My thanks go out to thedrunkencupcake, The Lord Writer, 8of9, Drunken Strawberries, Agar Loki, YoungCaterpillar, JGHB, snapletonius, theivydaggers, Mini-Moffie13, krissy7490, snicklelickinboot, Beepbeepme-NOFUCKYOU, TakingItOutOnTheWall, Nimirie Eryn Lasgaleneo, SalconeDestrivina, BenedictedCumberbabe221, Sherlock'sLisbeth, EJ 12212012, and all those who have followed/favorited this story. You're support and enthusiasm for this story are always inspiring.
I would also like to thank my Beta, Helena Chauby, and my flat-mate/sounding board, Geoff for their assistance.
Note: For those of you that may not know, Pride is a celebration of LGBTQ persons and the rights they are fighting for, that falls sometime in June. It falls in June because on June 28, 1969 the police raided a Gay bar, named Stonewall, and it was one of the first notable occasions where gay individuals stood up for themselves. Hence, the Stonewall riots. There's more to it than this, but this is just a brief explanation.
Chapter 20: Fallout
The first thing he was aware of as he swam in the hazy world between awake and asleep was his breathing. Slow, regular, relaxed. Then he noticed his hands, pressed flat to the mattress on either side of the pillow. He was on his stomach. He'd been asleep for a long time; deeply asleep if the slight stiffness in his limbs was anything to go by. It was a kind of sleep he didn't get often, especially since he started living with Sherlock, and John intended to savor it.
John drew a long, slow breath deep into his lungs stretching them in a way that didn't happen with the even breathing of sleep. Next he bunched and rolled his shoulders, a movement that turned into a full body stretch. John tensed himself down to his toes, held it for a long moment, then relaxed, melting back into the mattress. He was a bit sore at his neck and in his lower back.
John slid his hand over the crisp sheets and into the curve of his neck, wincing as his fingers traced the bruises there. John's eyes snapped open wide and he sucked in a sharp breath.
Sherlock...
In the muted light of morning that had crept around the drapes of their hotel room John saw Sherlock turn, reacting to the sound of John's gasp. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was draped in a thin white sheet. He had been standing at the window staring out the crack between the drape and the wall. As John's fingers bunched in the sheets, pushing the ex-army doctor into a slouched sitting position, Sherlock approached the bed and knelt by it, facing John.
"John, are you alright?" Sherlock's voice was soft but even, he'd been awake for a while.
"Fine, Sherlock," John muttered pulling himself into a proper sitting position. He wasn't sticky, exactly, but there was evidence of what they had done on his body, dried lube and such, in addition to the bruises. Fear pulsed through John at the reminder. Oh God.. no. No. nononono. This was bad. Relationships...other people...had never been Sherlock's area. The man was in his mid thirties and he'd never had a sexual partner...until now... God, there was a reason Sherlock hadn't had or wanted a sexual partner, and John had just ignored them all, and taken advantage of Sherlock.
John had no doubts that Sherlock was strong enough to stop him, but Sherlock had already been aroused, had been about to masturbate, and he'd been acting like John's lover for several months now...
Damn. Whatever Sherlock's reasons for not protesting the night before had been (Did high-functioning sociopaths have lust-induced one night stands with their flat mates while pretending to be in love with them?) in the aftermath of an orgasm, when looking at the situation with a clearer head, there would surely be some backlash. He couldn't...he couldn't lose Sherlock again, not to this, not to anything.
Just great. He was starting to shake again.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other, John," Sherlock drawled, fixing John in place with a sharp stare.
John worried his bottom lip for a moment, sucked in a breath, then looked down at the sheets. He felt ill just looking at his husband. His husband! Oh, God... John swallowed hard and forced himself to speak. "Sherlock...Sherlock I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... God I'm such an id-"
John's voice fell silent when long, violinist fingers pressed coolly against his lips. John dared to glance up at Sherlock and winced to find him looking cross, his mouth in a thin, unhappy line.
