(no subject)
Title: Bantam Wars
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: T
Summary: John thought when he lost his past and gained an irritatingly eight year old physique that the mad scientist Dr. Grendel and almost ended him. But now, pushed away by Sherlock after the Great Game, he has new purpose again. To find Dr. Grendel and either fix what's been broken or destroy any remnant of the time ray forever. With Tim Dimmock, his brother in arms and the protective shadow of the fabricated genius W, John Watson is off to war..
Author's Notes: Caroline and tentacle_love riding into victory again. High fives all around. Have some Tim and John feels! I'm tired so, that's about all. Check me out at thursdayplaid.tumblr.com for updates, fanthings and occasional reblogs of lovely things.
John was worrying at the corner of his Grey’s again. It was early morning, the sky a velvetly violet heading toward the lavender of early morning. Some of the car park lights were still on in front of the train station. Not that they were parked under a floodlight like that. Sleepy headed people walked past them. Mostly uni aged kids and people obviously headed for a holiday. On the way Folkestone had looked relaxed and peaceable in a way that only a resort town could. The lights were only on in necessity shops and in the back window of a bakery they passed. And, of course, the White Horse. He’d been here before, taken a picture, so he just stared at it in between trying not to worry at his Grey’s.
Tim gave him a sturdy look.
“I’m fine,” John barked at him.
“You’re not.” Tim had known him for less time than Sherlock, but already knew him in a way that Sherlock didn’t. Or maybe couldn’t. Sentiment cut into Sherlock’s belly in new unfathomable ways whereas Tim clung to it like a drowning man.
“Davey has too much to lose.”
“Look, Davey knows what he’s doing.” Tim pulled into parking, reaching for the glasses he had hung on his shirt collar. They were thin with gold coloured rims, not Tim’s style-flashy things made him nervous-with and some sort of treatment to the lenses so when they shifted they became opaque as a mirror. John’s face looked small and smooth when he saw himself reflected in a quick shift of the glasses. “And he knows it’s only a matter of time before Moriarty turns on him anyway. If he’s going to do something suicidal, let him do it on the time table he’ll be most likely to slide through alive.”
“Also this will be the most time we spend together,” John felt the need to point out. “All we really know about each other is that Grendel hit us both. And we both like chocolate and Bond. And we appreciate gun safety.” John licked his bottom lip. “And family. How we feel about family.”
“We get on well enough,” Tim shrugged, checking the cubbies of the car to make sure it was clean. Both of them had worn gloves, but there was always the chance of fallen hair, skin cells, their trapped breath.
Running his tongue across his bottom lip again, John hesitated the barest moment before zipping his backpack closed. “I’d say I needed someone to reach the top shelf, but well…”
Grinning, Tim gently knocked his elbow into John’s shoulder, “Look who’s telling short jokes.” John pulled his woolen cap down to cover his ears, a pleased little cubbish smile making his face as pleasant as a fresh apple. “Now try not to wiggle too much. You’re still small or else this wouldn’t work, but if you start twitching we’re both going down in a pile.”
John nodded, shaking himself all over to get himself loose while Tim waited for him to lift his arms. He caught John with both hands and hefted him up against his chest. There was unsurprisingly the feeling of warmth, the solidness of Tim’s chest, the strange feeling of being braced and the fitting of bodies together. John steadied himself awkwardly; he hadn’t been carried since soon after he started walking, at least not carried like this. His smaller size had made him a popular practice partner in lift drills back in his army days. But then he was generally over someone’s shoulder like a scowly mink stole. But he knew this was something humans did. That this was fine. He pressed a fist to Tim’s collar bone until his anger left him calm and reasonable.
This felt strange-the warmth of Tim’s body, the feel of an arm boosting him up that he filtered under the same lens that helped get him through half a dozen spectacular medical school pranks and desert shenanigans and shrugged the whole thing off. There would be cameras everywhere of course. That was what this was about. John pressed his face into Tim’s neck and raised his arm up to protect the rest of his face. The perfect image of a sleepy child. They made it through to get their tickets, John’s face pressed into Tim’s collar while people spoke in soft voices around them.
