Thanks for being patient, guys. This would have been up sooner but Fanfic decided to crash or something so I couldn't log in. Better late than never.
John choked on the air once again causing Sherlock to sigh. "Will you stop choking on things, John? It is starting to annoy me."
John mumbled an apology as Samuel squirmed a little. Straightening a little, he tried to regain composer before speaking again. "You noticed that then?"
"Who wouldn't?" Sherlock smirked, "It was blatantly obvious. My brother being his usual self. Not that mattered. How long did you last then? Two months?"
Samuel stared coldly at Sherlock. Like his glare could kill. "Three, exactly."
"Ah yes. Explains the watch. Pity you didn't last four. He gives them a helicopter then."
"Yes but I am afraid your brother moved on to his new... toy." Samuel walked over to the window, looking down at the busy street below. "Seven months now apparently."
"Ooo a new record. I should congratulate him." Sherlock began pacing around the room impatiently. This was getting rather tiresome.
"The case," his voice lined with bitterness. "Mr Holmes."
"The case." Sherlock mumbled, "Is a delicate one. Namely, the nature of what you left in the place you left it in."
John sat, a confused look on his face, and watched Sherlock. "John, take that look off your face."
John did his best to try and straighten out his face. "How...?"
"How? Well, he is Samuel Penber, high up in governmental politics. That's how brother dearest likes them. And, with the pleasure of working with my brother comes certain secret information."
He looked and Samuel, who nodded in agreement. "And this information was lost, was it not?"
Samuel nodded again. "Now, as for the place it was lost in... I see no sign of him being a drunkard. Nor a... Junkie. So the question is: where did you leave this information? I assume it was not on the train, or else you would have it back. And it was not taken from you forcefully because you would then have half the army looking for it. Instead, you have come to me. Where did you leave it, Mr Penber?"
John switched his gaze to Samuel, who was looking rather sheepish. "I- I er... I left them at a... Um..."
"A whore house? A drug den? Come, quick tell us!" Sherlock snapped. John raised an eyebrow but said nothing; he was as interested as the bad tempered genius who stood before him.
"I left them at a party..." Samuel mumbled. "I mean, I didn't leave them. I just didn't get home with them."
"Um... Why didn't you jus-"
"No John, I'll ask that. Why didn't you just turn around and go back?"
"I was going to ask why he didn't tell Mycroft and why he needs us but... Yeah, that's a better question." John nodded.
"Well that's obvious. You never met Kyle, did you, John? Though I suppose no one will ever meet Kyle again." John shuffled awkwardly on the bed. He thought about the secrets he had told. The ones he could. "Isn't that right, Samuel?"
Samuel let out a heavy sigh. "No one was meant to know about that."
"I didn't have to know, I noticed. This case, anyway, what exactly happened? I need details." Sherlock sat down on the bed and crossed his legs. Impatiently waiting for the story to unfold.
"I was at a party when this... Gentleman approached me. He must have drugged me because somehow I ended up at his house. The next morning I left but I left without some plans that are important to a mission MI6 wish to carry out. If anybody finds out, I am in ... Well lets just say I am in a predicament."
"Quite." Sherlock coldly replied. "The problem, Mr Penber, is that you will have to give me even more details and absolute control."
"But I ca-"
"Then you know the consequences, Mr Penber." Sherlock quickly got up and stood right in front of Samuel. Looking at him right in the face. "Where is he sending them now? Last I heard Antarctica was open."
Samuel gulped and swiftly nodded. Taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he handed it to Sherlock. It had an address on it for somewhere just on the outskirts of London. "This is where I awoke. I assure you, Mr Holmes, that this is not a nice area. These plans are important ones and they are on a memory stick. You are aware with the type that MI6 use, I am sure?" Sherlock nodded. "Good. Get it, Mr Holmes, and I can make it worth your wild."
"Money doesn't interest me, Mr Penber."
Scanning Sherlock head to toe, Samuel smiled. The sides of his mouth turning in an unsightly manner. "No but I have something that will." Samuel walked towards the door and opened it before turning back round. "You have a week at best. Urgency is required. Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson."
"Something that will interest you, the great Sherlock Holmes." John laughed, hiding his irrational fear. He noticed the way that Samuel had looked at Sherlock, a way in which John knew all too well from nights out. Samuel was looking at Sherlock in a way, John was sure, should be reserved for private rooms above a bar... Oh.
"Yes, I wonder what he thinks he can bring to the table." Sherlock laughed suddenly. "Ah, John, we are his only choice, let's not disappoint the man."
"Let's not." John agreed, heaving himself up.
"Stay still for a second, John." Sherlock said quietly. John sat back down on the bed, waiting for Sherlock to talk. For a while, there was silence.
"Sher-" John felt his wrists grabbed and pulled above his head, a solid presence was settled on his chest. He felt his heart race as he realised that Sherlock had just pinned him to the bed. Sherlock's long, thin fingers kept John's hands in place, he held on to both of John's wrists with a single hand. The other hand was slowly, carefully probing through John's pockets.
"Surprisingly easy." Sherlock said suddenly, standing up and brushing his suit down. "John, thank you for letting me test a theory."
"Wha-" John began. "Wh- why?"
"If Samuel had been attacked, like I just demonstrated, there would've been marks around his wrists. That aside, it was a perfectly logical reasoning." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "Shame it didn't happen though."
