For John, the day passed pleasantly enough.
He ate his bread and cheese, put the finishing touches on his painting of the Rue St. Michel, cleaned his windows while he waited for it to dry, and then carried the painting to the market where he promptly sold it to Madame Hudson, the widow who owned the boulangerie-patisserie across the street.
He had quite a fondness for Madame Hudson, so he gave her the painting for far less than he normally sold his work for. She gave him a shrewd look when he acquiesced too early in the haggling process, and asked him to help her carry the painting back to the boulangerie. When he agreed, she promptly stuffed him full of brioche and gossip and sent him home with a fresh baguette.
Once safely ensconced in his studio, he started sketching out a new painting of the Pont Neuf, but the clean lines of the bridge started to morph into the sweep of Sherlock's forehead curving into his temple the longer John sketched.
Putting it aside with a sigh and a stretch, he nibbled on some baguette, took a brief but brisk constitutional, and tucked himself into bed with a book. When he was tired, he blew out the candle and went to bed, falling asleep with the long forgotten feeling of excitement he remembered from his childhood: when tomorrow was Saint Nicholas's day, and he had just left out his shoes for presents.
Sherlock did not have such a peaceful day.
Oh, it started out well, as most bad days do. He sauntered home while munching on his sandwich for which he garnered shocked looks, something he always enjoyed.
Honestly, the social taboo about eating and walking was just silly. It was efficient to combine tasks, and Sherlock, with his impeccable grasp of table manners, could certainly delicately enjoy a sandwich while walking and not choke or spill on himself like an infant.
He was feeling smugly superior to everyone who was unable to eat while walking, the sun was shining and the flowers in the Tuileries were in bloom. Normally, these things had no real bearing on Sherlock or his circumstances, or any case he was on, and thus would have been judged irrelevant.
But today, these things conspired to put him in a good mood, he told himself. Nothing to do with his new acquaintance.
It was a funny thing, that drawing. Not a perfect likeness, no. But there was something there, a beauty he was unused to seeing in himself.
He paused to use a pane of glass in a shop's window as a mirror, mentally noting the large panes. The shopkeep must have recently come into some money to have such large pieces of glass newly installed. He was certainly attractive, he knew that and used it like a finely wrought stiletto, but beautiful? He'd never considered himself so but in the sketch he'd looked positively Byronic.
A flicker of movement behind him and he stiffened minutely. Two men, across the street, watching him with careful eyes.
Ah, a tail! If he wasn't a blasphemous atheist and a believer in pure science, he would have thought that someone up above was conspiring to make his day wonderful.
Giving no indication he'd noticed the men -one recently widowed, not particularly upset about it, perhaps syphilitic, ex soldier? one younger, scar on left cheek, tattoo peeking out from right wrist, both held themselves like military but hadn't seen action for a while, valets?- he casually straightened, and instead of turning left on Rue St. Catherine, he turned right.
He walked along, stopped at a fruit seller's stall and bought a pear for a few sous. Tossing it up and down, mind humming, he sauntered casually down the street, popping into one shop, than another, always with the men half a block behind him.
Another left, a right, and he was at Angelo's charcuterie. He ducked inside, greeted the burly man cursorily, and as soon as he was out of view of the windows, bolted through the store, out the back door, into an alley, and was lost in the winding mazes of Paris's back alleys. He was perhaps more intimately familiar with these crooked streets than with the creases of his own hands. Nodding to the sundry members of his homeless network and tossing the pear he still carried to Marie, a particularly useful flower girl, he made it home without incident.
Sherlock's rooms were at the top of a four story tenement building, brick, full of squalling babies, coughing grandmothers, and the faint smell of cabbages, soup and chamber pots.
The rooms were perhaps not as wretched as they should have been, considering that Sherlock was posing as a prostitute without a souteneur. Being a whore without a pimp was unusual, but not impossible, and although it might draw attention, it was worth it to be able to work alone.
It was almost dark as he climbed the stairs, and his mind was working busily. The gaslights flickered in the hall, and he dug around in his pocket for his key. The fourth floor seemed unusually quiet, but Sherlock mentally chalked that up to the lovely weather.
Opening his door, he was not as on guard as he should have been, which might have accounted for the ease with which a strong pair of arms grabbed him and yanked him inside, slamming the door.
Instinctively, he fought back, squirming and kicking as hard as he could. Before he could get to any of the knives hidden on his person, the man holding him was behind him, and had both his arms pinned behind him. He couldn't even reach the knife at his low back, the man was holding him so tightly. Sherlock was impressed despite himself.
Another man stepped out of the shadows, cap pulled low on his face, and with no fanfare, suckerpunched him in the stomach.
The air was expelled from Sherlock's lungs in a mighty whoosh and he struggled frantically to draw breath, internally berating himself for not keeping a better guard.
Were these the two men who were following him? It was hard to tell in the darkness with the man punching him in the face. A fist landed on his cheekbone, and he felt the skin tear. Another on his mouth, and his lip split.
The warm blood trickled down his face as the beating continued, methodologically and coldly. After another solid blow to the side of his head, he hung there, pretending to have passed out. After few more hits they dropped him.
