The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile, Part 4 of 4
A Sherlock - Highlander crossover by mackiedockie and adabsolutely divided into 4 parts.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
*****
Joe was aware that he was backlit and vulnerable, and placed his feet carefully as he entered the nearly invisible dark alcove notched into the side of Mycroft’s headquarters.
“A secret entrance? How 007,” Joe taunted lightly.
“We call it the Mews, after Steed’s infamous apartment, actually,” a woman answered from the dark. “Best stop there, Joe.”
“Where my silhouette makes an easy target? Are all three of you going to keep skulking in the dark, or does one of you have the guts to look me in the eye?” he asked conversationally. “I don’t have a gun, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
There was an embarrassed silence, and a scuffing and shuffling sound before one form separated from the shadows. There was the sound of a closing door beyond. “Relax, Joe. I’ve sent them back to work. How did you know there were three of us?” the woman asked, a bit put out.
“One Watcher per Immortal, three Watchers per Tribunal. Old customs die hard.” Joe eased forward into the shadows, close enough to hear her breath. “So do I.”
“Don’t boast, Joe. It’s so...American.” The woman’s heels clicked on the pavement as she moved close enough to touch, one hand on her hip, and one hand holding a gun pointed confidently down and away.
“I am American, Laura.” Joe reached out and tucked back a straying lock of her hair. “I stopped apologizing for that thirty years ago. It got my Irish up.”
“I remember. And my parents will certainly never forget.” Laura allowed the barest smile, and the gun disappeared. “Then how about apologizing for blowing my twenty year cover in British Intelligence into tiny little fragments the first day you visit London since that Clapton concert...”
“Hey, wait, I didn’t even enter the building!”
“Yet your pet Immortal recognized me on sight.”
“He’s not my pet - did Mycroft notice Adam’s reaction?”
“Mycroft notices everything, when it suits him,” Laura sighed.
“You had a good run, Laura. Longer than anyone since...hell. Longer than anyone. In Churchill’s era, Watchers dropped like flies. It’s past time to get out.”
“MacLeod’s Watchers dropped like flies. You know that.”
Joe knew that. “MacLeod will get this out of his system. It’s not like the old days. Mycroft isn’t Churchill.”
“You’d better hope not, Joe.” Laura glanced over his shoulder. “Mycroft’s smarter younger brother is getting restless. You’d better go. If that boy had an ounce of common sense, he’d give Mycroft a run for his money.”
“Maybe he has too much,” Joe murmured. “You haven’t asked about Amy.”
“Amy and I talk on Facebook all the time,” Laura said tartly.
“Oh. Well. That makes sense,” he hedged, sounding a bit left out, even to himself. “Will you be okay? You can come away with me now. Adam will cover for us.”
“Not necessary,” Laura said briskly, again all business. “I have an exit strategy. You’re in the crosshairs, now, with MacLeod drawn back into the Great Game.”
“Was the smart money on Henry?” Joe asked with a touch of cynicism.
“Let’s just say that no one expected you both to walk away from this one. Be careful, Joe.”
“You know me.” He straightened the escaping lock of hair again, his hand lingering.
“Exactly.” Laura closed the distance between them, and grasped the lapels of his coat, pulling him down to her level. “I know you all too well...” and she stopped his protest by bringing her lips to his, tentatively, searching.
He pulled her close. Not tentative. Not searching. Knowing.
*****
John kept a close eye on Adam, standing between him and Sherlock as the consulting detective stared into the shadows at the melding bodies.
“How interesting. Dawson seems to be quite proficient in non-verbal dialog,” Sherlock observed.
Adam snorted. ”What you are observing now is Joseph Dawson reprising an earlier role, I believe the current term would be ‘baby Daddy’. Though in this case their baby is now a fully grown Watcher like her parents.”
“Interesting.” Sherlock took a step forward, but was stopped by John.
“Sherlock,” he warned and caught him by an elbow to steer him the other direction, giving the kiss stealing Immortal a wide berth. “I think there’s somewhere else we need to be.”
“Oh?”
“I’m sure of it.”
John tugged Sherlock away from the area of Mycroft’s building, leaving behind Adam, who waved whimsically at them as they departed. They walked a block before John hailed a taxi to transport them back to Baker Street. Inside the cab he sighed with relief. “These Watchers seem to be a mite over armed.”
