Fic: We Were Never Forever: Chapter Two
Title: We Were Never Forever
Story Type: Fanfiction Crossover
Fandoms: Sherlock (BBC)/White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, White Collar Task Force, Seb, Sherlock/Neal
Genre(s): Casefic, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humour
Warnings: Drugs, Sex, Language, A really nasty break-up, Copious use of flashbacks.
Spoilers: None intentional, but best to be up on both shows, just in case.
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes agreed to take a case in New York for his brother, he never expected he'd be forced to work with his infuriating ex-boyfriend, a former con artist turned FBI consultant named Neal Caffrey.
Summary: When Peter brought him in on an international smuggling operation, Neal Caffrey never expected the British consultant would turn out to be the man who long-ago stole his heart, then broke it: a consulting detective from London named Sherlock Holmes.
Special Note: Now dual Beta'd byslashfairy (English) and epona34 (French). Worship them.
We Were Never Forever
Two
Cambridge: January 19, 2000
"Oh, good lord he's back." Sebastian sneered, peering out the window of his dorm.
Sherlock looked up from his text book, Sebastian's and his coursework sprawled across his knees and the rumpled duvet. "Who is?" He didn't care, not really, but he had to make a show of being interested in Seb's endless tedium. He needed Seb, much as it pained him to admit. Seb kept the rest of them back.
"The American." Sebastian sneered. "Bloody prat. He pops round sometimes, chats up all the birds and paints things."
"An American? Is he a student?" Sherlock was actually a bit intrigued now. If Sebastian disliked this bloke, he couldn't be all bad.
Seb snorted. "Hardly. One of those spoiled American backpackers. Probably working his way across Europe. Fancies himself an artist I should think. Bloody nuisance. I can't get any play when he's about. Angela's always swooning over him. So's every other girl he talks to."
Sherlock slipped off the bed, gingerly sliding the papers and notebooks off his lap as he did so. He went to stand beside Sebastian and peered out the window. He regretted it instantly.
The boy...the man, was tall and lean, with a faint dusting of stubble on his perfectly sculpted jaw. His clothing was casual, just a pair of light blue jeans and a white cotton polo shirt, but he wore them with the confidence and grace of a male model. His hair was chestnut brown, and swooped over his head in a way that could only be described as stylishly defiant. And his smile...perfect and white and sincere behind those suggestive lips. Sherlock felt something go tight and hot low in his abdomen, and he had to struggle for breath.
"Complete wanker, wouldn't you say?" Seb snarled. "Go on. Tell me what you see."
Sherlock cringed internally. He didn't want to. He hated being treated like some sort of circus act. He licked his lips and focused on the stranger. "He's...early twenties. Not wealthy, but not poor. Comes from..." He strained to see. It was difficult, at this distance and with so much between them. "The midwest. Probably. A city dweller by preference, if not by means. Unemployed but with a steady or at least reliable cash flow." He shook his head. "That's it. I need to be closer to know more." He did, too. Of course, if he really concentrated he'd be able to piece together a larger picture even from here, but he found it was best to keep Seb underestimating him. Safer that way.
Seb rolled his eyes. "Well that's hardly useful, Shar." Sherlock winced. He hated that nickname.
"Please don't call me that."
Sebastian only shrugged. "You want a closer look? Fine. Let's go meet the Yank."
The Yank was sitting on a shallow hill, balancing a sketch book on his thighs and smiling winsomely at a pair of women who were tittering at him and fluttering their eyelashes. Sherlock recognised one of them as Debbie, who had sat by him in the Chemistry lab for nearly twenty minutes before fleeing to the front of the room. She saw him coming, rolled her eyes and strode off, tugging her protesting friend along by the elbow. The friend imitated a telephone with her fingers and mouthed 'call me' to the American.
He watched them go, frowning thoughfully, then turned to regard Sherlock and Seb.
"Well. You make an impact." He said, his eyes barely glancing at Seb before settling on Sherlock.
Something in Sherlock's knees went soft and weak, and he worried for the structural integrity of his skeleton. The man's voice. So soft, husky yet light. Like a whisper, like a suggestion.
"He does that." Sebastian confirmed, playfully elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. It hurt.
Sherlock tried to force back his blush and ran an uneasy hand through is hair, shorn and limp at the back and sides and his fringe always tumbling over his forehead no matter what he did.
"Wilkes, right?" The American asked, his gaze flickering to Seb for less than a second before settling back on Sherlock. It was unnerving, and so, so blue. People had said Sherlock's eyes were piercing, but this man seemed to have irises made of cobalt ice.
"Sebastian, please." Seb smiled his fakest, most patronising smile. "This is my mate, Sherlock Holmes."