And Sherlock was cross, but with himself. He had known this could happen, he knew, and still he let the demands of biology overflow his senses. He couldn't blame John. This entire scheme, long before the wedding, had become an endless cock tease, driving them both to frustration and back again. Sherlock should have shown more control. He should have pushed John away and gone for a walk until they both had cooler heads.
Foolish... Sherlock knew he had been foolish ever to think...that this would end differently. The way John had looked at him last night...was not the way John was looking at him now. John's wide, panicked eyes and trembling body told Sherlock all he needed to know...
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and took a slow breath. He didn't deserve John and, especially given the gross liberties he'd taken with his bloggers body, he never would. And still, even now, he couldn't let John go. He would fix this. He had to fix this.
Opening his eyes, Sherlock looked at John's frightened face and willed himself to be calm. "You have no reason to apologize, John, I do." Disbelief crossed John's face, but Sherlock pressed on. "I thought this could happen. I did say that biology would be at play, I..." Sherlock swallowed hard. "I should have had more control. I'm sorry, John."
John's hands came up to hold Sherlock's face, his thumbs caressing Sherlock's cheeks. They were both shaking now, and John couldn't find any words. Was this a graceful way for John to back out? Did Sherlock really think that John had only given in to biological urgings? It might be possible. John, himself, hadn't known the depth of his feelings for the dark haired consulting detective until yesterday... Whatever it was, whatever Sherlock was offering him, if it ended up with them together, in each other's lives... that's all John wanted.
Slowly, slowly John leaned forward until their foreheads were resting gently against each other. One of Sherlock's hands rested on John's knee, the other had slipped to the side and caressed his cheek. John closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment. Then, he said the only thing he could think of. "I'll always be your blogger, Sherlock."
John felt Sherlock's hand tighten on his knee, squeezing. "Thank you, John." Sherlock's voice sounded a bit tight, but then again John wasn't sure he had sounded much better.
They stayed, leaning against each other, barely moving, hardly daring to breathe. Neither wanted to break something so precious, especially when it seemed to be balanced so precariously.
Raucous thunder exploded in the sky, shaking the building, sending John tumbling off the bed and into the lap of one, equally startled Sherlock Holmes.
They waited a beat, eyes locked, before dissolving into exhausted, strained giggles. It was more a release of tension, born of fear and uncertainty rather than humor, but it gave John and excuse to curl around Sherlock and Sherlock an excuse to wrap his arms around John. The moment still felt breathless and thin, but they were together. Together mattered, more than anything else.
One of Sherlock's hands caressed John's back, slipping into his short hair, while the other remained locked around his waist. "You should probably shower," Sherlock murmured, close to John's ear. "We're going out today." John pulled back slightly, confused, and Sherlock explained. "I browsed some of the brochures you brought in yesterday. We haven't been getting anywhere by tailing Albert and Trevor. It wouldn't hurt for the both of us to go out in the community, do some digging. It could be that the couple as well as this location, the Hamptons, is important. The art show at the college should attract a wide age range of people; we may be able to turn up some information there."
"You never stop working, do you?" John murmured, amused, though still shaken by the events of last night combined with the clarity of this morning.
Sherlock shrugged. "It's what I do."
John nodded, slowly struggling to his feet, pulling Sherlock along with him. "Yes, world's only consulting detective, the man who made being brilliant a career."
"It's not my fault most people are dull and tedious," Sherlock countered, pleased to see a small smile ease its way onto John's face.
"What about you?" John asked, "Don't you need to shower?"
Sherlock glanced down for a moment, then back up at John. "I already did. While you shower I will dress and grab some food from the hotel's breakfast."
"You're actually going to eat without complaint?" John asked, taken aback.
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, technically the art show doesn't open until 10am, and we don't know for sure that anything useful will happen, so we have some time. Plus you become unbearably cranky when I don't remember to feed you regularly."