Sherlock left the room quickly, making John rush after him. When he got down to the bar he just realised that his clothes were still creased from when Sherlock had pinned him to the bed. His hair was still slightly in a mess. As he passed the bar keeper, he smiled at him gleefully. John shook his head and followed Sherlock out of the door, who had already thanked the bar keeper for his services.
Outside Sherlock hailed a taxi and gave the address of the house to the driver. "What we going to do once we're there?"
"Well this is just going to be a quick look at the place. Search for potential areas. We will come back tonight so we can plan it correctly."
"Right." John looked down at his wrist. Evidence, in the form of a red mark, on his skin from where Sherlock had held him. He hadn't expected that at all. He remembered the way Sherlock had held him in place. The hand searching through his trouser pocket. So close. Sherlock had been basically on top of him, inches away. The fading smell of lavender still clung to him. John hoped he wasn't expressing his thoughts like he usually did. Hopefully his barrier was still strong. He'd hate to think that Sherlock could read his thoughts.
"About on the bed, John," the taxi driver let out a discomforting sound. "Sorry I held you down like that. It might have been inappropriate."
John's voice caught in his throat. "Just a little but I guess I am use to how you behave."
"Yes. Least we know that Penber wasn't forced on a bed and had the memory stick taken from him." Sherlock stated, looking outside the window.
John's heart was still beating fast. How, he questioned himself, could Sherlock Holmes turn a man such as he, a military man, into a flustered school boy? Why did his heart race when they were close? Why did Sherlock invade his dreams at night with promises of things that would never happen?
He stared out of the window, not seeing the streets as they were, but rather as he wanted. He wanted them to be open and sunny, for everyone to leave their work place and school and just to be happy, if only for a little while. John wanted the world to feel the joy that he couldn't.
Sherlock examined his hands; the small scratches on them annoyed him. Too bad this body was only the casing for his mind, a thing that would be lost to the world sooner or later. Sherlock had never had morbid thoughts. He had never thought about death as anything but something to be solved, another puzzle. But something, deep inside him, was stirring. It was waking and with it came an emotion Sherlock thought he'd locked away for good. Fear.
The taxi pulled up, jolting both men out of their thoughts. Sherlock jumped out of the taxi quickly and stood, hands on hips, in front of the magnificent monstrosity in front of them.
"Ugly, ain't it?" A voice said from behind him. "Took bloody ages to build and na' no one lives there."
The taxi pulled away and John stood across the street from Sherlock. John saw the man clearly, a pair of faded blue jeans and a polo shirt stretched over his portly stomach. He stood outside of a pub, clearly the owner as he had a towel in hand and was holding a few empty glasses in the other.
"Wanna come in for a drink, lads?" He asked, a smile on his red face. "'Cause there ain't much else 'round these parts."
Sherlock shot a look at John and nodded. "We'll come in. Pint of bitter for him and a whiskey for me."
"Whiskey? You don't drink whiskey."
"There are some things you don't know about me. I use to drink whiskey before you moved in." Sherlock said as he paid the man for the drinks. "It's considered the 'norm'. Especially at that stupid little club."
John put down his glass on the side of the bar where they sat. "How would you know? I've never seen your within a mile of that damn place."
"Not now anyway." Sherlock smirked. "I'm banned for a two mile radius."
"What on earth did you do?" John asked, staring at Sherlock with wonder.
"Only a few explosions." He chuckled, "lets just say, I am the reason for the no talking policy actually being properly enforced."
The side of John's mouth turned up. He could imagine one of the elderly gentlemen yelling at Sherlock as he walked around setting the place on fire. That would indeed be amusing. "Why we come in here anyway? The building was right there."
"I need to look at it by myself." Sherlock said as he looked outside the window towards the building.
"Oh"
"Well, I need to be in and out as quick as possible." Sherlock said coolly. He must have noticed the sudden change in John's expression as the next thing he said was: "You're still coming with me tonight though."
The barman pretended not to noticed as Sherlock downed his drink and walked briskly out of the pub. John looked down into his glass and sighed.
"I seen guys like 'im before." The barman piped up. "He'll get you into trouble."
"He already has." John laughed. "More trouble than... well, anyone else I know."
"Ah, he's a keeper then." The barman chuckled.
"Yeah... I just got to find a way to keep him." John smiled sadly.
The barman nodded and picked up a glass, he began to polish it to a perfect shine. Stillness settled on the almost empty pub. There were a few old men in the corner, a young man sat at the other end of the bar and John, the barman and a rather fat dog were at the other. The pub was cheery, but the overcast skies outside took away a lot of light. The cosy inside of the building was stifling to John, who was worrying.
Worrying about Sherlock. Sherlock would be, no doubt, climbing into the large house through a window or jumping a fence to get a closer look at something that interested him. John let his mind go blank. There was no point in imagining things that wouldn't help him.
John's hands found his glass and brought it to his lips. He sipped it and watched the young man at the other end of the bar.
He was slender, healthy, and tall. Six four, John guessed. His nose had been broken once and he had a pierced eyebrow. His hair was cut short and blonde. He looked like a typical thug; 'dangerous'.
The man looked up and noticed John watching him. He winked and took out his phone from a pocket of his sports jacket. It rang.
"Is it secure?" He asked the person on the other end of the line. "What do you mean you've found someone inside? Is the package safe? Good, kill him."