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Chapter 2.
After spending the night in the dilapidated warehouse Tony nosed around at first light for anything useful. The first two rooms he found were nothing but empty husks, broken furniture and rubbish everywhere. There was a lone door at the end of the short corridor that was locked: a quick kick to the rotting wood sorted that out, a smirk flickered across his lips after the dust settled. Jack-pot. Iron-Man case in hand he wondered in what looked like the remains of an office of some kind. Carefully setting the case on a desk he uncovered a small tin box containing a small collection of coins—he didn't how much-a rusty watch on a chain and (luckily) some old clothes and a flat-cap stuffed in a ratty sack. He emptied the sack, carefully putting the Iron-Man case inside and tying the top securely. Holding up the clothes he checked them for damage, he couldn't find any shoes but figured the trousers were a bit on the long side and would cover his trainers. Tony stripped quickly; his own clothes left in a pile at his feet, and tugged the old fashioned shirt over his body. The shirt fell just shy of his thighs and felt cool against his skin. He grinned to him-self: if any-one did happen upon him half naked they would be in for one hell of a show.
Fighting the bubble of laughter that was threatening to come out Tony lifted his head and caught sight of him-self in a broken widow, he frowned slightly: his arc rector was shining through the thin material of the shirt. Throwing open cupboards and digging around in boxes he pulled out a wad of cotton-wool and a couple of rolls of dusty bandages. Perfect. Quickly un-buttoning the shirt and slipping it off his shoulders he nabbed the pad of cotton-wool and placed it over his glowing heart, holding it in place with one hand and wrapping the bandages around his torso with the other. Once that was done he secured the strips of cloths with a safety pin and turned to admire his handy work. The glow of the arc reactor was dimmed by the layers and with the shirt and waist-coat no-body would see it. Nodding in approval Tony gathered up the remainder of his borrowed clothes and dressed; the shirt had a few little holes in the sleeves and was a little creased but other than that it was fine. The trousers and matching waist-coat were made of thick material that itched slightly but he could deal with it for a short while.
Popping in the ear-piece safely away he did a last time check for anything else he could use, finding nothing he quickly stuffed the money and watch into pockets, gathered up his clothes and putting them into the sack with the case. Lifting the bag over his shoulder Tony clambered down the rickety stair-case and, after taking a couple of deep breaths, inched the door open. A huge grin split his face and he eyes lit up with amazement. Last night on the roof-top the scene had been beautiful, but now in the daylight it, was even more breath-taking, even by his standards.
"Oi, watch where ya going, you idiot!" Tony span on the spot coming face to face with a big man with a heavily scarred face. The man took one look at him and instantly paled. "Oh, Mister 'Olmes! I didn't think you'd be back so soon. I know I shouldn't be here after what happen but…My old man…" He lowered his head with a sniff, "After he died he left 'is watch to me and..." Tony nibbled his lower lip and dug around the pockets; his fingers caught the thin chain and tugged it out. The man's eyes widened and watered at the same time. "Mister 'Olmes…you got it back?" He snatched the watch from Tony's fingers and snapped it open, eyes softening at the faded photo inside. "'To Freddie, love Martha.' That's me ma, see?" Tony inched closer and smiled: fair hair, playful eyes and good bone structure, Martha was a hottie. He nodded his approval and stepped back as the other pocketed the watch. "Well, 'Olmes, you seem a long way from home," he jerked a thumb to where a single pony stood hooked up to a beat-up cart, "you need a lift?"
After a short ride over the bridge Tony bid farewell to his new acquaintance (named Flynn) and joined the crowds mingling in the busy streets to a market-place of sorts. There was so much on offer ranging from meats and fish, vegetables, tools and rolls of cloth…nearly everything. His stomach chose that moment to growl. With a sigh he plucked a pie from table tossing a couple of coins to the vender with a wink. It appeared he was hungrier than he thought and polished off the pie in no time wiping his hands clean on his trousers. It was then he became aware of the three-some standing behind him. Turning his head slightly, catching them out the corner of the eye, and saw one of them jerked his head towards the mouth of an alley-way; Tony shrugged and followed.
He had just stepped into the darkened space when they pounced. One knocked his cap from his head childishly; another made a grab for the sack while the third shoved him backwards. Tony smacked against the wall, the back of his head bouncing off it so hard his vision whited out for a second, losing his footing, and slowly sliding down.
"Should never 'ave come back, 'Olmes." The thugs moved closer, chuckling darkly, cracking knuckles…
Tony frowned through his slightly blurred vision. There were four now? Where had the fourth come from? In between fighting the urge not to fall asleep or throw up, maybe both, he didn't pay that much attention to what happened next, but he did remember raised voices. All his focus was on the sack over the other side. With a sad whimper he crawled over and scooped it up in his arms, protecting it against his chest.