“And with two mites you’d have a farthing.” Sherlock’s droll reply was accompanied by a steady stare at his flatmate. “You neglected to return Dawson’s gun to him.”
“I’ll return it to him later. If I see him again.”
“I rather expect we will.” Sherlock looked a thousand miles away for a moment before he said, “Gilgamesh,” then fell silent again.
“Gilgamesh?”
“Yes. You’re right, John. Violence appears to be endemic to Immortals and Watchers alike. I’m reviewing my history for incidences best explained by the existence and involvement of these two groups. I may have previously deleted pertinent data.”
John smiled. “May have.”
They rode along in silence for awhile, Sherlock gazing out the taxi window. John glanced over occasionally, but thought it best to allow Sherlock’s hard drive to hum. Shortly before turning onto Barker Street Sherlock asked, “Why would a man centuries old still bother to steal a kiss?”
The question startled John briefly, it had not been the direction he expected the cogitation to travel. John answered as best he perceived immortalkind, “His body is staying young.”
Sherlock nodded. “No telomere degradation.”
“Yes. And he still feels. Participates.”
“When I told you about the kisses, your reaction was interesting.”
“Was it? Should I apologize?”
“I think it best we remain a non-apologising household, John.”
“Good! Good. Because I can’t explain my reaction. I know that you’re not - .” John was at a loss for words, so stopped.
Fortunate timing it seemed as the taxi pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, John paid the driver and they emerged onto the pavement.
Sherlock stopped abruptly at their door, turned to John and inquired, “Why have you never stolen a kiss from me?”
Because you don’t hold still long enough? John thought, but answered with more care, “It would be a bit not good of me when I know you’re - that you’re married to your work. Not good to risk an important friendship.”
“An important friendship....” Sherlock smiled. It was a dazzling and scary smile. “John, what if we agreed to an experimental kiss - would that risk our friendship?”
John considered as they continued walking inside together. He pitched his voice low as they walked up the steps to their flat. “I’m not sure.”
Once inside their apartment, Sherlock asked “Because you don’t want to kiss me? Or because you do?”
They stopped walking and held each others gaze. Both men resisted looking away. John finally broke the silence. “You already know the answer to that.”
“No. I wouldn’t ask if I did.”
John sighed. “Yes. More than is appropriate for an experiment. Perhaps we should let it go - think on it for a few days.”
"John, do you think I’ll arrive at a different conclusion after a few days?"
"No," John replied, "but I might."
"Ah."
For a moment it looked to him as though Sherlock would pout, brow wrinkled, lower lip protruding, but he quickly returned to an expressionless state. At that point they scattered away from each other as if pinged apart by an electrical charge.
John filled the kettle with water, and Sherlock called out to him from the living area, “Don’t forget the biscuits, John.”
“Yes, dear,” John teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes on cue.
*****
“Some members of the Club have expressed the opinion that the modern anti-smoking laws are overly intrusive,” Mycroft commented to MacLeod as he passed him a hand rolled Cuban. “Even though the Diogenes Club has a...certain immunity. I have to admit to mixed feelings - indulging in the occasional cigar versus slavery to cigarettes.”
MacLeod waved the cigar under his nose and sniffed with appreciation. “We can’t control other peoples reactions, only our own.”
“True. Though with careful observation we can predict outcomes.” Mycroft rose from the table and moved to the window, studying the rainwashed street with a slightly furrowed brow. The light shower that had resumed during their dinner now beat in sheets against the snug windows of the club.
“You strike me as a careful man. Too careful to stand in front of a plate glass window.” MacLeod moved to join him at the high window. Bemused, he tapped the surface, returning a dull thump. “Bulletproof?”
Mycroft nodded. “Soundproof. Camera proof. Spy proof.”
“Hubris proof?” MacLeod allowed a ghost of a smile.
“We shall see, won’t we?” Mycroft considered, returning his gaze to the street. “We have come to a mutually beneficial agreement, I think. But speaking of hubris, do the Watchers really hound your steps so...doggedly?” His voice was delicate, his gaze was not as he picked out two forms in the shadows. “This is not a joint operation.”
MacLeod sighed, and regretfully dowsed his cigar. “I’ll speak with Joe.”
“Do.”