They had talked about this when they were planning how to get past the security cameras. Talked about how John got upset when people mistook him for a child. How he went tense and battle ready, vibrating with disapproval. But if anyone was going to buy this John had to stay completely calm and relaxed. They thought of trying sleep deprevation to make him actually sleepy, but that was more likely to just make him stroppy and more likely to tell people off. So instead John took long shallow breaths and practiced some of the meditation techniques that he had been taught for pain management.
Body loose, John just trusted, palms flat and relaxed against the curve of Tim’s shoulders, the soles of his feet gently tingling where they hung. Listened to the soft timbre of Tim’s humming, the way when someone asked about John and John shifted anxiously, Tim pressed his cheek to John’s head and murmured, “Hush little man, I’ve got you.”
“Can I take your bag for you?” it was a woman, vaguely Parisian accent.
“Yeah,” there was a subtle shift in Tim’s body. “Thanks. We’ve had a bit of a late night. Travel nerves.”
“I know what you mean,” John could hear the smile in her voice. She had a try at Tim who went tense, then flustered, then made faintly distressed sounds until she got the hint and left. As soon as she was gone and the curtain was pulled John was released. He stepped away while Tim wrangled the duffle up on the rack. John rolled his shoulders, jumped gently to shake out the irritation and subdermal rumble that was caused by someone hefting him. Even someone like Tim. Roost would never try it. He might curl up against John as a smaller, safer and (loathe as he was to admit it, cuddlier) proxy for his razor blade of a brother, but the social implications behind carrying people was a bit lost on him. Davey he would probably bite if he tried something so blatantly stupid. And Sherlock… if nothing else Sherlock respected him enough not to do that. With Tim it was barely okay for all its necessity.
Tim sat by the window hands tight over his knees.
That wasn’t a good look on him. “I didn’t think it would affect me so much.”
“Me neither.”
John stopped stretching his neck to go sit next to him. “You okay?”
Shaking his head Tim smiled at him, hands still tight but shoulders going loose. “Don’t worry about me little man. It’s good to have you here now, and safe. It’ll be easier to arrange Interpol in Paris anyway. You’ll arrange the meeting with Adair?”
“Yeah,” John made a face at him, but didn’t argue. Tim was generally self-sufficient when it came to feeding himself.
“I’ll take a quick nap then, wake me when we arrive.” Without waiting for any more of an answer than a distracted nod from John, he curled up on the train bench, back to John. He wouldn’t have much time for one but then John supposed he only needed a little rest. Tim wrestled one armedly with his coat until he was able to shake it off by pure stubborn force of will and throw it over his head to keep out the light. It would have been funnier if Tim hadn’t driven them from one end of Britain to the other. Or if he didn’t look like he was carrying around half a century of care on his shoulders. Or as if there wasn’t the gun he had used to kill Moran currently peeking out from between his jumper and the back of his trousers.
John had been a soldier, albeit one who primarily saw most of his action in a field hospital and not the front lines, his time as a medic exempted. But Tim had been a police officer. A detective, stubborn and stroppy, but ultimately one who cared the most about the case more than the bravado of it. At least not more than any other man who was smaller, in more puppyish proportions, pug nosed and soft eyed in a profession that valued visceral masculinity more along the lines of Lestrade.
He probably remembered clearly everyone he killed. Knew them more than flashes of faces without names that appeared sometimes in the night. It hadn’t really occurred to John to ask how Tim knew Sebastian Moran was Moriarty’s second in command, just figured it was a bit of research and ingenuity. Time had surged forward so much farther for Tim before everything had been yanked out from under him. Of course John had figured Tim was keeping some things close to the vest, but it hadn’t really occurred to him how much.
