The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Five: The Fast And The Curious

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If I had to pick a song that fit my life, it would probably be something fast, unintelligible, and laced with profanity. Possibly by Metallica, or, at the very least, Green Day, although I can't think of a single Green Day song that doesn't make me want to punch the nearest person in the nose. Then again, my life frequently has the same effect on me.

That's what I get for waking up in Paris...|

"This is exactly why I don't drink," Sherlock snapped, craning his neck awkwardly to attempt to pin John with a furious glare. It would have been much more effective had they not been handcuffed to each other, back-to-back, in the most rickety chairs John had ever encountered.

"Mycroft drugs your champagne and kidnaps you often, then," he sighed wearily. Honestly, he should be more upset about his surprise relocation, but he'd run out of upset days ago, and gosh, he just hadn't had the time to pick up more.

Sherlock's inquisitive voice knocked him out of his internal snarking. "And how did you figure out that this was Mycroft's doing?"

John shrugged as best he could without dislocating something. "You mean besides the fact that we were drugged with his champagne at his house, attending his party that he randomly invited us to last minute? Just a guess. It wouldn't be the first time he's indulged in a little abduction of innocent bys-stander."

There was a long moment of silence during which John twisted his hands about to get a sense of what sort of bindings were...well, binding them. He peered around as he did so, the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling providing just enough light to see into the murkier corners.

The room was small, no more than eight foot by eight foot, with warped, wooden floors and walls that used to be blue. They were now crawling with molds that were most likely toxic, and the pervasive smell of rotting wood filled John's sinuses. There were no windows, and the door was to John's left, undoubtedly bolted and guarded.

Stupid Mycroft and his stupid fancy dress party.

It was then that John noticed that he was still dressed in his costume, hat and all, and judging by the faint tickle along his right ear, Sherlock still sported at least his plumed hat. The thought made John want to giggle, but chained to the most irritating being he would ever know and love in an undisclosed location for an undetermined reason was not the time for laughter. Besides which, Sherlock was annoyed enough as it was.

"You really are stubborn when you think you're right, which you aren't," his co-captive was huffing petulantly. "And you had the nerve to get angry at me for my alleged lack of knowledge on "primary school stuff"."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we maybe argue about pluralization after we've escaped from your government-puppet-master brother's plot to do whatever it is government-puppet-masters do to consulting detectives and their loyal, solar-system-savvy doctor associates?"

Sherlock made a valiant effort to glower at John through the back of his own head. "Will you get over the stupid solar system, already?"

He would have answered with something undoubtedly brilliant, had someone not chosen that moment to enter the room. It was a woman, petite, with the sort of curves that would have made John's mouth go dry, even if he was mad for the overgrown child he was handcuffed to. She was dressed comfortably, jeans and a baby tee, and John had the uncomfortable feeling that she dressed with ease of movement in mind. Dark hair was pulled into a knot at the base of her neck, and dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, even in the gloomy space.

She stood facing John, arms crossed and chin lifted, as the door slammed back into place. John heard the grind and thunk of a deadbolt sliding into place and sighed again. "Hello, ma'am. How can we help you?"

"Tais-toi, idiot," the woman growled, lips pressed together disapprovingly. "You are not to speak," she continued in English, "only listen."

Raising one eyebrow, John gestured for her to get on with it, fingers brushing Sherlock's and making the taller man flinch in surprise. He pointedly ignored the warm tingles travelling up his arm in favor of focusing on the woman in front of him.

Observe, his internal-Sherlock drawled. All you have to do is see when you look.

Which was easier said than done. He may have become more observant from his months as Sherlock's flatmate, but he was still lightyears away from the detective's skill and experience. Still, Sherlock couldn't see from where he was positioned, so he might as well be his eyes. At the very least, he could gather all the data he could to pass along to Sherlock once they escaped, see if it helped him figure anything out.

The woman was from the east of France, which John didn't need Sherlock's influence to deduce - he'd been stationed in France for several months, and had spent much of that time dallying with a woman who primarily spoke Franco-Provençal. This woman had the same accent, therefore she at least lived at the border of Switzerland, where that language was spoken.