*****
“A proper Guinness draft.” Methos wheedled. “In my townhouse.”
Joe blinked as a gust of wind drove rain spatters into his face, but his eyes never left the dimly lit steps that led up to the Diogenes Club.
“From a proper Irish pub, then.”
Joe’s gaze flicked to the warm glow of the glazed windows, then back to the entrance.
“From a proper Irish pub in Ireland?” Methos raised with a touch of asperity.
“Careful. Next thing you know, you’ll be promising Tintagel,” Joe said softly.
Methos shivered, and not wholly from the cold. “No chance of that. They’re your ancestors, not mine.”
“Like we need more ghosts, either of us,” Joe huffed with amusement, finally cracking a small smile. “I’ll settle for a shower if there’s any hot water left in the rooms.”
“You mean I spent all this time offering good beer and Irish magic to get you to come in out of the rain, when all it took was a hot soak?”
“You must have scored yourself a room upgrade - I have a trickle, not a tub.” Joe turned up his collar against another gust, unimpressed.
“I have a townhouse, Joe. With a capacious bath.” Methos blew into his cupped hands, then plunged them back into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. MacLeod’s warm aura danced teasingly at the edge of his nerve ends. “A Roman bath. A veritable calderium.”
“Roman? What can I say? I’m a cheap date.” Joe leaned forward an inch, unplastering himself from the wet wall.
“Little did I know,” Methos said brightly, clearly ready to abandon MacLeod to a fate worse than death in the Diogenes Club, if it meant getting out of the rain. “I’ll get a taxi.”
“Answer a question, first.”
Methos caught himself in mid-step. “If I can,” he said carefully, knowing Joe all too well.
Joe tilted his head into the shadows so the street camera couldn’t read his lips. “If you and MacLeod had already planned out this little spy adventure, why drag me to the British museum? You could have gotten Mycroft’s attention all by yourself.”
Methos squinted at the nearest camera, and put his back to the lens. “I didn’t really want to attract Mycroft’s attention...all by myself,” he admitted softly.
“Enter Joe Dawson, professional catspaw,” Joe mocked himself, with a fleeting smile. His gaze traveled from Methos over his shoulder to focus again on the club stairs.
“We needed to convince Mycroft that MacLeod’s friends were potentially useful. And...mostly...harmless. You do ‘mostly harmless’ a lot better than I do.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Ah, ah, don’t get snippy, Joe. You know your body count is higher than mine this decade,” Methos reminded. “Mycroft is a walking lie detector. We couldn’t let you in on the scheme ahead of time.”
“Yeah, don’t say it. You think I’m a lousy liar.”
“No, I think that hanging around MacLeod stunted your practice in prevarication. Which in this case, was an advantage we could make work for us.”
“Makes sense,” Joe acknowledged softly, his eyes never leaving the club.
Methos crossed his arms, staring at Joe suspiciously. “You seem to be taking this awfully well.”
Joe shrugged. “I’m unarmed. For the moment. Besides, I’d figured most of it out. And playing the bumbling, harmless sidekick beats being left behind altogether.”
“See? A nice, healthy lie. Don’t tell Duncan. You know that MacLeod wouldn’t...”
Joe’s eyes flicked to a spot directly behind Methos’ right shoulder, and grinned. “MacLeod wouldn’t what?”
“He’s walking up behind me, isn’t he?” Methos asked just before he sensed MacLeod’s approach.
MacLeod’s arms stole around Methos from behind, and his head dipped to nuzzle under Methos’ rain-damped collar to nip lightly at the smooth skin beneath. “MacLeod wouldn’t what?” he whispered.
Methos provisionally surrendered to MacLeod’s warm envelopment, his jangled, quickening-fired nerves dangerously soothed by his touch. “You wouldn’t have left Joe behind. Not when there’s so much fun to be had.”
Joe shook his head, and edged away, well aware of the true extent of Methos’ idea of fun. “I would have tracked you down, anyway,” he groused. “Eventually. I always do.”
“This is a new situation.” MacLeod hesitated, diplomacy warring with honesty. “There will be missions you cannot watch.”
Methos dug an elbow into MacLeod’s side. “Don’t say ‘cannot.’ He abreacts.”