Maybe John should feel angry at Tim, for holding so much back. Sherlock would have been (and John really needed to stop using Sherlock as a point of reference). But instead John felt sad and tender, like Tim was a child, so small and defenseless; as if John were capable of taking care of him any more than he was of taking care of himself. To prevent himself from falling into an endless chasm of melancholy he fetched out his phone and checked his messages.
There was a nervous text message from Adair, Who are you? You’re not my usual contact.
Dimmock is slightly indisposed at the moment, but he agreed to the meeting as soon as you’re ready. - W
Is he all right? It’s been a couple months. - A
We have no intention of interfering with your life any more than is necessary. Also, in the future, perhaps don’t volunteer quite so much information quite so quickly. - W
Sorry.
There was a brief pause, and then an even more nervous text message appeared.
Wait, why are you telling me to be more careful, are you saying that you were fishing for information? - A
Ignore that, obviously if you were fishing for information you wouldn’t tell me. - A
There’s no need to be nervous. This isn’t a test. You’ve performed very admirably. - W
I’ve been impressed with your work in the field; my only concern is that your talent is going unutilized. When you’re done working with us, you should still have access to a profession worthy of your talents. - W
you’re kidding right
I’m afraid not Mr. Adair. Your nerves aside, you’re an excellent operative. Your work in Russia was superb and your talent for mathematics is something I would rather see utilized than put to waste. - W
Unless you have any personal objections, I would like to place you in the British government protecting an interest of mine. - W
It was at times like these that John wished texting was more conducive to conversation. And also was a little in awe at his ability to channel his inner Mycroft.
Whatever you decide, it should be understood that this conversation will not be discussed with anyone. - W
If you decide you do not want this new position, it will not be held against you. However I would like for you to consider it. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the position I cannot discuss it with you until you’ve decided. - W
The next pause continued until their arrival in France made it impractical to check his phone by the minute and he had to give it up in favour of pretending to be a child again. John gently called Tim’s name before he touched his shoulder. There was a soft rippling of elbows and shoulders and waking up stretching beneath his coat before Tim’s face emerged with crease marks but brighter eyes. “All ready then?”
“I followed the framework we decided on. But Adair got a bit nervy, and now I think I may have frightened him off.”
Tim sighed, distracted by tangling with his jacket. “I suppose if you have there’s nothing for it. Are you ready then?”
It took a few deep breaths for John to settle himself. It was just Tim. It would only be a little while, just until they got past the security systems at the station. Paris would be a bit of a bother too, even though they’d be lurking in the outskirts, but it was a necessary evil. And it couldn’t be any worse for John than it was for Tim.
“Sure, just let me put my coat on,” he was stalling; he knew he was stalling, and Tim knew it too. But Tim wouldn’t call him on it. Not for the first time John was grateful for Tim. His jacket didn’t take long to put it on, nor did his backpack. When he was done it was the same tender, awkward, necessary lift as before. Tim’s hands on his ribs, a reminder of how small his body was now. Then the leather cotton smell of Tim’s coat against his face, the warmth of his body. It was soothing, even though John didn’t know if he should be soothed. He hated this, he hated not knowing; everything had been so clear before.
Tim pressed his face against John’s downy baby hair, still clinging to softness, “Don’t think about it,” Tim whispered fiercely. “It’ll be all right. It won’t be that far.”
Manning up, John hid his face again against the curve of Tim’s neck and pretended as hard as he could that he was a child, that this was fine, and that being carried didn’t put his hair on end. When that was over, when they were past the cameras, there was a man with a cab. John got the feeling he was a bit like Bad Davey, not that he was fighting fast and full of fire, but the vehicle had the feel of one of Davey’s death cabs. A little too real. Like it was trying too hard to be convincing. Simultaneously Tim was both more relaxed and more paranoid. He relaxed next to John on the seat more than John had seen anywhere else except on the roof of Baker Street. The lines that chased the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth had relaxed and all of the sudden he looked his age. Well, not his age. He looked too young.