"Stop asking questions, putain, or we'll shut that pretty mouth of yours for good." A low voice growled. With a final kick to the ribs, the men left through the fire escape, the same way they must have come.
Sherlock lay there, blood trickling down his face and pain thrumming through his body, but paying no attention to any of it. He was far away, frantically trying to figure out who they were, who they worked for, and how they'd learned he'd been asking questions.
He was reassured to realize that if the thugs had known that it was Sherlock Holmes they were attacking, they would have kidnapped and ransomed him or blackmailed him for posing as a sodomite and a prostitute. The beating he'd received was one you'd deal out to an uppity whore for not knowing her place. He was gratified to know that he was still a step ahead of them, whoever they were.
Well made boots, he'd noticed while they were kicking him, but somehow they didn't seem like gentlemen. Were they in someone's employ? Perhaps a drug dealer or noble's muscle?
The pain was beginning to kick in and Sherlock grabbed the leg of his rickety chair, slowly pulling himself up.
It was enough of a puzzle for his slightly addled brain to figure out how to distribute his weight so the chair wouldn't break or topple, and so that he could continue to get up. He thought a bit blearily that perhaps when all this whore malarky was over, he should like to take on a nice circus mystery. Perhaps be a tightrope walker, and travel with the gypsies.
He heaved himself the rest of the way up -sometimes he desperately hated being tall: there was more of him to hit- and luckily had the presence of mind to lock the doors and windows before he staggered to his bed, throwing himself down without further ado.
There would be no contemplation tonight, just blessed unconsciousness. It had been a long day.
The next morning, Sherlock was awoken by a shaft of sunlight spearing through the window and directly into his eyes. For the second day in a row, he woke with his head throbbing and his body bruised and sore.
Scowling, he slumped out of bed, checking his pocket watch. Half past eleven, almost time to meet John.
Sherlock resolutely pushed away the tiny thrill in his belly, threw on a clean shirt, scrubbed his face free of crusted blood, and strode down the stairs, dodging babushkas, toddlers and cats as he went.
It was another beautiful day in Paris but this time Sherlock was very careful to stay on his guard. His ribs twinged with each step, and he cursed himself for his complacency the night before. He had intuited that he had been getting close with the rumours about the Comte de Chambord's bastard son, but in his excitement he must have let something slip.
Before he knew it, he was at John's rooms. He rapped firmly on the door and it opened promptly.
"Sherlock! Won't you come in?" John beamed up at him, looking freshly scrubbed and awake. His smile dropped as he took in Sherlock's bruised and bloodied visage.
Sherlock turned his head away, and pushed into the room. He didn't want to loll about on the stoop where anyone could see him.
"You're hurt." John stated stupidly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw himself on the sofa. Of course he was, it didn't take a genius to see that. Honestly, if John was going to stand around gaping and making painfully obvious remarks, Sherlock had underestimated his intelligence.
John disappeared and returned with his battered medic's bag, Sherlock perking up as he noticed that the bottom of John's canvas bag was stained with blood. With steady, experienced hands John wiped Sherlock's cuts with spirits.
"Are there others?" Sherlock nodded, impressed that John was conversant in the new germ theory. Kept up with advances in medicine despite working as a painter. Interesting.
"My ribs." He stripped off his waistcoat, down to his thin white cotton shirt. He unbuttoned it with only the hint of a fumble, baring his bruised ribs.
John's eyes sharpened as he took in the extent of his injuries. He took Sherlock's wrist and examined the bruises there, left from when Sherlock had strained against his captor.
"You were held and beaten. This is no tumble down a staircase or barfight. This is someone trying to cause you pain for pain's sake."
Sherlock hummed a vague affirmative as John gently probed his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath as John touched one that twinged far more than the others.
"One cracked rib, the rest bruised. There's nothing I can do for it besides tell you not to stress it. Your face doesn't seem to need sutures, but I'll fetch you a piece of meat for the bruise if you'll consent to hold a cool cloth to your head to help with the headache…"
Sherlock frowned, surprised. He hadn't mentioned that he had a headache. John seemed to read his mind.
"Yes, I know you have a headache, your eyes are shut almost all the way and your shoulders are hunched. One doesn't have to be a detective to know that!" John clapped him lightly on the shoulder and strode off to find a steak as Sherlock's eyes flew open.
A joke? or was he found out? A joke, it seemed, as John didn't seem to be acting differently.
John returned with a cut of meat he must have been saving to cook, as impoverished painters seldom kept flank steak, the best cut of meat someone of John's income could afford, around for bruises. He gently laid it over Sherlock's throbbing eye.
John had also brought a bowl of water and a cloth back with him, and Sherlock marveled at how cool and soothing his fingers were as they wiped the dried blood off his face.
He began to meekly protest the mollycoddling, but subsided as he realized that it actually did feel nice to be taken care of, as foreign as the concept was.
John rinsed the cloth and folded it, laying it over Sherlock's eyes, and he instinctively tensed. He reminded himself that John had twice taken him in and nursed him back to health and that he found the little man trustworthy, but his hackles still raised at being blinded.