Joe studied MacLeod’s face for a long moment. Then he laughed, outright. “You know I’m going to figure out what you’re planning somehow, even if it kills me.” Still grinning, he turned on his cane. “Well, I’m off to the inn. Maybe I’ll check the want ads for a new flat. See you around,” he said, with just a hint of challenge.
“But Joe,” MacLeod countered. “No need for you to leave your work in Paris. What about your music?”
“There’s perfectly good dives in London I can play, MacLeod,” Joe sniffed, as the wind picked up again.
Methos added, sotto voce, “And he brings his work everywhere, even if it kills him. Keep your friends close, MacLeod.” Raising his voice, Methos threw out one last temptation. “But Joe...what about the caldarium?”
‘I’ll take a rain check. You two look like you have...important business to conduct of your own.” Joe lifted an eyebrow as Methos shamelessly insinuated a hand into one of MacLeod’s warmer, and dryer, pockets.
“Behave. The walls have eyes.” MacLeod caught his wrist before he could wriggle deeper.
“Make me. I’ve performed for the masses before,” Methos teased. “I was the belle of the Coliseum.”
“I’ll catch the repeats on YouTube,” Joe said acidly, glancing at the camera.
MacLeod disentangled himself from Methos. “Come by the townhouse tomorrow, Joe, we’ll work out a safe plan to keep in touch.”
Joe took one last look at the shadow in the window watching them all from across the street. “We’ll see. If you two keep me in the dark too long...” Joe grinned, his teeth gleaming in the streetlight. “...there’s this consulting detective I just met who would be intrigued to take the case.”
*****
While the tea steeped, an awkward silence stretched taut between them. Sherlock paced around the flat while John stood at the window. His gaze shifted from the street, to the tea brewing and then to Sherlock in a circuit. John felt rather like he was wearing sweat soaked leathers now drying uncomfortably in the sun (a totally illogical feeling considering the drizzle) as he waited for the conversation to start.
“Do we -,” Sherlock started to ask something, but it died with a huff and a sigh.
John asked, “What are you thinking, Sherlock?”
“How short our time is.”
“Compared to his, yes, but you and I - we have time. Enough time not to be idiots.”
“But John, we’re men,” Sherlock said earnestly, a smile flickering across his face.
John snorted, nodded. “True. We may be prone to idiocy in the relationship area. And you have previously expressed a lack of interest.”
Sherlock walked an indirect path toward John as if to hide his approach, finally coming to a halt in front of him. “Yes. And due to that history, I’ve deduced that waiting for you to act will take longer than I can possibly tolerate, since you were foolish enough to listen to me that first night at Angelo’s.”
John laughed and reached out to hold Sherlock still, clasping him around his biceps. “So that ‘married to my work’ speech is simply a protective disguise to ward off messy interpersonal attachment.”
“Something along those lines. I may have derived the technique from a doctor I know.” Sherlock brought his hands up to cup John’s elbows so that they were locked together as brothers-in-arms, then he pulled John close.
John muttered against Sherlock’s neck, “We’re not going to talk about this, are we?” Not sure if the question was a protest or relief.
Sherlock’s voice was a deep rumble. “Hm...no. That would be counterproductive.” He bent his neck and pressed his mouth against John’s. The kiss was at first tentative, but grew more heated, and soon it melded them together as they explored each others taste. When they came up for air, Sherlock proclaimed, “The results of the experiment,” as he rubbed his body against John’s, “suggest that one kiss from you will not be nearly enough for a conclusive...ah...whatever...” He bent his head for another kiss.
“Sherlock! Hold on for a minute.” John’s voice, both joyful and desperate as he pulled away, “I agree, a sample of one isn’t valid. It would never stand up to peer review, but -”
“What do you recommend doctor?”
“First that we move away from the window. Eliminate that peering at least.”
Sherlock groaned and John apologized, “Sorry.”
“Punsters need be punished, John.”
“As long as it involves additional snogging I’ll take my punishment, but away from the window. OK?”
John allowed Sherlock to drag him toward the couch. “Come along then, John, some of us don’t live forever.”
“Forever would be boring,” John concurred as his back met cushion.
(fini)
****************************************************************************************************
Footnotes
†Amanda, a beautiful thief with a love for gem stones, is a mere child at 15 centuries old compared to Methos’ 50 centuries.
††As a mere lad of a thousand years, Methos rode a pale horse with a foursome of marauders and was known as Death.