But at the same time, Tim seemed to have acquired a habit of getting between John and anyone else who might want to look at him. It was a little endearing and that it was exactly what John had done while they lived in London, but it was also making John a bit carsick. Gently he elbowed Tim in the side.
“Camera,” Tim said absently.
The cabbie, unaffected by Tim’s desire to keep John from the view of the CCTV, had the markedly relaxed posture of someone trained not to look dangerous.
“Fine,” John subsided. “But once we get on open road, I’d like to look out the window a little. It’s been a while since I’ve been to France, and the last time I was a bit influenced.”
“You do realize this will all be for nothing if they catch us before we even get to Paris. For one thing I’ll lose the first month’s rent on that flat.”
“Can’t have that,” John leaned back in his seat. Whether the cabbie noticed the rhyme or not, he didn’t comment. He didn’t comment all the way to a little block of flats just outside Paris. It was the sort of place built postwar, a little desperate with the last grasping hands of Romanticism pressed to its front steps, its window frames, the inside of its lobby. Red carpeting gone shabby into a pale rose, softly yellow walls gratefully closer to gold then hay fever yellow, and a tall man with ink on his fingers and smudges on the edges of his spectacles who distractedly handed Tim a key without looking up from his newspaper; the sort of place John could never find on his own. Entirely ignoring Tim and John in favor of derogatory murmurs in the direction of whatever he was reading, the bellboy, or doorman or landlord, or whoever he was settled back with a slightly shabby waistcoat and striped socks.
They traversed up a staircase that creaked just on the edge between friendly and alarming up to the third floor where they walked down the questionably lit hallway to their flat. There wasn’t much to recommend it but it was self-sufficient and put on no airs. It was eminently sensible.
“Take something for your back,” John hassled Tim, who dug around the duffel bag to find the tin kettle. It took up space, but it was light and important. Honestly, John couldn’t speak poorly of his priorities. Although John had the feeling it might be a bit of a joke. Tim had been giving him pointed, half amused looks at any time it was mentioned in John’s presence.
“My back is fine.”
“Even as small as I am, you’ve been carrying me around quite a lot.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Tim smiled. “I’m used to the start of arthritis and a knee that was nearly shot out. Carrying you around and still being able to stand up is good for my masculine pride. Check your phone again and see if Adair’s finished his panic attack.”
You’re him aren’t you? You’re the boss. You’re the one Dimmock said knows everything. - A
The rumors of my omniscient have been greatly exaggerated. - W
That may not been quite the thing, but a little humor was important in negotiations like these. When there was such a difference in perceived power. There was a bit of a pause.
But you’re the boss? - A
Something like that. - W
And you really want me to take a job with the British government? - A
Something you are well prepared for it. - W It was best to leave it like that, John thought.
All right, I’d like to try it. - A
Dimmock will call you to schedule a time to meet. Good luck on your new venture. - W
“What have you been telling people about me?” John said while Tim banged around the kitchen.
“Hmm?” Tim turned enough so John could see his raised eyebrow.
“Adair said you told him I know everything.”
“Hmm,” this time Tim sounded pleased. “Just building the legend.”
John sighed at him, but there was really nothing for it. That’s what W needed to be.
“Oh don’t pout. I’ll tell everyone you’re horrid in the morning,” Tim grinned at him.
John had a few friendly bits of obscenity for that.
So His Supreme Highness is making calls now? When do I get one? - GN
Norton. - D
Don’t get all maiden aunt at me dear. - GN
Did you bug Adair’s phone? That is incredibly dangerous. - D
I wasn’t trying to catch our shadow ruler, I just wanted to keep track of the little wombat. - GN
Don’t blame him, I distracted him with a Rubik’s cube. I only knew something was up because suddenly his phone seemed to disappear for short bursts. - GN
Now you’re cross, I can feel your disapproval traveling through the air. Go ahead. Talk British at me. <3 - GN
No words can express the disapproving frown I am currently frowning at you. - D
And you’re my favourite maiden aunt. - GN
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: T
Summary: John thought when he lost his past and gained an irritatingly eight year old physique that the mad scientist Dr. Grendel and almost ended him. But now, pushed away by Sherlock after the Great Game, he has new purpose again. To find Dr. Grendel and either fix what's been broken or destroy any remnant of the time ray forever. With Tim Dimmock, his brother in arms and the protective shadow of the fabricated genius W, John Watson is off to war..