John sputtered and smiled, despite himself and the insinuation that Sherlock needed to 'remember' to feed him like one would need to feed a pet. "Sherlock," John began, intending to chastise the lanky consulting detective for his own lack of eating habits, like he always did. Their half joking/half serious rows had become a surprisingly welcome constant of their relationship...when Sherlock's blue/gray eyes met his. Suddenly John couldn't make light of things. Maybe they would be fine, he hoped they would, but he couldn't casually brush off sleeping with his best friend...the man he loved... "Please eat something too."
John swallowed hard when Sherlock's face softened slightly and he said, "Okay, John. I'll find a table and be waiting for you." John fought to stop himself from sucking in a painful breath and a lead weight settled in the chest. It was subtle, or it appeared to be, but he still felt it. They were still together, still very much a team...but things felt...slightly distant...awkward...and John hated it.
John's relationship with Sherlock, however crazy it may look under the rational light of day had always felt more right than any other relationship, plutonic or romantic, that John had ever been in. Who fights about body parts in the freezer or the ethical qualms of experimenting on friends and acquaintances? The work they did was dangerous beyond good reason, and they were probably closer than two flat mates had any right to be. Still, John loved every minute of it. He loved it too much to let it go.
John cupped the side of Sherlock's face in one hand, caressing the skin under his thumb, and leaned up to press a kiss a chaste kiss to his lips. "I'll join you in a bit," John murmured before turning to walk towards the bathroom.
So things felt little awkward. Fine. He would deal with that. They both still, more or less, wanted the same thing: to be together. John would work to make sure they stayed that way, no matter what.
Greg cupped his hands around his mouth and breathed slowly into them, trying to warm them up. It was summer. Early summer, granted, but still, he shouldn't be this cold. Damn air-conditioning system. It wasn't frigid, but it was still a bit chilly for Greg's taste. Was that why Mycroft was always in his suite? Probably that and the subtle power play of always being immaculately dressed.
Greg glanced over at Mycroft from his comfortable chair by the fireplace. (Thank God he'd had the materials to light it!) Mycroft and Anthea were close together, Anthea standing, Mycroft sitting, hunched over some sort of file. Everyone was well behaved, they were working for Mycroft after all, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. Why had the killer been silent for so long? Would they be in time to stop him before he struck again? Were they on the right track with their current plan? Or had the killer changed his plan? Did the killer know Sherlock and John were on the case? Probably. He'd meant to show that with the black roses at their wedding. Hadn't he? Who was the killer? Where were they?
Greg had seen unanswered questions like this bring the entire yard to a standstill. That is until he started barking orders. That was the difficult part of being in charge, making the tough decisions, keeping people focused.
Mycroft had been doing an excellent job of that here, and Greg had been helping out where he could. Admittedly there wasn't much to do at the moment but search for an opening. The case, however, while it was certainly bothering him, wasn't all Greg was focused on. During the past few days Greg found himself thinking about Mycroft...
The tensions of this case aside...it had been surprisingly pleasant to spend some time with Mycroft again. When Sherlock had been using, Greg's interactions with Mycroft had been more about power struggles and grief then getting to know each other, although that happened anyway. How could it not when they had spent so much time together?
This time around Greg was surprised to find himself actively seeking out Mycroft's company more often than not. Something just seemed to...fit. Their verbal sparring matches, how seamlessly they did work together when they were actually trying to get work done, and how little actually needed to be said aloud due to their long acquaintance. It felt right...
Greg drew in a deep breath before looking back to the fire. It hurt to think about how quickly it would all disappear once the case was over. Greg would like to pretend that it wouldn't, but he knew Mycroft. Mycroft was all about the work.
Greg would like to pursue a deeper friendship, but he wasn't about to spend all his time chasing after someone who would spend most of their time trying to be elsewhere; he'd done enough of that with his ex-wife. One of them had always been chasing the other, it had never been equal, and then it had become nothing but work...