†††Darius was an Immortal priest murdered by rogue Watchers.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
*****
Joe was aware that he was backlit and vulnerable, and placed his feet carefully as he entered the nearly invisible dark alcove notched into the side of Mycroft’s headquarters.
“A secret entrance? How 007,” Joe taunted lightly.
“We call it the Mews, after Steed’s infamous apartment, actually,” a woman answered from the dark. “Best stop there, Joe.”
“Where my silhouette makes an easy target? Are all three of you going to keep skulking in the dark, or does one of you have the guts to look me in the eye?” he asked conversationally. “I don’t have a gun, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
There was an embarrassed silence, and a scuffing and shuffling sound before one form separated from the shadows. There was the sound of a closing door beyond. “Relax, Joe. I’ve sent them back to work. How did you know there were three of us?” the woman asked, a bit put out.
“One Watcher per Immortal, three Watchers per Tribunal. Old customs die hard.” Joe eased forward into the shadows, close enough to hear her breath. “So do I.”
“Don’t boast, Joe. It’s so...American.” The woman’s heels clicked on the pavement as she moved close enough to touch, one hand on her hip, and one hand holding a gun pointed confidently down and away.
“I am American, Laura.” Joe reached out and tucked back a straying lock of her hair. “I stopped apologizing for that thirty years ago. It got my Irish up.”
“I remember. And my parents will certainly never forget.” Laura allowed the barest smile, and the gun disappeared. “Then how about apologizing for blowing my twenty year cover in British Intelligence into tiny little fragments the first day you visit London since that Clapton concert...”
“Hey, wait, I didn’t even enter the building!”
“Yet your pet Immortal recognized me on sight.”
“He’s not my pet - did Mycroft notice Adam’s reaction?”
“Mycroft notices everything, when it suits him,” Laura sighed.
“You had a good run, Laura. Longer than anyone since...hell. Longer than anyone. In Churchill’s era, Watchers dropped like flies. It’s past time to get out.”
“MacLeod’s Watchers dropped like flies. You know that.”
Joe knew that. “MacLeod will get this out of his system. It’s not like the old days. Mycroft isn’t Churchill.”
“You’d better hope not, Joe.” Laura glanced over his shoulder. “Mycroft’s smarter younger brother is getting restless. You’d better go. If that boy had an ounce of common sense, he’d give Mycroft a run for his money.”
“Maybe he has too much,” Joe murmured. “You haven’t asked about Amy.”
“Amy and I talk on Facebook all the time,” Laura said tartly.
“Oh. Well. That makes sense,” he hedged, sounding a bit left out, even to himself. “Will you be okay? You can come away with me now. Adam will cover for us.”
“Not necessary,” Laura said briskly, again all business. “I have an exit strategy. You’re in the crosshairs, now, with MacLeod drawn back into the Great Game.”
“Was the smart money on Henry?” Joe asked with a touch of cynicism.
“Let’s just say that no one expected you both to walk away from this one. Be careful, Joe.”
“You know me.” He straightened the escaping lock of hair again, his hand lingering.
“Exactly.” Laura closed the distance between them, and grasped the lapels of his coat, pulling him down to her level. “I know you all too well...” and she stopped his protest by bringing her lips to his, tentatively, searching.
He pulled her close. Not tentative. Not searching. Knowing.
*****
John kept a close eye on Adam, standing between him and Sherlock as the consulting detective stared into the shadows at the melding bodies.
“How interesting. Dawson seems to be quite proficient in non-verbal dialog,” Sherlock observed.
Adam snorted. ”What you are observing now is Joseph Dawson reprising an earlier role, I believe the current term would be ‘baby Daddy’. Though in this case their baby is now a fully grown Watcher like her parents.”
“Interesting.” Sherlock took a step forward, but was stopped by John.
“Sherlock,” he warned and caught him by an elbow to steer him the other direction, giving the kiss stealing Immortal a wide berth. “I think there’s somewhere else we need to be.”
“Oh?”
“I’m sure of it.”
John tugged Sherlock away from the area of Mycroft’s building, leaving behind Adam, who waved whimsically at them as they departed. They walked a block before John hailed a taxi to transport them back to Baker Street. Inside the cab he sighed with relief. “These Watchers seem to be a mite over armed.”