Author's Notes: Caroline and tentacle_love riding into victory again. High fives all around. Have some Tim and John feels! I'm tired so, that's about all. Check me out at thursdayplaid.tumblr.com for updates, fanthings and occasional reblogs of lovely things.
John was worrying at the corner of his Grey’s again. It was early morning, the sky a velvetly violet heading toward the lavender of early morning. Some of the car park lights were still on in front of the train station. Not that they were parked under a floodlight like that. Sleepy headed people walked past them. Mostly uni aged kids and people obviously headed for a holiday. On the way Folkestone had looked relaxed and peaceable in a way that only a resort town could. The lights were only on in necessity shops and in the back window of a bakery they passed. And, of course, the White Horse. He’d been here before, taken a picture, so he just stared at it in between trying not to worry at his Grey’s.
Tim gave him a sturdy look.
“I’m fine,” John barked at him.
“You’re not.” Tim had known him for less time than Sherlock, but already knew him in a way that Sherlock didn’t. Or maybe couldn’t. Sentiment cut into Sherlock’s belly in new unfathomable ways whereas Tim clung to it like a drowning man.
“Davey has too much to lose.”
“Look, Davey knows what he’s doing.” Tim pulled into parking, reaching for the glasses he had hung on his shirt collar. They were thin with gold coloured rims, not Tim’s style-flashy things made him nervous-with and some sort of treatment to the lenses so when they shifted they became opaque as a mirror. John’s face looked small and smooth when he saw himself reflected in a quick shift of the glasses. “And he knows it’s only a matter of time before Moriarty turns on him anyway. If he’s going to do something suicidal, let him do it on the time table he’ll be most likely to slide through alive.”
“Also this will be the most time we spend together,” John felt the need to point out. “All we really know about each other is that Grendel hit us both. And we both like chocolate and Bond. And we appreciate gun safety.” John licked his bottom lip. “And family. How we feel about family.”
“We get on well enough,” Tim shrugged, checking the cubbies of the car to make sure it was clean. Both of them had worn gloves, but there was always the chance of fallen hair, skin cells, their trapped breath.
Running his tongue across his bottom lip again, John hesitated the barest moment before zipping his backpack closed. “I’d say I needed someone to reach the top shelf, but well…”
Grinning, Tim gently knocked his elbow into John’s shoulder, “Look who’s telling short jokes.” John pulled his woolen cap down to cover his ears, a pleased little cubbish smile making his face as pleasant as a fresh apple. “Now try not to wiggle too much. You’re still small or else this wouldn’t work, but if you start twitching we’re both going down in a pile.”
John nodded, shaking himself all over to get himself loose while Tim waited for him to lift his arms. He caught John with both hands and hefted him up against his chest. There was unsurprisingly the feeling of warmth, the solidness of Tim’s chest, the strange feeling of being braced and the fitting of bodies together. John steadied himself awkwardly; he hadn’t been carried since soon after he started walking, at least not carried like this. His smaller size had made him a popular practice partner in lift drills back in his army days. But then he was generally over someone’s shoulder like a scowly mink stole. But he knew this was something humans did. That this was fine. He pressed a fist to Tim’s collar bone until his anger left him calm and reasonable.
This felt strange-the warmth of Tim’s body, the feel of an arm boosting him up that he filtered under the same lens that helped get him through half a dozen spectacular medical school pranks and desert shenanigans and shrugged the whole thing off. There would be cameras everywhere of course. That was what this was about. John pressed his face into Tim’s neck and raised his arm up to protect the rest of his face. The perfect image of a sleepy child. They made it through to get their tickets, John’s face pressed into Tim’s collar while people spoke in soft voices around them.