Greg flushed at the unintended comparison between Mycroft and his ex-wife. He forced his attention back to the file in front of him. He had to focus, not day dream about something he couldn't have. If Sherlock was to be believed, and that was iffy at best in regards to Mycroft, Mycroft had always been this way, driven by the mission as much as Sherlock had ever been driven by 'the game'. There was no reason to suspect he would ever change... Did Mycroft even feel lonely or had he forgotten what it was like to live differently? Or maybe this way of living made him happy...
Anthea passed by Greg's chair and they exchanged friendly nods. Greg had just about managed to refocus on the report in front of him when Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. For the ever composed British Government, that was a sign of intense frustration.
Greg set is report down on a small end-table, walked forwards to close the doors to Mycroft's office, then stood, silently at the edge of Mycroft's desk. The heels of Mycroft's hands were digging into his eyes as he sat hunched over his desk. Greg waited a few beats before asking, "What's wrong?"
Mycroft raised his head just enough to glare at Gregory between the cage of his fingers. "Sherlock and John have been intimate. This complicates matters exceedingly."
Greg's eyes widened and he sat down hard on the edge of Mycroft's desk. "Seriously?" Greg craned his neck around to get a glimpse at the screen of Mycroft's lap top. "Do you have footage of that or something?"
"Gregory!" Mycroft snapped, lifting his head out of his hands to glare at the detective inspector. "This is serious!"
Greg looked to Mycroft. "I am being serious, as serious as I can be when I'm still wondering if you have them sleeping together on camera. That does a bit more than border on intrusive, Mycroft."
Mycroft pushed his hands against the edge of his desk, causing his chair to slide back a few inches from the wood. "Just perfect," Mycroft muttered, glaring at his keyboard.
"Well, I think it is," Greg replied, crossing his arms and leaning back slightly. "Like I've said, those two have been tiptoeing around each other for far too long."
Mycroft shifted his gaze to glare at Gregory for a moment, before glaring at his computer screen once more. At a glance all Greg could see was John and Sherlock eating breakfast. The one oddity being that Sherlock was actually eating.
"I've told him time and time again," Mycroft muttered. Greg turned to look at the elder Holmes brother and found Mycroft holding his hands close to his mouth in a way very similar to Sherlock's 'thinking' pose, except Mycroft's fingers were interlocked, fingertips pressing into the back of the opposite hand.
"Told him what?" Greg asked.
Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a long suffering sigh. "Caring is not an advantage. All lives end. All hearts are broken."
The following silence stretched out just long enough that Mycroft opened his eyes to look at Gregory. Gregory was looking down at him, with a slightly amused.
"You say that like any of those are good reasons not to fall in love anyway," Greg murmured.
Mycroft stared at Greg for a moment, mouth just slightly agape. "That is a foolishly over-romantic perspective, especially coming from an experienced detective inspector."
Greg shrugged. "It's better than the alternative." When Mycroft raised an eyebrow Greg elaborated, "Logical, and alone."
Mycroft gave a derisive snort and recited an old line of his brother's, one he found quite apt given his lifestyle. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me"
"Not from yourself."
Mycroft looked up at Gregory and Gregory held his gaze. He wasn't speaking anymore...just looking.
Greg itched to move his hand forward and lay it over Mycroft's, but before he could Mycroft blinked and began readjusting his chair. "None of this will help us catch the killer," Mycroft said smoothly.
Greg's mouth thinned into a tight, unhappy line. "Yes, Mycroft." And there it was. The one thing that had and would keep them at arms length. Mycroft was almost always behind that professional 'mask' of his, and, if they were going to have any form of relationship at all, Greg wanted it to be with Mycroft, not his mask.
Greg returned to his chair, and lifted up the report once more.
John wasn't so much paying attention to where they were going as he was to the heat of Sherlock's hand in his. He was a little afraid to let go.