He was very nearly distracted by the feeling of Sherlock's long fingers flickering over his wrists, skimming across his palms ever-so-lightly. Overcome with the inappropriate urge to hold Sherlock's hand, he swallowed thickly. He could picture those hands, so delicate and pale, the hands of an aristocrat. What a delicious contrast to his own hands, tanned and large; they would look so nice clasped together, fingers tangled carelessly as they walked to their crime scene, or ran from certain death, or curled up on the couch together to watch Keeping Up Appearances.

John fervently hoped his expression didn't betray his thoughts, because even if he didn't know this woman, the thought of her catching him mooning over Sherlock's hands was embarrassing.

Focus, John, his inner-Sherlock snapped.

Right, then. Mid-thirties, possibly early-forties if she looked after herself. Well-worn gloves, donned often for work. Clothing was well cared-for, not new, but in good repair. Shoes were functional trainers, rather than the impractical shoes women tended to wear. She probably carried a weapon habitually, but she had most likely left it behind before coming in. Smart captors didn't keep guards that needed weapons; weapons could be taken during a break-out.

She didn't balance her weight on both legs, or shift back and forth, but favored her left leg. It was slight, and if he hadn't dealt with a psychosomatic limp, he probably wouldn't have noticed it at all, but she had definitely been dealt some sort of injury to her right leg.

Judging by how much weight she was putting on it, it hadn't been to a joint - she had walked too evenly for that as she had entered. John ran through his mental list of patients with injuries to the leg. He bypassed diabetic conditions, as well as the more pedestrian injuries caused by illnesses - this person moved with far too much purpose and precision to do something as mundane as trip over a skateboard. Inflicted by someone else, then. Cringing internally, John turned his mind to his patients in Afghanistan.

Keep it together, John. Don't let your mind be clouded by emotion now. Think clinically, analytically. You can break down later.

Careful to keep his breathing even and his expression blank, he thought back to those soldiers he'd patched together. Visions of severed limbs and charred flesh flitted across his mind's eye. Swallowing again, John tried to match the gait of his recovering patients with the way she'd moved as she entered the room. Broken bones in the foot, then. Useful, certainly, though only if Sherlock was doing what John thought he was. He hoped Sherlock was also listening to the woman, because he'd just tuned out everything she'd said.

"...and my boss will be in shortly to explain to you the nature of your presence here," she finished with the air of someone delivering a message who wanted to make it very clear that while they were too dignified for air-quotes, they were certainly implied.

"Well," Sherlock drawled, "while I would certainly love to meet this boss of yours, I think we'll take a rain check."

Suddenly he was holding John's hands and winding their fingers together and squeezing once, twice, and oh, God, his hands were strong, and warm, and fit in John's perfectly and wait, Sherlock didn't hold hands.

He realized then that the links of their handcuffs were clenched between their hands, the wrist-pieces dangling down. Oh, right. Escaping. Don't get distracted, John, his inner-Sherlock hissed at him, much politer than the real Sherlock, who would have definitely added a "you idiot" to the end of that statement.

Fight then flight, he told himself, occupying the headspace he reserved for situations where he had to shoot first and ask questions later. He wasn't relishing the thought of beating up a woman, no matter that her boss had drugged and abducted them, but if it was a choice between her health and Sherlock's safety, well...that wasn't a choice at all, was it?

So, the instant Sherlock released his hands, John lunged forward and brought his heel down on the woman's foot, hooking his elbow around her throat as she grunted and hunched forward instinctively, preventing her from calling for backup. Turning in a smooth motion with his captive still in a headlock, he scowled at Sherlock. "Stop standing there like an utter twat and do something useful for a change," he snarled, ignoring the hands that grasped at his arm, getting weaker all the time.

Sherlock was picking up John's hat, which had tumbled from his head during the scuffle, and brushing it off thoughtfully. As the nails digging into his arm lost their purchase and the pretty, petite woman fell unconscious, John lowered her to the ground gently. As he stood back up, Sherlock placed the hat back on his head, tilting it over his eyes in a manner that would have been described as playful, had it not been Sherlock doing the tilting.

"Ready to...blow this popsicle stand, I believe the phrase is?"

John's eyebrows shot up as a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Don't try to be cultural, Sherlock," he said fondly as the detective shot him a withering glance. "It doesn't suit you."

"'Bys-stander'," Sherlock grumbled, moving to stand in the corner, just behind John, as the smaller man took up his position just behind the door.