“And with two mites you’d have a farthing.” Sherlock’s droll reply was accompanied by a steady stare at his flatmate. “You neglected to return Dawson’s gun to him.”
“I’ll return it to him later. If I see him again.”
“I rather expect we will.” Sherlock looked a thousand miles away for a moment before he said, “Gilgamesh,” then fell silent again.
“Gilgamesh?”
“Yes. You’re right, John. Violence appears to be endemic to Immortals and Watchers alike. I’m reviewing my history for incidences best explained by the existence and involvement of these two groups. I may have previously deleted pertinent data.”
John smiled. “May have.”
They rode along in silence for awhile, Sherlock gazing out the taxi window. John glanced over occasionally, but thought it best to allow Sherlock’s hard drive to hum. Shortly before turning onto Barker Street Sherlock asked, “Why would a man centuries old still bother to steal a kiss?”
The question startled John briefly, it had not been the direction he expected the cogitation to travel. John answered as best he perceived immortalkind, “His body is staying young.”
Sherlock nodded. “No telomere degradation.”
“Yes. And he still feels. Participates.”
“When I told you about the kisses, your reaction was interesting.”
“Was it? Should I apologize?”
“I think it best we remain a non-apologising household, John.”
“Good! Good. Because I can’t explain my reaction. I know that you’re not - .” John was at a loss for words, so stopped.
Fortunate timing it seemed as the taxi pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, John paid the driver and they emerged onto the pavement.
Sherlock stopped abruptly at their door, turned to John and inquired, “Why have you never stolen a kiss from me?”
Because you don’t hold still long enough? John thought, but answered with more care, “It would be a bit not good of me when I know you’re - that you’re married to your work. Not good to risk an important friendship.”
“An important friendship....” Sherlock smiled. It was a dazzling and scary smile. “John, what if we agreed to an experimental kiss - would that risk our friendship?”
John considered as they continued walking inside together. He pitched his voice low as they walked up the steps to their flat. “I’m not sure.”
Once inside their apartment, Sherlock asked “Because you don’t want to kiss me? Or because you do?”
They stopped walking and held each others gaze. Both men resisted looking away. John finally broke the silence. “You already know the answer to that.”
“No. I wouldn’t ask if I did.”
John sighed. “Yes. More than is appropriate for an experiment. Perhaps we should let it go - think on it for a few days.”
"John, do you think I’ll arrive at a different conclusion after a few days?"
"No," John replied, "but I might."
"Ah."
For a moment it looked to him as though Sherlock would pout, brow wrinkled, lower lip protruding, but he quickly returned to an expressionless state. At that point they scattered away from each other as if pinged apart by an electrical charge.
John filled the kettle with water, and Sherlock called out to him from the living area, “Don’t forget the biscuits, John.”
“Yes, dear,” John teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes on cue.
*****
“Some members of the Club have expressed the opinion that the modern anti-smoking laws are overly intrusive,” Mycroft commented to MacLeod as he passed him a hand rolled Cuban. “Even though the Diogenes Club has a...certain immunity. I have to admit to mixed feelings - indulging in the occasional cigar versus slavery to cigarettes.”
MacLeod waved the cigar under his nose and sniffed with appreciation. “We can’t control other peoples reactions, only our own.”
“True. Though with careful observation we can predict outcomes.” Mycroft rose from the table and moved to the window, studying the rainwashed street with a slightly furrowed brow. The light shower that had resumed during their dinner now beat in sheets against the snug windows of the club.
“You strike me as a careful man. Too careful to stand in front of a plate glass window.” MacLeod moved to join him at the high window. Bemused, he tapped the surface, returning a dull thump. “Bulletproof?”
Mycroft nodded. “Soundproof. Camera proof. Spy proof.”
“Hubris proof?” MacLeod allowed a ghost of a smile.
“We shall see, won’t we?” Mycroft considered, returning his gaze to the street. “We have come to a mutually beneficial agreement, I think. But speaking of hubris, do the Watchers really hound your steps so...doggedly?” His voice was delicate, his gaze was not as he picked out two forms in the shadows. “This is not a joint operation.”
MacLeod sighed, and regretfully dowsed his cigar. “I’ll speak with Joe.”
“Do.”
*****
“A proper Guinness draft.” Methos wheedled. “In my townhouse.”