He must have closed his eyes because the next thing he knew there was a voice nearby talking to him in soft, heavenly tones. "Why is it that I know when you're in trouble? It's like a sixth sense or something." Two strong hands wrapped around his middle and pulled him to his feet. Tony rubbed the back of his neck as his saviour bent to pick his fallen cap from the road. There came a soft sigh and the hat was plopped back onto his head. "Not much of a disguise, old boy. You still look scruffy," The owner of the voice stepped into his line of sight and grinned, "but a smart scruffy."
Tony stared dumbly a head. Slightly taller and slimmer than him the stranger was leaning on a cane dressed in a three piece suit of grey under a brown trench coat. A smart top-hat perched at an angle on his head, which was such a shame as the brim nearly hid the most bluish-blue eyes ever. Tony studied him closely, the way he held him-self, the smart cut of his short hair and his neatly trimmed his moustache, something about him just screamed Army. Tony blinked, maybe the bump to the head was to blame but he thought the man standing in front of him, in his opinion, was gorgeous.
"My god. You hit the wall pretty hard, didn't you? Let me have a quick look." Two hands cupped Tony's cheeks and titled his head up, then down and then side to side. "Do you know who I am?" The man asked. "Holmes, it's me. It's Watson." Tony's eyes widened to the size of small plates. "Come on: home. I think you need rest."
Watson (Tony could hardly believe it!) sat opposite him on the way to Baker Street. Tony sat back against his seat watching Watson watching him. Watson coughed quietly and then, with-out warning, aimed a swift kick at Tony's shins.
"OW!" He shouted.
"Serves you right!" Countered Watson with a frown, "Do you have any idea what you've put me through? I've been worried sick! Mrs Hudson has been beside her-self. You left no note, no explanation, nothing! Once again you deliberately with–held your plans from us."
Tony looked at him, eyes big and round. "You were worried about me?" He asked his voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course I was. I always am when you disappear off the face of the Earth." Watson raised a brow and a quirk of a smile, the smile faded when Tony didn't answer. "Is something wrong?"
Tony swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. The look in John's eyes was genuine. This man…cared. His chest tightened, "Watson…" he murmured lowering his head a little. "Watson, I'm so sorry."
"Hey. It's alright. Holmes, look at me." Tony shrank back into his seat refusing to meet the others gaze, trying to plaster his chin on his chest. It was only when he felt a leather covered finger lift his chin up did he move. Brown orbs met blue that softened. "I'm not mad at you, my friend. I've known you too long, and know how to deal with your wandering moods. Just next time leave a note or something." John cupped his cheek a second time, the tenderness of the simple gesture made Tony's face heat up and his chest to tightened some more. "Promise me."
Tony gulped, suddenly lost in those sea-blue pools. He did manage a jerky nod, "I promise, Watson."
Watson nodded back, a small smile on his face and sat back. Tony folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, being lolled to sleep by the swaying of the carriage. He felt very tired and just wanted to sleep. Watson on the other hand wanted to talk. The doctor nudged his foot making him grunt in annoyance. He frowned darkly at him. "So, did you find what you were looking for?" Tony's frowned deepened. "For the case?" Watson clarified. "Did you find what you were looking for?" Blue eyes drifted off to land on the sack propped up beside Tony.
Oh! Tony cleared his throat and tried to imitate a British accent, hoping to sound like Holmes, "I did." Watson nodded and he gave him-self a mental high-five. He didn't sound that bad, a perk working with a sophisticated sounding AI butler, JARVIS would be proud. He gently patted the sacks' side. "Very important stuff. Needs my undivided attention when we get back home."
"Speaking of which, here we are." The coach stopped outside a row of houses, all painted white with black window frames and doors. Watson hopped out and paid the driver as Tony grabbed his bag and climbed out. "Welcome home, old boy." Tony cocked his head towards him and smiled. Watson started up the steps, upon reaching the door he stopped, turned and extended his hand with a grin. "Well, come on."
Across the road a pair of brown eyes peaked over the top of a newspaper, softening as Watson exited the coach but widening in shock when the doctor's companion stepped out. Impossible! But how? Watching the other flex and stretch from being cooped up in a tight space made a flush quickly cover their cheeks remembering the last time those muscles flexed in a completely different scenario entirely. As soon as Watson and Tony disappeared into 221B Baker Street Sherlock lowered the paper lightly tugging on his false beard. Folding the paper under his arm Sherlock started down the street and around a corner. If he was going to find out why Stark was here he would have to be sneaky and employ the services of a woman, more specifically, The Woman.
More soon.
How do you think it's going so far?