"Are we doing The Opal Necklace, or The Daughter Of Berlin?"

"Opal," Sherlock said after a moment during which he was most likely rolling his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, he slammed himself against the wall and did a credible impression of a woman howling in pain.

The deadbolt slid aside, and a burly man in a suit began to rush in, only to be slammed between the door and the doorjamb. He was out for the count before he could shout, but the noise Sherlock made had probably alerted everyone in a three-block-radius of their escape.

No time to dally, then, he thought, checking the man for a weapon even as he knew he wouldn't find one. Their abductor was smart. Then again, he had already known that, hadn't he?

"Your brother isn't going to speak to you at Christmas dinner this year, you know."

His lanky companion snorted, placing a hand at the small of his back to push him through the door. "I'm devastated," he intoned in that deep, rough tone that made John's knees want to give out. And if he took a private moment to enjoy the feel of Sherlock's hands on him yet again, who was to know?

Mycroft's cronies attempted to halt the duo's absconding, valiantly, but ultimately in vain. It was fairly easy, in fact, to get to the garage of what turned out to be a dilapidated townhome with appallingly retro decor, and yes, Sherlock had looked deliciously startled when John hotwired the blue Mini Cooper sitting there oh-so enticingly.

"I did used to be a teenager, you know," he said, bemused and pleased at getting one over on his genius friend. "Now get in so we can get the hell out."

Roaring backwards down the drive, John executed a perfect 180 into traffic and, tires squealing in a distinctly Hollywood manner, took off down the street.

"John!"

"Shut up, Sherlock, I'm trying to drive."

Several tense moments, during which Sherlock would shout things like "No, one-way street!" and "John, are you trying to kill us?", and they had made their way to a little bed and breakfast in the heart of town.

"So," John said as he tossed his cowboy hat aside and flopped down on the floral bedspread. "Paris."

"Evidently."

Having expected something more about his statement of the obvious, John tilted his head to look at Sherlock. The man was standing near the window, just out of view of anyone who might be looking, peering out through the curtains with distant eyes. John could almost hear the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

"That woman, she wasn't from Paris," he said, not knowing if Sherlock would find it relevant or not. "She was from Franche-Comté. A security professional, maybe a bodyguard."

"Hm."

"So, what did she want?"

Sherlock jerked back to the present, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye. "Mycroft wants me to solve a locked-door murder at the Embassy," he said shortly, again neglecting to comment on John's inattention, or his attempts at making deductions. The wild ride they'd taken before must have shaken him more than John had thought.

He closed his eyes, basking in the adrenaline that coursed through his system. It had been years since he had driven like that, having given up the indiscretions of his teenage years when it became apparent that they would only serve to hold him back from achieving his medical degree. Who wanted a doctor who raced cars illegally on the side?

Still, it had been a nice feeling, that sense of complete control over his own fate, even as the world spun out of control around him. The danger, the rush, was as heady now as it had ever been, and John had to take a few deep breaths to keep from giggling drunkenly. Definitely an adrenaline junkie, John had thought several times that perhaps feeding his addiction wasn't the best way to go. It had led him to Afghanistan, after all, hadn't that taught him a lesson? But how could he stop when he was presented with so much temptation from all sides, usually in the form of a tall, lithe brunette genius with more issues than a newsstand?

"So, someone was murdered in a room locked from the inside, in the Embassy. Mycroft thinks it'll become an international incident?"

"Nothing becomes an international incident unless Mycroft wants it to," Sherlock spat darkly, moving to lie on the bed from the other side, his head just inches from John's. The doctor swallowed, staring at the ceiling, because he knew that if he looked at Sherlock now, while his heart was still racing and his mind in a fog of euphoria, he would kiss him, and that was the sort of danger he would have to do without.

"No," Sherlock was saying, his voice quiet and contemplative, "there's something else going on, something he's hiding from us, and I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of trying to find out what."

"You're going to leave a puzzle unsolved?"

"Hardly a puzzle," Sherlock snorted. "It was the Russian mob, obviously. The woman in the room gave us all the pieces we needed, just as Mycroft had planned. No, there's another reason he wants us lost in Paris, and I think the best way to repay him for what he's done is to get home before he can put whatever nefarious scheme his reptilian little brain has concocted into action."

John grinned. "Oh, I don't know. A vacation in Paris? Sounds like fun."