Breakfast had been...slightly strained. It was obvious that they each cared, Sherlock had tea waiting for him when he'd arrived, but the conversation seemed cautious.
It made John angry. They'd tumbled together flawlessly all those years together and he hated that something was standing between that now. They could move past this, they would, he just had to be patient.
They arrived at the building for the art show and Sherlock moved to hold the door for John with a wry smirk. John had to smile in return because Sherlock's look said, 'Aren't I the doting husband?' John didn't know if Sherlock had done that to make him smile, or if he was just being Sherlock and getting into character. It didn't matter, because it helped confirm John's earlier opinion. Everything would be fine. They would be fine.
Inside they each accepted a pamphlet that depicted the theme of the art show, entitled, "Pieces." Each artist was a student at a nearby college; several colleges/universities had banded together for this particular program. Some artists had large displays, some had only a few pieces. Some works displayed were collaborations between students from different schools.
Each work used the theme "Pieces" in its own way. One display they passed was a patchwork quilt in a wide array of colors and textures. Sherlock was trying to take in as much data as he could while scanning for what could be helpful, which gave John time to read the descriptions beside the quilt. It read:
Each swatch of fabric was cut from clothing/fabrics important to the three collaborating artists (Kari, Ted, and David). Some are from childhood clothes or blankets. Some are from beloved toys that broke down over time. What we found most interesting, however, was the amount of cloth that came from clothing of relatives who have passed away; it makes up more than half of this quilt. For us this is a statement of how much our past shapes our present and our futures. The loved ones represented in this quilt may be gone, but they are still very much affecting the world, through each of us.
John smiled at the explanation and took a step back to look over the quilt again. It was beautiful.
Sherlock didn't appear fixated on one spot or exhibit, so John took the time to wander around, tugging his husband along beside him. Sherlock was not entirely passive, either. Occasionally he commented on a clever interpretation of the theme or, more often than not, how dull the artist's exhibit was. For the most part, thank god, Sherlock only muttered the criticisms loud enough for John to hear.
There was one piece that, up close was just many, many glass eyes fixed to a sturdy backing. However, when one stepped back and viewed the picture from across the room the shading and coloring of the glass eyes reviled the face of a child. There was no description, but there was a title: 'Through my eyes.' It had been one of the few exhibits Sherlock had been thoughtful about, as opposed to dismissing it outright. Or at least that's how John interpreted, "At least they are attempting to think."
One exhibit John rather liked, but Sherlock was less than impressed with was just a phone. Beside the phone rested the description:
Watch Me...
John examined the phone which, according to the signs posted, he was allowed to touch. He noticed there was a program or video on the main screen waiting to go. John tapped the play button and was immediately confronted with a thin young brunette and an equally young, athletic blond man. They were smiling at the camera with their arms around each other's shoulders.
"Hello, my name is Jennifer," the woman said, giving a little wave.
"And I'm Ted," the blond man added with a wink.
"And we're about to leave this phone on the park bench behind us," Jennifer continued. The pair seperated to reveal a wooden bench set neatly into a patch of grass.
"If you have found it we challenge you to add something to this phone," Ted chimed in.
"I could be a picture, a text, a video, whatever you like," Jennifer added.
"All we ask," Ted explained, "is that you pass the phone on to someone else when you're done. You can leave it somewhere or pass it along to someone you know."
"Our goal is to show the collection on this phone on June 28th and the 'Pieces' art show," Jennifer said.
"So it it's getting close to June 20th we ask that you mail this phone to our P.O. Box, to make sure we have it ready in time." Ted stated, holding up a sign depicting the address.
"We're asking for your help because we believe that people are awesome and everyone has a story to share. Please help prove us right!" Jennifer cooed into the phone.