They had talked about this when they were planning how to get past the security cameras. Talked about how John got upset when people mistook him for a child. How he went tense and battle ready, vibrating with disapproval. But if anyone was going to buy this John had to stay completely calm and relaxed. They thought of trying sleep deprevation to make him actually sleepy, but that was more likely to just make him stroppy and more likely to tell people off. So instead John took long shallow breaths and practiced some of the meditation techniques that he had been taught for pain management.
Body loose, John just trusted, palms flat and relaxed against the curve of Tim’s shoulders, the soles of his feet gently tingling where they hung. Listened to the soft timbre of Tim’s humming, the way when someone asked about John and John shifted anxiously, Tim pressed his cheek to John’s head and murmured, “Hush little man, I’ve got you.”
“Can I take your bag for you?” it was a woman, vaguely Parisian accent.
“Yeah,” there was a subtle shift in Tim’s body. “Thanks. We’ve had a bit of a late night. Travel nerves.”
“I know what you mean,” John could hear the smile in her voice. She had a try at Tim who went tense, then flustered, then made faintly distressed sounds until she got the hint and left. As soon as she was gone and the curtain was pulled John was released. He stepped away while Tim wrangled the duffle up on the rack. John rolled his shoulders, jumped gently to shake out the irritation and subdermal rumble that was caused by someone hefting him. Even someone like Tim. Roost would never try it. He might curl up against John as a smaller, safer and (loathe as he was to admit it, cuddlier) proxy for his razor blade of a brother, but the social implications behind carrying people was a bit lost on him. Davey he would probably bite if he tried something so blatantly stupid. And Sherlock… if nothing else Sherlock respected him enough not to do that. With Tim it was barely okay for all its necessity.
Tim sat by the window hands tight over his knees.
That wasn’t a good look on him. “I didn’t think it would affect me so much.”
“Me neither.”
John stopped stretching his neck to go sit next to him. “You okay?”
Shaking his head Tim smiled at him, hands still tight but shoulders going loose. “Don’t worry about me little man. It’s good to have you here now, and safe. It’ll be easier to arrange Interpol in Paris anyway. You’ll arrange the meeting with Adair?”
“Yeah,” John made a face at him, but didn’t argue. Tim was generally self-sufficient when it came to feeding himself.
“I’ll take a quick nap then, wake me when we arrive.” Without waiting for any more of an answer than a distracted nod from John, he curled up on the train bench, back to John. He wouldn’t have much time for one but then John supposed he only needed a little rest. Tim wrestled one armedly with his coat until he was able to shake it off by pure stubborn force of will and throw it over his head to keep out the light. It would have been funnier if Tim hadn’t driven them from one end of Britain to the other. Or if he didn’t look like he was carrying around half a century of care on his shoulders. Or as if there wasn’t the gun he had used to kill Moran currently peeking out from between his jumper and the back of his trousers.
John had been a soldier, albeit one who primarily saw most of his action in a field hospital and not the front lines, his time as a medic exempted. But Tim had been a police officer. A detective, stubborn and stroppy, but ultimately one who cared the most about the case more than the bravado of it. At least not more than any other man who was smaller, in more puppyish proportions, pug nosed and soft eyed in a profession that valued visceral masculinity more along the lines of Lestrade.
He probably remembered clearly everyone he killed. Knew them more than flashes of faces without names that appeared sometimes in the night. It hadn’t really occurred to John to ask how Tim knew Sebastian Moran was Moriarty’s second in command, just figured it was a bit of research and ingenuity. Time had surged forward so much farther for Tim before everything had been yanked out from under him. Of course John had figured Tim was keeping some things close to the vest, but it hadn’t really occurred to him how much.