"Dull."

"Predictable, you mean?" Wriggling so he was lying on his side with his head propped in one hand, John poked Sherlock in the temple. "Of course it is. That's what makes it romantic."

Wait, what?

Before he could verbally backpedal, Sherlock rolled onto his own side, mimicking John's position. "And this has nothing to do with you feeling like returning to England would be retreating?"

Glad for the out, John smirked. "Of course not, Sherlock. Why on Earth would I want to beat your brother at his own game to pay him back for kidnapping me again?"

"It doesn't really work," Sherlock pointed out, "if we don't know what his game is."

"Then I suggest you get to thinking," he shot back, sitting up before the temptation to pin Sherlock down and kiss him senseless became too much for him. "I'm going for something to eat."

In retrospect, leaving the inn while they were being hunted by a man who played chess with entire governments might not have been his best idea, because it wasn't ten minutes before he had to dive behind a dumpster overflowing with rotten cheese products, badly startling the homeless man he had nearly landed on, to escape the two thugs dressed as a member of the Paris Fire Brigade and a mime.

This is Sherlock's fault, he thought, perhaps a bit unkindly. I never had to worry about being chased by mimes before I met Sherlock.

The more pressing issue was the bullet wound in his right bicep. It had only been a graze, but it hurt like hell, and John had had more than enough of bullet wounds for one lifetime, thankyouverymuch. Even more disturbing was the fact that they were shooting at him at all. John had gotten the feeling that, though he had seemed quite disdainful of John at the start of their first meeting, Mycroft had grown to like, perhaps even admire him. He certainly never seemed to want John dead, so he could only conclude that the fireman and the mime were not on Mycroft's payroll.

Pushing aside the random, but inevitable mental image of Mycroft raising an army of mimes to fulfill his plans for world domination, John proceeded to ambush the fireman, using him as a human shield while simultaneously disarming him, taking the mime out with a single shot to the head.

That shouldn't have felt so good, but John had never been fond of mimes.

Casting an apologetic look towards the tramp, who was now cowering against the wall, John dug into his pocket for his wallet (at least Mycroft hadn't been that cruel) and pulled out several bills.

"Pardon," he mumbled, grinning bashfully.

One gun resting in his waistband at the small of his back, John held the other with the sort of ease that tended to make people back away slowly. He took as many alleys and back roads as he could, not wanting to attract the attention of the police. It was bad enough he'd just shot someone, the last thing he needed was to be caught with the gun that had been used to kill a man dressed as a civil servant.

"Not Mycroft's men, then," Sherlock said as he took in John's appearance.

John blinked at him, not in the least surprised. "Nope, mime," he said lightly, placing both guns on the counter in the bathroom and turning on the shower. Whatever he and that homeless man had been sitting in was rank, and he needed to get his wound disinfected as soon as possible.

As he stripped off his grimy clothing, John glanced at himself in the mirror and did a double-take.

The person staring back at him was not the John Watson he'd become accustomed to seeing. That John Watson wore jumpers and had warm smiles and drank tea. That John Watson spent his evenings watching the telly and reading the paper, and did nothing more exciting than prescribing antibiotics.

This John Watson was gritty, bloody, and his eyes were sharp and aware. He drank beer and spent his evenings running from gangsters and drove fast cars for the hell of it. This John Watson was supposed to have been buried under years of medical training and knitwear.

So which John Watson was he, really? Was he the gentle smile, or the hard grimace? Was he bandages and antiseptic, or guns and chokeholds? Blonde wife, two kids, and a house in the suburbs, or...

Turning away from his reflection resolutely, John told himself that he was being foolish. No one could really be two people, not unless they had a horrible mental illness. He could be both, couldn't he? The doctor, and the soldier? He could be whatever he damn well pleased.

The hot water did wonders for easing the tension from his frame, even as his wound protested terribly. Stepping out, he filled the tub with hot water, tossing his clothes in to soak for a bit. He'd probably end up wearing wet jeans, but at this point, he didn't really care.

He was sitting on the toilet, doing his best to examine his wound upside-down, when he sensed eyes on him.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway, a first aid kit grasped loosely in his hands. His eyes were trained on the blood that still seeped from the injury, a slight creasing of his brow the only thing that betrayed his concern. "Mime?"