The picture faded to black for a moment before a montage started up. John thought he recognized the song as, "Walking in Memphis" by Marc Cohn. Pictures, texts, and snippets of video were played. They started silly, some kids playing with a dog, someone texting a friend, and a snapshot of a young couple hugging. After the first few bars John started to see a theme emerge, acts of kindness, and moments of joy. There were people being handed food and water, there where people helping others cross the street, people helping animals/pets, people praying in temples and churches all around the world, people getting married, and random messages of encouragement sent out to the world in general. As the music started to fade the screen shifted to black and these words appeared in white:
We never expected to get such a huge or such a positive response. Thank you, to every last person who contributed something to this project. We always believed in the good in others, thank you for further proof!
John was touched, but Sherlock just muttered something about 'the Woman'. John figured he was thinking about how she had used her phone for such destruction and shook his head. Sherlock could be pessimistic all he wanted, but the truth of the matter was that he was a greater force for good and justice than John thought he was willing to admit.
At length they came across a large display of photos in the shape of a heart. As they got closer John was able to see they were all wedding photos. Upon further inspection he realized that they were all wedding photos of gay and lesbian couples. This peaked his interest and Sherlock must have noticed as well because he beckoned the artist over. She was a short woman, shorter than John with soft gold curls framing her warm brown eyes. Her name badge declared her to be 'Traci'.
"Yes?" Traci said, "Can I help you?"
"Are you the artist?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the collection of photos.
"I'm one of them," she explained gesturing over to a young Latino man with dark hair and eyes. "I collaborated with Carlos. He's one of the few artists in this show who isn't an art major. He's majoring in law!"
Carlos stepped up beside Traci and smiled warmly. "Hello," he said with a nod, "Welcome to our exhibit."
John nodded in return, recognizing the spark of recognition in the young man's eyes. He wondered if Carlos read his blog and knew them from that. Either way he didn't gush or make a scene. Instead he asked, "Do you have any questions for us?"
"How is it that a student of law became involved in a massive, multi-college art project?" Sherlock asked. His body language was neutral but John could read the subtle tension that demanded answers.
Answers that Carlos seemed only too happy to give. "Every couple pictured here," Carlos gestured to the display with a jerk of his head, "Has been a victim of hate crimes."
Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side and said, "Explain."
Carlos walked John and Sherlock closer to the display while Traci excused herself and went to speak with a small group who appeared to be waiting for her next to the description of the exhibit. "These women," Carlos began , gesturing to a black and white photo of a light haired woman with her arms around a shorter, dark hared woman, "Had a child who was reclaimed by the sperm donor once he was twelve years old."
"A child who went on to study law after disowning his biological father," Sherlock said with a brief sideways glance at Carlos.
Carlos smiled. "You are as observant as they say, Mr. Holmes." Carlos stepped closer to the display and gestured to the top of the heart. "We added this one at the last minute."
Sherlock and John followed Carlos's gaze to a color photo of Dylan and Kyle, the one they had seen rendered in newspaper black and white when they'd first arrived in the states.
Sherlock's hands pressed together under his chin in his 'thinking' pose as he studied the photograph. John took a deep breath as he looked. Being a doctor and a solider had taught him to remove himself from a situation to do what needed to be done, but it was still hard to see that picture. They had been such a loving couple. Pressing his lips together in a tight line John forced his attention to a different photograph of two young men to distract himself from the intense anger that threatened bubble over in his chest.
"Tell me about them," Sherlock demanded.
Carlos's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Dylan and Kyle? Why? Are you-"
"No," Sherlock cut him off, then gestured at the expanse of the display, "them."
Carlos's mouth fell open in disbelief. "All of them?" he asked, glancing at the display. There had to be over three hundred pictures.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the younger man. "Maybe."
John's eyes swept over the display and he winced in sympathy. They were going to be here for a while. Still, even if this was just another dead end it made sense to investigate it thoroughly. John shifted his weight on his legs and tried to get comfortable.