Joe blinked as a gust of wind drove rain spatters into his face, but his eyes never left the dimly lit steps that led up to the Diogenes Club.
“From a proper Irish pub, then.”
Joe’s gaze flicked to the warm glow of the glazed windows, then back to the entrance.
“From a proper Irish pub in Ireland?” Methos raised with a touch of asperity.
“Careful. Next thing you know, you’ll be promising Tintagel,” Joe said softly.
Methos shivered, and not wholly from the cold. “No chance of that. They’re your ancestors, not mine.”
“Like we need more ghosts, either of us,” Joe huffed with amusement, finally cracking a small smile. “I’ll settle for a shower if there’s any hot water left in the rooms.”
“You mean I spent all this time offering good beer and Irish magic to get you to come in out of the rain, when all it took was a hot soak?”
“You must have scored yourself a room upgrade - I have a trickle, not a tub.” Joe turned up his collar against another gust, unimpressed.
“I have a townhouse, Joe. With a capacious bath.” Methos blew into his cupped hands, then plunged them back into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. MacLeod’s warm aura danced teasingly at the edge of his nerve ends. “A Roman bath. A veritable calderium.”
“Roman? What can I say? I’m a cheap date.” Joe leaned forward an inch, unplastering himself from the wet wall.
“Little did I know,” Methos said brightly, clearly ready to abandon MacLeod to a fate worse than death in the Diogenes Club, if it meant getting out of the rain. “I’ll get a taxi.”
“Answer a question, first.”
Methos caught himself in mid-step. “If I can,” he said carefully, knowing Joe all too well.
Joe tilted his head into the shadows so the street camera couldn’t read his lips. “If you and MacLeod had already planned out this little spy adventure, why drag me to the British museum? You could have gotten Mycroft’s attention all by yourself.”
Methos squinted at the nearest camera, and put his back to the lens. “I didn’t really want to attract Mycroft’s attention...all by myself,” he admitted softly.
“Enter Joe Dawson, professional catspaw,” Joe mocked himself, with a fleeting smile. His gaze traveled from Methos over his shoulder to focus again on the club stairs.
“We needed to convince Mycroft that MacLeod’s friends were potentially useful. And...mostly...harmless. You do ‘mostly harmless’ a lot better than I do.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Ah, ah, don’t get snippy, Joe. You know your body count is higher than mine this decade,” Methos reminded. “Mycroft is a walking lie detector. We couldn’t let you in on the scheme ahead of time.”
“Yeah, don’t say it. You think I’m a lousy liar.”
“No, I think that hanging around MacLeod stunted your practice in prevarication. Which in this case, was an advantage we could make work for us.”
“Makes sense,” Joe acknowledged softly, his eyes never leaving the club.
Methos crossed his arms, staring at Joe suspiciously. “You seem to be taking this awfully well.”
Joe shrugged. “I’m unarmed. For the moment. Besides, I’d figured most of it out. And playing the bumbling, harmless sidekick beats being left behind altogether.”
“See? A nice, healthy lie. Don’t tell Duncan. You know that MacLeod wouldn’t...”
Joe’s eyes flicked to a spot directly behind Methos’ right shoulder, and grinned. “MacLeod wouldn’t what?”
“He’s walking up behind me, isn’t he?” Methos asked just before he sensed MacLeod’s approach.
MacLeod’s arms stole around Methos from behind, and his head dipped to nuzzle under Methos’ rain-damped collar to nip lightly at the smooth skin beneath. “MacLeod wouldn’t what?” he whispered.
Methos provisionally surrendered to MacLeod’s warm envelopment, his jangled, quickening-fired nerves dangerously soothed by his touch. “You wouldn’t have left Joe behind. Not when there’s so much fun to be had.”
Joe shook his head, and edged away, well aware of the true extent of Methos’ idea of fun. “I would have tracked you down, anyway,” he groused. “Eventually. I always do.”
“This is a new situation.” MacLeod hesitated, diplomacy warring with honesty. “There will be missions you cannot watch.”
Methos dug an elbow into MacLeod’s side. “Don’t say ‘cannot.’ He abreacts.”
Joe studied MacLeod’s face for a long moment. Then he laughed, outright. “You know I’m going to figure out what you’re planning somehow, even if it kills me.” Still grinning, he turned on his cane. “Well, I’m off to the inn. Maybe I’ll check the want ads for a new flat. See you around,” he said, with just a hint of challenge.