Maybe John should feel angry at Tim, for holding so much back. Sherlock would have been (and John really needed to stop using Sherlock as a point of reference). But instead John felt sad and tender, like Tim was a child, so small and defenseless; as if John were capable of taking care of him any more than he was of taking care of himself. To prevent himself from falling into an endless chasm of melancholy he fetched out his phone and checked his messages.
There was a nervous text message from Adair, Who are you? You’re not my usual contact.
Dimmock is slightly indisposed at the moment, but he agreed to the meeting as soon as you’re ready. - W
Is he all right? It’s been a couple months. - A
We have no intention of interfering with your life any more than is necessary. Also, in the future, perhaps don’t volunteer quite so much information quite so quickly. - W
Sorry.
There was a brief pause, and then an even more nervous text message appeared.
Wait, why are you telling me to be more careful, are you saying that you were fishing for information? - A
Ignore that, obviously if you were fishing for information you wouldn’t tell me. - A
There’s no need to be nervous. This isn’t a test. You’ve performed very admirably. - W
I’ve been impressed with your work in the field; my only concern is that your talent is going unutilized. When you’re done working with us, you should still have access to a profession worthy of your talents. - W
you’re kidding right
I’m afraid not Mr. Adair. Your nerves aside, you’re an excellent operative. Your work in Russia was superb and your talent for mathematics is something I would rather see utilized than put to waste. - W
Unless you have any personal objections, I would like to place you in the British government protecting an interest of mine. - W
It was at times like these that John wished texting was more conducive to conversation. And also was a little in awe at his ability to channel his inner Mycroft.
Whatever you decide, it should be understood that this conversation will not be discussed with anyone. - W
If you decide you do not want this new position, it will not be held against you. However I would like for you to consider it. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the position I cannot discuss it with you until you’ve decided. - W
The next pause continued until their arrival in France made it impractical to check his phone by the minute and he had to give it up in favour of pretending to be a child again. John gently called Tim’s name before he touched his shoulder. There was a soft rippling of elbows and shoulders and waking up stretching beneath his coat before Tim’s face emerged with crease marks but brighter eyes. “All ready then?”
“I followed the framework we decided on. But Adair got a bit nervy, and now I think I may have frightened him off.”
Tim sighed, distracted by tangling with his jacket. “I suppose if you have there’s nothing for it. Are you ready then?”
It took a few deep breaths for John to settle himself. It was just Tim. It would only be a little while, just until they got past the security systems at the station. Paris would be a bit of a bother too, even though they’d be lurking in the outskirts, but it was a necessary evil. And it couldn’t be any worse for John than it was for Tim.
“Sure, just let me put my coat on,” he was stalling; he knew he was stalling, and Tim knew it too. But Tim wouldn’t call him on it. Not for the first time John was grateful for Tim. His jacket didn’t take long to put it on, nor did his backpack. When he was done it was the same tender, awkward, necessary lift as before. Tim’s hands on his ribs, a reminder of how small his body was now. Then the leather cotton smell of Tim’s coat against his face, the warmth of his body. It was soothing, even though John didn’t know if he should be soothed. He hated this, he hated not knowing; everything had been so clear before.
Tim pressed his face against John’s downy baby hair, still clinging to softness, “Don’t think about it,” Tim whispered fiercely. “It’ll be all right. It won’t be that far.”
Manning up, John hid his face again against the curve of Tim’s neck and pretended as hard as he could that he was a child, that this was fine, and that being carried didn’t put his hair on end. When that was over, when they were past the cameras, there was a man with a cab. John got the feeling he was a bit like Bad Davey, not that he was fighting fast and full of fire, but the vehicle had the feel of one of Davey’s death cabs. A little too real. Like it was trying too hard to be convincing. Simultaneously Tim was both more relaxed and more paranoid. He relaxed next to John on the seat more than John had seen anywhere else except on the roof of Baker Street. The lines that chased the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth had relaxed and all of the sudden he looked his age. Well, not his age. He looked too young.
