "I've been a soldier. I've got a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. I'm not going anywhere!"
Sherlock just glared at him for a moment, still visibly excited. Then he shook his head. "Sebastian is highly unstable and extremely intelligent. There's no telling what he's going to do!" "Yeah," John sighed, "a personality profile I'm completely unaccustomed to!" That nearly got him a smile from Sherlock, who hadn't moved away after John had let go of his shoulders.
"John, I can't concentrate on catching him when I worry about you all the time!" he explained, but John shook his head almost instantly: "Well, I'd worry about you all the time if you sent me away now, and after spending nine months constantly worrying about you I'm really sick of it." Sherlock looked as if he wanted to comment on that, but then decided against it. They watched each other for a while.
"I'm not leaving you!" John then declared, quietly but final, and with that it was settled.
The plan had been simple but sound: They would go out after lunch, stroll around the village for a while, pretend to be interested in sightseeing but in fact get familiar with the surrounding and hopefully find a clue about where Moran might be hiding.
Taking his gun with him made John feel better, but not half as good as it seemed to make Sherlock feel. He was still pointing out how the village had changed in this spot and not at all in that, but his heart wasn't in it any longer. Instead his eyes were darting around, checking the streets they walked for hours for whatever hints he was hoping to find.
"It's a shame we're not here on holidays" John sighed, while Sherlock tried to pretend not to secretly enjoy the fantastic take-away ice-cream they had bought at the bar. "You like it here?" he asked, without stopping to watch everything around them simultaneously. "Yes, it's ..."
John stopped mid-sentence when a loud shot broke through the quietness of the afternoon. He instantly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head, and then something wet dripping down his neck. He froze with sheer panic for a second, and Sherlock staring at him with obvious horror didn't help. The world stood still, and every nerve cell in his body was firing with tension.
Then his brain kicked in, telling him that had he really been shot in the head he would already be lying at the ground by now, dying or dead. He reached for the liquid on his head and eyed it curiously. Yellow paint. He had been shot at by a paint gun.
By the time John had realised what had happened Sherlock was already running towards one of the nearby houses, only to spin around at full speed, grab John by his sleeve and continue his sprint into the house. The door wasn't locked, and within less than thirty seconds they were standing inside an empty room on the second floor.
On the ground there was a paint gun with a post-it attached to it. Two words were written on it: "I could".
John could feel the prospect of him staying in Italy dwindling down rapidly. He looked at Sherlock who was deducing whatever from the carpet or the ceiling or something. Or was pretending to deduce something so he wouldn't have to look at John. "I'm fine" John said lamely, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference, for Moran had made his point clear: There was no way John would be safe, no matter what they did.
When there was nothing more inside the room that could possibly be deduced, Sherlock reluctantly glanced at John with an odd expression on his face. "We'll return to the hotel!" he stated flatly, and John only nodded.
They walked back in silence. Sherlock was still holding on to John's sleeve, a gesture that would have made John smile had he not just been demonstrated how serious the threat to his life was. Back inside their suite they checked each room carefully before Sherlock finally let go of John.
"I need to think" he declared, sinking down on the sofa. John nodded: "I'll go and get the paint out of my hair!" He got no response, but hadn't expected any. Sherlock seemed to be deeply lost in thought already, so he went into the bathroom to wash his hair.
Into the bathroom they had just checked out together. Only that two minutes ago there had not been another post-it sticking on the shower cubicle. "8 o'clock, Taverna Del Teatro" it read. John grabbed his gun, but before he could call for Sherlock, his world went black.
Thanks to everyone reading and following so far, you usually make my day.
My eternal thanks of course to my three wonderful beta-readers GoSherlocked, LizNight and Bev. Thank you so very much!