“But Joe,” MacLeod countered. “No need for you to leave your work in Paris. What about your music?”
“There’s perfectly good dives in London I can play, MacLeod,” Joe sniffed, as the wind picked up again.
Methos added, sotto voce, “And he brings his work everywhere, even if it kills him. Keep your friends close, MacLeod.” Raising his voice, Methos threw out one last temptation. “But Joe...what about the caldarium?”
‘I’ll take a rain check. You two look like you have...important business to conduct of your own.” Joe lifted an eyebrow as Methos shamelessly insinuated a hand into one of MacLeod’s warmer, and dryer, pockets.
“Behave. The walls have eyes.” MacLeod caught his wrist before he could wriggle deeper.
“Make me. I’ve performed for the masses before,” Methos teased. “I was the belle of the Coliseum.”
“I’ll catch the repeats on YouTube,” Joe said acidly, glancing at the camera.
MacLeod disentangled himself from Methos. “Come by the townhouse tomorrow, Joe, we’ll work out a safe plan to keep in touch.”
Joe took one last look at the shadow in the window watching them all from across the street. “We’ll see. If you two keep me in the dark too long...” Joe grinned, his teeth gleaming in the streetlight. “...there’s this consulting detective I just met who would be intrigued to take the case.”
*****
While the tea steeped, an awkward silence stretched taut between them. Sherlock paced around the flat while John stood at the window. His gaze shifted from the street, to the tea brewing and then to Sherlock in a circuit. John felt rather like he was wearing sweat soaked leathers now drying uncomfortably in the sun (a totally illogical feeling considering the drizzle) as he waited for the conversation to start.
“Do we -,” Sherlock started to ask something, but it died with a huff and a sigh.
John asked, “What are you thinking, Sherlock?”
“How short our time is.”
“Compared to his, yes, but you and I - we have time. Enough time not to be idiots.”
“But John, we’re men,” Sherlock said earnestly, a smile flickering across his face.
John snorted, nodded. “True. We may be prone to idiocy in the relationship area. And you have previously expressed a lack of interest.”
Sherlock walked an indirect path toward John as if to hide his approach, finally coming to a halt in front of him. “Yes. And due to that history, I’ve deduced that waiting for you to act will take longer than I can possibly tolerate, since you were foolish enough to listen to me that first night at Angelo’s.”
John laughed and reached out to hold Sherlock still, clasping him around his biceps. “So that ‘married to my work’ speech is simply a protective disguise to ward off messy interpersonal attachment.”
“Something along those lines. I may have derived the technique from a doctor I know.” Sherlock brought his hands up to cup John’s elbows so that they were locked together as brothers-in-arms, then he pulled John close.
John muttered against Sherlock’s neck, “We’re not going to talk about this, are we?” Not sure if the question was a protest or relief.
Sherlock’s voice was a deep rumble. “Hm...no. That would be counterproductive.” He bent his neck and pressed his mouth against John’s. The kiss was at first tentative, but grew more heated, and soon it melded them together as they explored each others taste. When they came up for air, Sherlock proclaimed, “The results of the experiment,” as he rubbed his body against John’s, “suggest that one kiss from you will not be nearly enough for a conclusive...ah...whatever...” He bent his head for another kiss.
“Sherlock! Hold on for a minute.” John’s voice, both joyful and desperate as he pulled away, “I agree, a sample of one isn’t valid. It would never stand up to peer review, but -”
“What do you recommend doctor?”
“First that we move away from the window. Eliminate that peering at least.”
Sherlock groaned and John apologized, “Sorry.”
“Punsters need be punished, John.”
“As long as it involves additional snogging I’ll take my punishment, but away from the window. OK?”
John allowed Sherlock to drag him toward the couch. “Come along then, John, some of us don’t live forever.”
“Forever would be boring,” John concurred as his back met cushion.
(fini)
****************************************************************************************************
Footnotes
†Amanda, a beautiful thief with a love for gem stones, is a mere child at 15 centuries old compared to Methos’ 50 centuries.
††As a mere lad of a thousand years, Methos rode a pale horse with a foursome of marauders and was known as Death.
†††Darius was an Immortal priest murdered by rogue Watchers.