"And a fireman. Only they were probably-"

"-Russian mob. Yes. They know Mycroft brought us here, they want us gone. So we agree on something," he muttered under his breath.

"You really are itching to get home, aren't you?"

Sighing explosively, Sherlock slammed the kit down on the counter. "No, John, I want to stay in fucking France so I can get you killed by Russian clowns!"

"Mimes."

"You-" Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously for a second, until he saw the slight smile playing about John's lips.

He was worried. It shouldn't have made John so deliriously happy, the knowledge that Sherlock was afraid for John's life. It was a horrible thing to feel really, and only the accompanying guilt gnawing at his stomach kept him from apologizing for being so pleased. He could feel his cheeks flushing with giddiness, and the tear in his bicep hurt less than it should have.

A rustle of cloth was his only warning before Sherlock was kneeling down in front of him, grasping his arm far more gently than John had thought possible and dabbing at the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. The sting handily distracted him from the fact that this was Sherlock, kneeling in front of him, eyes focused completely on him and nothing else. It didn't even register that he was still dressed like a Shakespearean production reject, because it was Sherlock who was tending to him with the utmost care.

Suddenly, the rush of speeding dangerously through traffic seemed mild in comparison. Being with Sherlock, like this, a quiet moment where he knew without a doubt that he meant more to the man than he would ever admit out loud, was the most exilarating sensation he knew.

"Stupid, stupid, knew it was a bad idea to let you go out...fucking Mycroft...fucking Russians...could have been killed," Sherlock was muttering as he inspected the wound closely to make sure it was as clean as possible. He pressed a gauze pad to it, eyes flicking up to catch John's as the older man flinched. "Does it hurt?"

Had he not been trapped in Sherlock's gaze, and therefore incapable of forming a single rational thought, John would probably have said something snarky, like "why yes, Sherlock, the gaping wound in my arm does smart a bit." Unfortunately, he was currently drowning in jewel tones of bluegraygreengoldgod, what color were they? So instead, what came out was a breathy "no".

If Sherlock hadn't chosen that moment to tighten his grip, making John grunt as white-hot agony flashed up into his brain, he would have had Sherlock on his back with his tongue in the infuriating man's mouth. God, how many of these near misses would he stand before he spontaneously combusted?

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes again as he wrapped the bandages snugly around John's arm. He told himself that he imagined the tenderness with which his friend smoothed the fabric, fingertips barely brushing at the skin around the dressing. It was fine to fantasize about doing illicit things to his flatmate, but to imagine said flatmate would welcome that attention? No, best to leave those sorts of thoughts in the deepest recesses of his mind.

They lounged about a bit (John studiously making sure he was well-covered by the sheets), tossing ideas back and forth about what they should do. Rather, John tossed ideas at Sherlock, who shot them down with disparaging remarks and cold glares. Yes, any perceived gentleness on Sherlock's part must have been hallucinations brought on by exhaustion and pain. He needed to sleep, before he started thinking Sherlock wanted to raise a kid with him.

His last thought before he drifted off was that if they did have a kid, he'd be stuck with all the diapers.

It was probably no surprise, then, that when he jerked awake again, it was from an unsettling dream about a pregnant Sherlock strangling him with a baby blanket. He put a hand to his throat instinctively, before remembering that men don't get pregnant, and Sherlock was definitely a man.

"Done sleeping?" Sherlock was grabbing him by his uninjured arm and thrusting his damp jeans at him. "Put these on, quickly."

Rolling his eyes, John tread to the bathroom to dress. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of traipsing across France in wet boxers, but the thought of putting on wet jeans without boxers made him wince.

When he'd finished buttoning his shirt, he grabbed his attackers' handguns from beside the sink and tucked one into his waistband. He eyed his cowboy hat contemplatively, then looked at Sherlock. The man was now dressed in jeans of his own, far too tight to be legal, even in Franch, and a dark green button-down.

"Er...where'd you get the clothes," he asked, tugging on his boots as Sherlock laced up his own sneakers.

"Same place I got the first-aid kit," was the reply, the "obviously" left unspoken but understood.

"Ah, the owner. Gotcha."

Sherlock's eyes met him for the first time since their...thing in the bathroom. They were crinkled at the corners, and John felt very warm, indeed, because he knew he'd just pleased Sherlock immensely.

