Sherlock skulked around outside the frosted windows of the pub, peering in the door when someone entered or left. Why were John and Lestrade sharing drinks and chatting with each other and not interrogating the pub's landlord? What were they laughing at? What were they waiting for? Sherlock stomped around inside his own head. If only Corbeau hadn't been so duplicitous, if only Sherlock had been able to go in there, he'd have finished the task already. He might even have a suspect he could hunt down, a name, a direction.
Maybe John was still a little annoyed with him and wanted him to wait out in the cold alone for a while. That seemed unlikely; John had been quite amenable to his requests that afternoon. He even read to Sherlock (in admittedly deplorable Italian) while he worked. The sound of his mild voice had been desperately nice. And John's rather alarming attempt at the proper Italian accent had been quite funny even if Sherlock had been too intent on his experiment to laugh.
He hadn't managed to replicate the concoction, but he could keep trying. It wasn't as important to the case as finding the culprit. But the evidence was leading him all over London. It wasn't a matter of having too little evidence, but too much. Too many possibilities. Oh, but it was brilliant! This interminable waiting, however, was horrendous.
Sherlock hoped that John and Lestrade might come up with a viable lead inside The Fortune of War. Sherlock hadn't been strictly honest about why Corbeau was so annoyed with him, and tossing him out of the pub was the best case scenario if Sherlock sauntered in. Finding himself laid out on one of the benches in the back room with a price tag posted above him was much more likely.
Sherlock fidgeted, wanting to hurry John and Lestrade along. What were they doing in there? John was turned to Lestrade, his smile sunny and Lestrade winked back. Blast! The door swung shut again and a patron brushed Sherlock aside in annoyance. Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to deduce how much the customer had to drink or what sort of profession he held, or which streets he'd walked through during the day based by the mud on his shoes or the smell of his jacket.
Muddled, everything was muddled. The past twenty-four hours thoughts of John had taken up a rather defensive position in Sherlock's brain, despite all intent to rout them completely. First John had gotten along at the Professor's quite famously, proving himself well able to converse along the lines of Sherlock's more peculiar interests. John was intelligent; perhaps not up to Sherlock's level of brilliance, but he'd educated himself well and perhaps only his dedication to his comrades-in-arms had kept him from rising higher in his ranks or securing a safer, more prestigious medical position in a hospital or university.
Later that night, John had become unbearably angry with him only to turn about and confide in Sherlock something private and, John clearly thought, shameful. Sherlock couldn't even focus completely on the heads in the morgue for thinking about how things were broken and how powerless he was to understand them, much less fix them.
And John had touched him. John was always touching him. Sherlock noticed this acutely. They walked linked hand-on-elbow and John sometimes patted Sherlock's arm which immediately turned his thoughts from wherever they were to John.
Sherlock couldn't help his voice coming out a bit cross when John touched him. It wasn't that he didn't like it. He did – too much. It distracted him and he could not afford to be so distracted in the midst of a case. But he didn't want to forego that touch either. John's hand tucked around his elbow, John's fingers so light and careful on the bruising on his throat, John's strong hand cupped over his shoulder. Just those simple touches were too much, so much.
And there were more touches to think on – John's hand warming his knee in the garden while pressing those (kind, smiling, pleasing) lips to Sherlock's own. It had been all Sherlock could do not to respond ardently in full view of his brother's guests. There was little, perhaps nothing, John could do to keep Sherlock from wanting to respond ardently, and therein lay the problem. Sherlock wouldn't let himself fall into that maelstrom of mindless lust and animalism that accompanied intimate relations.
Even now, when Sherlock ought to be spending his downtime going over the details of the case in his head, his thoughts were entirely on the handsome young man he had somehow agreed to marry. It would have been so much easier if he could bring himself to ignore his husband's existence.
And again, that warm hand on the middle of his back, John's hand, nudged Sherlock out of his reverie and back onto Giltspur Street where both John and Lestrade were suddenly standing.
"You should have heard John's Edinburgh accent, Holmes. It was profoundly funny. Had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing every time John opened his mouth."
"I do hope it was better than your atrocious Italian accent, John," Sherlock quipped dryly. John laughed. The sound was merry and made Sherlock warm even in the cold night.
"Oh, aye, I'm a right master of the language of my forefathers, husband," John said in his thickest Scottish brogue. "So prove to me your Italian accent is quality enough to deride mine."
Sherlock felt a bit giddy as John looped their arms together and tugged him in the vague direction of home. That giddiness was the only explanation for what Sherlock did next.
He began to sing.
The notes of the rude little ditty bounced along in a catchy manner, the words pronounced in his worst Italian, his rich voice full of all tones playful.
Sherlock could speak flawlessly in six languages, there was the interview with Corbeau to discuss, there was Lestrade to dismiss for the night, but instead Sherlock wanted to make John laugh.