Stepping off of the plane, Layne felt the heat from the tarmac slap across her face. Sherlock was the only one of the trio seemingly not bothered by the soggy summer weather. Keeping his collar turned up tight, he trudged forward towards the airport terminal. They had left London at four in the morning, hoping the early booking would keep any wandering eyes from Sherlock's survival. At the time of departure, Layne was still unsure of their destination before John leaned over and casually explained they were headed to Florence. Carrying a cup of ice from the journey, Layne now placed a cube against the back of her neck, offering John one in return.
"So, Italy, lovely. You failed to mentioned it would be an inferno, thank you." Layne leaned against the side of the building, hoping Sherlock paid attention to her burning sarcasm.
"When I said all weather apparel..."
"You said that to John, Sherlock. You told me to piss off back home."
"Well, all the more reason for you to go if the heat will be a bother." Standing up, she punched Sherlock lightly.
"Stop being an ass and tell me why we're here." Crossing his arms, he nodded towards a small cab approaching.
"We're not in an appropriate setting to discuss all the details. John, help Layne with the luggage!" Popping his head up in obedience, John barely muttered defiance as he loaded their belongings into the back of their ride.
The Hotel Balestri was charmingly Italian with laces of Baker Street crawling through its interior. The mustard color walls made Layne queasy for a moment, but soon settled as she found that the air conditioning made up for whatever aesthetic lacking she found. Sherlock ordered two rooms in smooth dialect and sat by the villa, patiently waiting for their escort. Layne took the seat opposite of her brother, noticing the small lines that had began to show around his mouth. How old was he, anyways? She barely kept up with her own birthdays, not feeling her 36 years. Quickly totaling, she calculated Sherlock was just 29; a baby to her. Catching her glare, Sherlock read her immediately.
"I'm not a child, Layne. And honestly, a few laugh lines aren't going to kill me." She laughed lightly and ordered a glass of wine from one of the passing kitchen girls.
"You're too young to have lines at all, Sherlock. You need to take better care of yourself. At the rate you're going, you'll look ancient by the time you're my age. Which, now that I say it, I do feel old…" Her eyes wandered over to John who was bracing his back against the porch doors, looking mildly interested in the agriculture. John was 38, she remembered, and by the fine traces of grey lining the crease of his neck, she noticed age was catching up on him as well. Sherlock caught her glimpse and placed a shy hand on Layne's knee.
"You're not old, Laney, not just yet. You're just feeling the fatigues of motherhood, I assure you. Give a couple weeks with me and you'll be back to your normal self." Raising her eyebrows, Layne placed a careful thumb over Sherlock's hand.
"Why are you only like this with me, sweetheart?" Sherlock looked confused.
"Like what?"
"This," Layne said, pointing at her knee, "Holding my hand, calling me Laney, showing your kindness. You haven't been this way towards me since you were a child! I'm not complaining, but it does worry me, Sherlock, this soft exterior. It makes me think you're hiding something." Quickly removing their contact, Sherlock regained his stiff composure.
"I don't know, Layne. I find it bothersome, I can assure you. Call it sentiment, but when I look at you, I remember everything that was good about my childhood. I forget sometimes how you left college to raise me and how distant I was from Mycroft. And then I think about when you had Max, and the fact that you came out here for me. I'm…rambling, and I'm not one to just talk like an idiot-"
"Well, not on purpose," Layne chuckled, only to be caught in Sherlock's dark glare.
"I did miss you, Layne. I missed you more than I like to let on because I'm not pleased with myself for enjoying the fact you abandoned your son to come rescue me. So yes, I tend to lapse back into a child-like state because…"
"You're my Sherlock," she stated with a smile. He barely nodded, but it was enough to allow Layne to stand and place a quick kiss to his forehead.
"I've fought for you my entire life, my love, it's not going to end here." John meekly walked over, obviously unwilling to break any small exchange between the siblings. However, their chauffer had returned with their keys and items loaded to be taken to their rooms.
Upon reaching their rooms, Layne could only shake her head at Sherlock's expense. He had rented (indefinitely) the Superior for himself and the Superior Vista for Layne and John, which led to a short-lived argument.
"Oi, why can I just bunk up with you?"
"Because you talk, John. Layne has assured me it's no bother on her part."
"Well it's bloody awkward…"
"Oh, stop complaining, I gave you the better room."
Unpacking quickly, Layne leaned over her balcony, wondering whether or not to light a cigarette. Before she reached for her menthols, Sherlock ushered her into his room, where John was already tapping his foot impatiently. Layne softly sat on the edge of the bed, looking between the two men. It was clear words had already been exchanged, and John was far from pleased with the result. Layne crossed her legs and rubbed a hand down her calves. Someone needed to make the first move.
"Well," John huffed, "Are you going to tell her or shall I?" Sherlock peered over to Layne and sighed.
"I may have under exaggerated our obstacles." Layne gave a quizzical look then allowed him to continue.
"I told John our main goal was to infiltrate Moriarty's Web, which suggests that the threads remained intact thus far. However, while I was on a sabbatical, I passed the time by removing four of the five main heads."
"So there's one man left?" asked Layne
"Yes," replied Sherlock, moving his foot over the wrinkles of the carpet, "Sebastian Moran, ex-colonel in the British army, sniper. He keeps a home about ten miles from here he calls The Lampila. He rarely frequents the place, but decided unexpectedly to stay for a few months." John rolled his eyes and shook his head. Sherlock ignored his friend's exasperated response and waited to Layne to speak.
"So you said under exaggeration…wait. Sherlock, why are we here if you knew only Moran was left? You could easily take care of this yourself. I know Seb, I met him several times when I was with James…"
"Jim," Sherlock corrected.
"Right, and he can barely keep his head on. He's a sharp shooter, no more than that. So you tell me right the hell now, Sherlock Holmes, what have you done to get us in a mess?" He looked mildly upset at his sister's accusations, raising his chin.
"Nothing. I did have this under control, you know, and then you swooped in bring a handful of minor complications…"
"Sherlock…"
"I saw him today, as we were leaving the airport. He's aware we are in town. He's been waiting for us to arrive since he notified me several days ago of his survival. Obviously, he expected you would follow after me. Your matronly worries do nothing for my image."
"I swear to bloody Christ!"
"Moriarty is here, Layne. He's in Florence, alive, and he's made it clear his intentions of contact." Layne caught her breath painfully in the back of her throat. She kept a fixed eye on Sherlock, watching the bouts of desperation over his features. John stood still, working nervously to keep his disgust at bay.
"So," breathed Layne, "Naturally, he wants to see me." John and Sherlock locked eyes and turned from one another. Settling himself by door, she watched John fumble towards a shelf, extracting a letter. He carefully handed it to her, pausing momentarily in their trade as if to warn her it would be hard to swallow. Sherlock's fingers her pinned into a steeple, concentration masking the self-ridicule he was putting himself through. As she opened it, Layne felt hot tears burn the dry edges of her cheeks.
"I received the note two days before you showed up at Baker. I had hoped John and I would fly out and swiftly take care of the issue, but you've played right into his hands. Moriarty knew all he had to do was whistle danger and you'd give up all secrecy to protect me from danger. Sentiment."
Sherlock breathed heavily and watched as Layne's hands barely scraped the edges of the envelope, trying to still the words on the page. She had expected this day, locked it away in the back of her mind. Kneeling down in front of her, Sherlock placed both hands on either side of her frame.
" He doesn't want to see you Layne. He wants to see Max," Sherlock clarified. Layne nodded slowly.
"Of course…sentiment…he wants to see his son."