But at the same time, Tim seemed to have acquired a habit of getting between John and anyone else who might want to look at him. It was a little endearing and that it was exactly what John had done while they lived in London, but it was also making John a bit carsick. Gently he elbowed Tim in the side.
“Camera,” Tim said absently.
The cabbie, unaffected by Tim’s desire to keep John from the view of the CCTV, had the markedly relaxed posture of someone trained not to look dangerous.
“Fine,” John subsided. “But once we get on open road, I’d like to look out the window a little. It’s been a while since I’ve been to France, and the last time I was a bit influenced.”
“You do realize this will all be for nothing if they catch us before we even get to Paris. For one thing I’ll lose the first month’s rent on that flat.”
“Can’t have that,” John leaned back in his seat. Whether the cabbie noticed the rhyme or not, he didn’t comment. He didn’t comment all the way to a little block of flats just outside Paris. It was the sort of place built postwar, a little desperate with the last grasping hands of Romanticism pressed to its front steps, its window frames, the inside of its lobby. Red carpeting gone shabby into a pale rose, softly yellow walls gratefully closer to gold then hay fever yellow, and a tall man with ink on his fingers and smudges on the edges of his spectacles who distractedly handed Tim a key without looking up from his newspaper; the sort of place John could never find on his own. Entirely ignoring Tim and John in favor of derogatory murmurs in the direction of whatever he was reading, the bellboy, or doorman or landlord, or whoever he was settled back with a slightly shabby waistcoat and striped socks.
They traversed up a staircase that creaked just on the edge between friendly and alarming up to the third floor where they walked down the questionably lit hallway to their flat. There wasn’t much to recommend it but it was self-sufficient and put on no airs. It was eminently sensible.
“Take something for your back,” John hassled Tim, who dug around the duffel bag to find the tin kettle. It took up space, but it was light and important. Honestly, John couldn’t speak poorly of his priorities. Although John had the feeling it might be a bit of a joke. Tim had been giving him pointed, half amused looks at any time it was mentioned in John’s presence.
“My back is fine.”
“Even as small as I am, you’ve been carrying me around quite a lot.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Tim smiled. “I’m used to the start of arthritis and a knee that was nearly shot out. Carrying you around and still being able to stand up is good for my masculine pride. Check your phone again and see if Adair’s finished his panic attack.”
You’re him aren’t you? You’re the boss. You’re the one Dimmock said knows everything. - A
The rumors of my omniscient have been greatly exaggerated. - W
That may not been quite the thing, but a little humor was important in negotiations like these. When there was such a difference in perceived power. There was a bit of a pause.
But you’re the boss? - A
Something like that. - W
And you really want me to take a job with the British government? - A
Something you are well prepared for it. - W It was best to leave it like that, John thought.
All right, I’d like to try it. - A
Dimmock will call you to schedule a time to meet. Good luck on your new venture. - W
“What have you been telling people about me?” John said while Tim banged around the kitchen.
“Hmm?” Tim turned enough so John could see his raised eyebrow.
“Adair said you told him I know everything.”
“Hmm,” this time Tim sounded pleased. “Just building the legend.”
John sighed at him, but there was really nothing for it. That’s what W needed to be.
“Oh don’t pout. I’ll tell everyone you’re horrid in the morning,” Tim grinned at him.
John had a few friendly bits of obscenity for that.
So His Supreme Highness is making calls now? When do I get one? - GN
Norton. - D
Don’t get all maiden aunt at me dear. - GN
Did you bug Adair’s phone? That is incredibly dangerous. - D
I wasn’t trying to catch our shadow ruler, I just wanted to keep track of the little wombat. - GN
Don’t blame him, I distracted him with a Rubik’s cube. I only knew something was up because suddenly his phone seemed to disappear for short bursts. - GN
Now you’re cross, I can feel your disapproval traveling through the air. Go ahead. Talk British at me. <3 - GN
No words can express the disapproving frown I am currently frowning at you. - D
And you’re my favourite maiden aunt. - GN