They had abandoned the Mini a few blocks from the inn, and it was still there when the retraced their steps carefully, taking a few false turns to shake any possible tails. Once in the vehicle, John was back in his zone, navigating the Parisian traffic with ease while Sherlock tried to surreptitiously grasp the door handle in his nervousness.

"Relax," John said as he eased over a lane, just barely slotting between two cars, and then another lane, which happened to be full of oncoming traffic. Thundering over a median and into a parking lot, he glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned.

"Hmm. Being too conspicuous, I suppose," he mused. Changing gears, he reversed into the shopping center.

As the floor-to-ceiling windows shattered and shoppers screamed and scattered, John noted Sherlock's startled gasp with the same detachment he'd noticed the three black sedans on their tail. He did love surprising the usually-unflappable detective, but he would have to revel in the feeling later, because right now he was reversing through a crowded mall in a foreign country with the Russian mob right on their arses.

Something else to add to his mental If-I-Had-Never-Met-Sherlock-Holmes list. Unsurprisingly, it was long, and full of the sort of experiences that were only amusing long after the fact.

"Can you at least turn the bloody car around," Sherlock growled.

John chuckled. "Can't talk, driving. Oh, look, they have McDonald's in Paris, too."

"John!"

But then they were crashing out the other side of the mall, and John did turn the car around, taking them through an alley, over another median, and back onto the street. John risked flashing a satisfied smirk at Sherlock, who was even paler than normal and staring at him with wide, accusing eyes. "See? We're fine, and I think you were right - let's get the hell out of fucking France."

It took them another forty minutes to lose the mobsters, a long period of heart-pounding excitement that ended when the lead sedan collided with a police car that had chosen the wrong moment to roar out of its speed trap position. Stopping twice to change vehicles, once to take a cab, and again to steal yet another car, they made it to the airport without any further sign of the Russians or Mycroft.

It wasn't until they boarded the plane, just before they were instructed to shut off their mobile phones, that Sherlock's phone chimed.

I trust you enjoyed your vacation; you may have found the five-star acommodations I had arranged for you more pleasant, but I'm certain you enjoyed yourselves nonetheless. MH

Turning the screen so John could read the text, Sherlock scowled at the cabin crew member that tried to tell him to turn it off. He did so, leaning back against the headrest and pursing his lips.

John regarded him silently for a moment. His List had grown exponentially since The Moriarty Incident, and included such things as "I would never have had to pay to replace the microwave due to a jar of exploding eyeballs" and "I would never have ended up hiding underneath an adulterer's bed while he gave his young male lover what for". There were small things on the list, big things, inane things, significant things, all sorts of things that he would never have experienced had he never met Sherlock. Any normal person would have left ages ago, because really, any normal person could have lived without those experiences.

Not John.

So maybe he wasn't the normal one in this relationship. Maybe he was crazier than Sherlock, and he was just better at blending in. The fact was, both of the John Watsons he saw in the mirror loved every second of it.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad we're flats-mate."

"...shut up, John."

All-in-all, I'd had better vacations, but considering the man who proceeded to spend the flight making quiet deductions about the other passengers and made me snort cola out of my nose three times, it was probably the calmest vacation I would ever have. What I didn't know, couldn't have known, was that Mycroft had something far more sinister in mind than a little mix-up with the Russian mob...

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Finally!

Okay, this chapter is much, much longer than it was originally supposed to be. I was tempted to split it into two parts, but I like it as it is, so you'll just have to deal. =)

I would like to state, for the record, that I have nothing against France, Russians, or shopping malls. I was truly upset at making a mobster disguise himself as a fireman, but I make no apologies for the mime. Mimes are almost as creepy as clowns.

Almost.

Anyway, that's about as much action as you're getting for now, although the rougher side of John may be making an appearance in the next chapter. Teehee. I do so love the idea of John having been this wild, crazy teenager with a serious adrenaline addiction, and the idea that he still has all of that bottled up inside, and as nice as he is, there's still a part of him that likes fast cars and loud music. =3 Maybe that's just in my fantasies.

Review, please! It makes me smile!

Songs for this chapter: 'Livin' On A High Wire' (Adam Hicks, Lemonade Mouth) and 'Finally Falling' (Victoria Justice).

Peace.

Akiko