He focused on his hearing instead, listening to John tap thump his way to the kettle and begin to make tea. The halting gait returned with a cup of tea, which he placed in Sherlock's outstretched hand.
"Thank you. You didn't have to." Sherlock muttered.
"Nonsense." John replied easily. "Happy to help. Now. What happened?"
Sherlock fidgeted as he recounted the tale, happy to have the cloth to block him from the probing faded blue eyes. There was a sigh when he was done.
"What did they want with you?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, but people don't take kindly to their sexual playthings being more intelligent than they." Sherlock lied haughtily. He felt rather than saw John tense and then force himself to relax.
"Well, I personally rather like it. Was it a customer that did that to you?"
"Not exactly. I'm not quite sure who was behind the attack." Sherlock mentally filed the comment away under John's Sexual Preferences.
Another sigh.
"Please Sherlock, take care of yourself. I'm a little concerned."
"I'm a grown man. I can handle myself."
"Obviously." John said wryly, and Sherlock's lip curled.
"Now, are you up to posing today? You can stay just like that while I draw you, I need to get familiar with your form."
Sherlock found it very easy to play the part of the willing lorette. He drew down the cheesecloth and locked eyes with John, smoldering at him. John blushed heavily.
"Not like that! I'm not… oh sod it. Are you amenable?"
"Mm, yes. I'll just be thinking. Don't be concerned if you call my name and receive no reply."
John assured him that he wouldn't, and the tap thumping drew away to fetch his sketchbook. Sherlock steepled his fingers and retreated into his mind palace.
As John rummaged about for his sketchbook, his hands clenched and unclenched.
Patching up the younger man had somewhat soothed the inner rage he'd felt at seeing the man beaten and bloodied, but he was still tense.
Sherlock's flawless skin marred with purple bruises blooming under the skin was a poetic abomination, and his gashed face was like someone slashing the Mona Lisa, in John's opinion. And he was certain that the man was hiding something.
But John knew that it was none of his business, and as Sherlock had protested quite rightly, he was a grown man. They were barely acquainted a full day, anyway.
Acquaintances flew into protective rages for each other, didn't they?
Returning with the sketchbook, John pulled up a chair and sat heavily. He took in the marred beauty of Sherlock's face, the bruises stained across his prominent ribs under his still open shirt, and shivered as he turned to a clean page.
Picking up his charcoal, he deftly captured the careless loll of the mussed, curly head, the elegance of the fingers steepled under the aristocratic nose, the drape of the cheesecloth obscuring the eyes and the smudges of dried blood that remained.
John began to draw faster and faster. He would call this one Justice in la belle France, and model Sherlock as a bruised and battered blindfolded Justice, sprawled and beaten, with her scales fallen beside her. It may be too subversive for the Academy, but his friend Courbet would certainly appreciate it.
John's charcoal flicked across the paper, nimbly recording the perfect, fragile looking bones under Sherlock's skin. He mused to himself that Sherlock may look delicate, he actually possessed some sinewy muscle. Recalling when those self same defined arms had been wrapped around his waist, he suppressed a girlish shiver.
Tightening his lips with irritation at his body's betrayal, he turned his attention to the long legs sprawling out of the chair. One of Sherlock's trouser legs had ridden up, baring a flash of pale skin and ankle. John's eyes widened.
Oh my. What a finely turned ankle. Purely from an artistic point of view, he added quickly to himself. Still, his cheeks felt a little hot.
Get a grip, Watson, he told himself firmly. You've seen many an ankle, and a lot more besides. This shouldn't affect you like you were a mewling boy and it was the first one you'd ever seen. Nevertheless, he sketched the exposed strip of skin with quiet reverence.
He fetched a knife to whittle down the point of his charcoal, adding detail to his line and tone drawing. As the image began to emerge, undeniably Sherlock and as affecting as Sherlock himself slumped beaten and bruised in front of him, John's face creased into a slight smile. He finished it up, adding the eyelashes, buttons, fingernails and other details, and on a whim, sketched in the scales of his imaginings.
Lovely. He put the drawing down.
"Sherlock?" No reply. John frowned. He did say he might not answer, but is he being rude or is he really that deep in thought?
John flipped to a new page and mentally shrugged. He would take what he could get, he thought, and began a study of Sherlock's steepled fingers.
Notes: Boulangerie-patisserie: shop that sells bread and pastries. Bakery. Saint Nicholas's day: My birthday, Dec. 6th! Old European traditions entail that if you leave out your shoes, Saint Nicholas (Santa, basically) will fill them with treats! When I was in France a few years ago, the taboo against eating and walking was still in effect, although much less so. Charcuterie: butchery Soutener: pimp Lorette: 1870s term for prostitute, because the ladies of the night would hang around Notre Dame de Lorettes, which was a church. Putain: whore, slut (I'm doing this instead of studying for my French final...) Raw meat was used to treat bruises, like a modern day ice pack. Again, many thanks to the lovely callous-and-strange. Also, you can follow me on tumblr at .com!