Carlos started at the top of the heart and took them slowly around it. There were men and women, young and old. Some had lost houses, limbs, jobs, family or even their lives for trying to be with the person that they loved. Some acts of violence and hatred were random, some came from the people closest to those pictured in the display. At first Carlos's descriptions had been overly detailed, but as they made their way around the heart Carlos began to adjust the facts he focused on based on what Sherlock had asked about and when the consulting detective cut him off.
By the time they had reached the bottom and begun working their way up the other side John felt sure they'd find what they were looking for soon. They had to, because this was getting just as madding as the blind baker and those damned books.
John smiled gratefully at Traci when she walked over and handed him tea and a sandwich. She left food for Carlos and Sherlock as well, but it went untouched. He wasn't sure if Traci also knew who they were or was just respecting her partner. Either way he was grateful for her quiet presence, even when she was answering questions from other attendees of the show.
After three quarters of the heart had been reviewed John gave up all pretense of listening and struck up a conversation with Traci. She was, apparently, Carlos's girlfriend. They had met through this art project and begun dating two months ago. She had no family of her own, having grown up in foster care, but had recently met Carlos's mothers and was charmed by the love they had for their son.
Traci asked a few questions about Sherlock and himself. John found the subject more tender than he would have liked, and kept his answers brief. Traci, thankfully, didn't push, and seemed happy to talk about her project, Carlos, and her studies. At one point she got up and stretched, informing John that, in addition to art, she was studying yoga and hoped to teach it one day. John watched her work through several simple poses, explaining them as she went. It was certainly less depressing than listening Carlos detail a litany of unimaginable losses.
Traci left to powder her nose and John found himself studying Sherlock again. Fatigue was showing on Carlos's face, but Sherlock remained as stoic and focused as ever. It was amazing to see Sherlock working a case and John found himself smiling in admiration despite his inner malaise.
"You two are great together," Traci murmured, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. "You are," she insisted when he turned to her, at a loss for what to say. "You have this...energy even now when he's absorbed in what sounds like a case." She paused to smile, looking at Sherlock and Carlos before turning back to John. "You two have one of those love stories that make people jealous. I can tell."
John smiled and sipped his tea because he wasn't sure what else to do.
"Is this all of them?" Sherlock asked Carlos, his voice clipped, irritated. There was a restraint in that irritation that John was illogically proud of. Maybe he had finally managed to instill a modicum of manners in his errant flat mate.
"No," Carlos said with a tired sigh. "Some were too old to mount on the display. Some people volunteered pictures for us to have at this show but refused to let us mount them because they had no copies and wanted them back. We did a lot of research and found some great pictures, but we couldn't always get permission from the owners of every picture we found."
"Do you have a record of the pictures you did not include in the display?"
Carlos nodded, clearly exhausted, but committed to helping Sherlock, and passionate about his work.
"He's really something else, isn't he?" Traci asked, sipping a coffee.
John smiled and nodded. "He's like a force of nature." John checked his watch and sighed. "Listen, don't let us keep you. He has no respect for the human need to rest, eat, or sleep when he's like this."
Traci smiled back, settling into a chair beside the one John was sitting in. "That's alright. Carlos wants to help. He loves your blog, Dr. Watson, and he's committed to ending the pain behind those photos. If this case has anything with that, that is."
"Actually," John began with an internal grimace, "We're on our honeymoon." He had to stick to the story, but it rankled a bit more to say 'honeymoon' now than it had yesterday. It was his own damn fault.
Traci nodded in understanding, "And Sherlock saw this case in the papers."
It was John's turn to nod. Yes, good. That fit. Hadn't he thought some time about how Sherlock would always be Sherlock, even if they were actually dating?
"I'm not sure if I could put up with that," Traci mused as Carlos dragged out boxes of photos and started to go through them.
John shrugged. "It's not as hard as you'd think. It's just...how we are." Damnit he was smiling again.
Traci shook her head and gave John a gentle nudge in the ribs. "See what I mean? I love Carlos to death and I'm still jealous of you."