The man smiled, his eyes crinkling in mirth, and Sherlock would have been irritated by the reaction to his name if he wasn't so busy trying to keep his heart on the inside of his ribcage. He was too distracted even to panic about his body's sudden and catastrophic betrayal. His mind was clouding, which was so far beyond not good he couldn't even put it into words, and Sherlock knew a lot of words.
"Sherlock, huh?" The man grinned. "Suits you. I'm Neal." He held out a hand, smudged with charcoal but fine-boned and steady. "Neal Caffrey."
Sherlock hesitated, then took the hand. Neal's touch sent a jolt of electricity up his arm, and he barely managed to notice the flicker of surprise that snuck past the American's perfect composure at the same time.
But Seb was looking at him expectantly and Sherlock knew what was expected of him. He didn't want to do it. He desperately didn't want to do it. But he couldn't lose favour with Sebastian, not after last time. So Sherlock looked, then he spoke.
"So glad you're feeling better." He remarked, casually. "Hospitals make such inadequate holiday resorts. Especially for three weeks."
Neal blinked, his face going still. Sherlock felt something in his chest drop like a stone.
"How did you know about that?" Neal's voice was even softer, and it sent shivers and tingles along Sherlock's skin. He'd gone with the least inflammatory of his observations, desperately hoping it would placate Seb so he could leave and get his treacherous body back under control.
"Being treated, were you?" Seb's voice was sickly sweet, like oil and treacle. "I should have warned you. Sherlock here knows everything. So, what was it? Syphillis? Ghonorrhea?"
Neal's eyes narrowed. "Exposure, actually. I slipped and fell into the Seine last month." His voice was steady, and his face was calm, but his eyes were burning into Seb with laser intensity. Sherlock looked down at his trainers. He wished idly that he were wearing something smart and stylish, instead of a faded pair of black trousers and a too-large red hooded jumper. The thought surprised him, and he wondered where it came from.
"Quel idiot." He muttered, in spite of himself. Seb jerked his head around to glare at him, and Sherlock flinched back. Seb hated it when Sherlock spoke French. He said it felt like Sherlock was insulting him behind his back to his face. Of course, generally that was exactly what he was doing.
Neal blinked again, but it was a surprised, almost happy gesture. "Tu parles français?"
Sherlock snapped his head up. Seb glowered. Sherlock levelled a glare at Neal. "Oui. Je parle français. Je suis étonné que vous connaissiez cette langue."
Neal shook his head. "Je parle un peu. Et pas très bien. Mais pourquois si formal? Tu es un étudiant de fac, pas le Premier Ministre." His tone was light, chiding rather than mocking, but Sherlock glowered and tucked his chin to hide his blush.
"I don't know you." He said in English, his voice a low growl.
"Sorry? Are we speaking like Englishmen again?" Seb snapped. "Because here I was thinking we'd transferred to Lyon without my knowledge."
Sherlock wanted so badly to snap back, to tell Seb exactly what he thought of his "knowledge", but he stayed quiet, and the distaste seethed and roiled in his belly, making him feel sick.
"You know, Wilkes," Neal began, and Sherlock jerked his head up to look at the man, his eyes pleading for silence. Neal either didn't notice, or didn't heed. "You'd be surprised what a little linguistic training will get you. I mean, I doubt I'd've been able to convince Angela to pose for me in the nude if I hadn't asked in French the third time."
Seb went purple with rage, and Sherlock had to force back laughter. Seb raised his fist as though to punch Caffrey, who just sat there and smiled. Seb, predictably, lost his nerve and snarled. "You have no place here, Yank!" He faced Sherlock and jerked his head. "Come on, Holmes! We're leaving."
"You can leave." Neal remarked, "But your friend is welcome to stay. I could always use a good eye."
Sherlock froze. Neal...wanted him to stay? Neal actually wanted Sherlock around? Maybe it was because he'd barely spoken, except that French interlude. Maybe he was just doing it to irritate Seb. But Neal's smile was genuine, or looked it, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and mirth. And Sherlock wanted to stay. He wanted to breathe in the scent of charcoal and oil paint and skin. But he couldn't defy Seb. He couldn't. He looked helplessly between the two of them, torn between desire and self-preservation.
"Please. Nobody gets bored qicker than Shar, here." Sherlock winced, and Neal saw it. "You wouldn't stand five minutes with this freak."
Neal's eyes narrowed, and his expression became sharp. "Where I come from, we're all about the freaks. Why don't you run along and simper to your bird. Sherlock can stay if he wants."
"He doesn't want to stay! He's coming with me!"
It was surreal. They were fighting over him, over keeping him. Of course, he knew Seb just wanted to reinforce his claim on Sherlock's desperation and loyalty, but what was Caffrey's game?
"Sherlock?" Neal's voice was somehow hard now, while still light and breathy. "Do you want to go with him?"