John let out a slow breath and tried to re-focus on Sherlock. Both Sherlock and Carlos were leaning over a rapidly growing pile of photos.
"What about these three?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the photo in Carlos's hands.
"They were a triad, all dating each other. This one is named Linda" Carlos was pointing now, "She came from a very religious family and left her lovers. This other women is named Emily, she's now a motivational speaker for coming out of the closet, any closet. She married Robert, the man in the photo, a few years after Linda left them.
"Where were you married?" Traci asked, drawing John's attention back to her for a moment.
"A lovely old church on the outskirts of London," John explained.
"I love old churches!" Traci gushed, then flushed at her over enthusiasm. "What I mean is, I'm doing a series of sketches on architecture for one of my classes and I chose to sketch old churches because I thought their architecture can be really interesting. What church where you married at?"
"I don't think it always had this name because it looks like such an old building, but I think it was called 'All God's Children United,'" John stated. "It's run by a woman named Isabel. They accept parishioners of all faiths and sexual orientations."
Traci smiled again and her eyes sparkled with warmth. "Sounds like one hell of a church, doctor."
John nodded, smiling at the memory. God how, how had it not occurred to him that he was in love with Sherlock when they were married? He was an idiot. ...then again, he had it on good authority that most people were.
"What are you waiting for?!" Sherlock snapped. "I told you this couple is irrelevant. What about this one?"
"Sherlock!" John admonished as the lanky consulting detective went to reach for another photograph. "We've been doing this for hours. Show some respect for all the work Carlos has done to help you."
Sherlock glared angrily at John, and John stared calmly right back, undeterred. He'd seen Sherlock in a snit more times than he could count and Sherlock hadn't been able to cow him yet. Just as Sherlock's face began to soften slightly, Carlos broke in.
"What church did you say you'd been married at, Dr. Watson?"
"'All God's Children United,'" John explained. "Why?"
Carlos held up a still hand, his eyes flickering back and forth slightly, thinking. Carlos then snapped his fingers and crouched to pull out a different box. This next box, far from the last box, was filled to the brim with newspaper clippings. Carlos riffled through them with confidence; he knew what he was looking for. Carlos's hands moved quickly, pushing bits of paper out of the way as he searched. Nearby Sherlock waited, impatiently.
"Here!" Carlos declared, lifting a clipping, it looked like an article with an attached picture. They all moved forward, crowding around Carlos to get a better look. "This is an article talking about the death of Matthew and Patrick Brennan," Carlos began, gesturing to the article. The picture showed a tall, broad, red headed, brown eyed man with his arm wrapped around a thin man with dirty blond hair and gray eyes. "Matthew is the shorter man, and this is his lover, Patrick Brennan. They met in London where Patrick was doing a study abroad. They were married at 'All God's Children United' Church and moved to New York City about ten years ago. As you know gay marriage wasn't 'legal' in the United Kingdom at that point, but that doesn't sound like it's ever mattered to that church. Matthew was still able to change his last name from Walker to Brennan.
"This article talks about how they were found dead, beaten not far from a well known BDSM club just after Pride. The crime was never solved, but it was listed as a hate crime. They were buried together by Patrick's family because, according to this article, Matthew was 'out of touch' with his own family back in London."
Sherlock snatched the paper out of Carlos's hands and scanned it. John crouched beside him, reading over his shoulder. The victims had been found in a dumpster not far from the BDSM club. They had been strangled, suspended by their wrists, whipped, flogged, and pierced through the heart by some unknown implement. Cause of death, exsanguination. Both men suspected to have been subdued by blunt force trauma to the side of the head.
John and Sherlock's heads snapped up simultaneously, locking eyes. Sherlock's eyes glinted with an internal fire and his mouth quirked up in long sought satisfaction. The worlds only consulting detective drew in a satisfied breath and said, "Call Lestrade."