No. No he didn't. He said nothing, just looked at his shoes.
"Do you want to stay with me?" And the voice was gentle. It slipped under Sherlock's skin and coiled in his chest, warm and soft and beckoning. He didn't realize he was nodding until it was too late.
Sebastian scoffed, outraged, and spun on his heel, storming off.
"Seb, wait!" Sherlock called. He should follow, he knew. He should run after Seb and beg for forgiveness and perform his stupid tricks until all was forgotten. But he couldn't do it. He'd pay for it, later. He always did. But he just couldn't force himself to play the subordinate a second longer. Bowing and scraping for Seb chafed against his nature, rubbed him raw and drove him mad. Whatever pain or humiliation the others inflicted couldn't possibly be any worse than this demeaning, agonizing act he was forced to put on.
He watched Seb disappear into the distance, ducking into the formal hall. Once he was gone, Sherlock groaned and flopped onto his back on the grass, pressing his hands to his face. "Fuck!"
Neal chuckled beside him. "What a prick." He commented. Sherlock groaned again.
"Why did I do that? I'm going mental, I must be!" He moaned from behind his hands. His voice came out muffled.
"Why the hell do you hang out with that guy? He's a complete...what do you guys say? Git?"
Sherlock nodded. "He's a git, a prat, a wanker and a fucking imbecile to boot!" He shouted that last bit in the direction of Seb's retreat, lowering his hands and lifting his head to do so.
Neal blinked in surprise, then smiled. It was a bright, sunny smile, and Sherlock half expected the clouds to part so the sky could match him.
"Then why do you hang out with him?" Neal prompted again.
Sherlock let his head fall back with a huff. He held up a hand and counted off with his fingers. "Because he's popular, wealthy, connected and attractive to the opposite sex." He recited, a litany he'd long since memorized.
"Uh-huh." Neal replied. "And?"
Sherlock sighed, tracing patterns in the clouds with his eyes. Hm. A fractal, or nearly one. "Because they respect him more than they hate me."
"Ohh." Neal breathed, and the sound tickled in Sherlock's chest. "I get it. An alliance."
Sherlock smirked. "More a protectorate. As long as Seb is happy with me, the rugby arseholes and their ilk leave me be. If Seb is unhappy with me, I get my head kicked in."
Neal looked pained. "And...I just made him unhappy with you."
"No, I did. I should've gone with him."
"I pressured you."
"I don't give in to pressure. Seb is a strategic manoeuvre. I don't have the time or the energy to deal with the idiot masses, and recovery gets in the way of work."
"That's a load of bull." Neal remarked.
Sherlock groaned again and slammed his fist against the ground. "You're right, it is!"
"Well at least you're self-aware."
"And self-centred, self-satisfied and self-appointed master of logical reasoning." Sherlock pointed out.
Neal smirked and breathed a small laugh. It made the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch up, and before he knew it he was smiling. Actually smiling. He'd almost forgotten how to do that.
"That hospital thing. Seb made you do that, didn't he?" Neal asked. Sherlock nodded.
"I'm sorry." He tried very hard to mean it.
"How did you know?"
Sherlock shook his head. "It's just something I do. I observe, and I use what I notice to construct a factual representation of my subject. It's not difficult. Well...not if you put in the work."
"Work such as?"
Sherlock smirked. "Such as observing the rate at which a natural tan fades under flourescent lighting, or distinguishing the marks left by an IV from the track marks of recreational drugs users, or experimenting with malnutrition to observe the effects of rapid weight loss on the sagginess of skin."
Neal was staring at him. "You...you studied all that?"
"What I couldn't look up I tested on myself."
"You...starved yourself for science?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't difficult. I seldom eat anyway."
"You are...completely insane." Neal chuckled.
Sherlock turned his head to fix his most piercing stare on Neal. "And you're a con artist. Shall we continue stating the obvious or can we move on?"
Neal froze, then very slowly blinked his eyes. "You made me." It wasn't a question.
"The moment I saw your shoes."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Sherlock arched his back up from the grass slightly, feeling the vertebrae pop and shift pleasantly, and let out a sigh. "Because you speak French, terribly. Because you pissed off Seb, brilliantly. Because you're interesting and..." he trailed off, he could feel the devestatingly gorgeous dancing on the tip of his tongue but he forced it back. "If I were going to expose you for what you are, I wouldn't do it for Sebastian Wilkes."
Neal smiled, a crooked, inviting smile that sent ice and fire through Sherlock's blood. "And who would you do it for?"
"It depends." Sherlock struggled desperately to keep his voice impassive.
"On what?"
"On what I'd get out of it. I don't offer up information for nothing." He idly examined his finger nails. "So what's the con?"
Neal breathed out a huff of laughter. "No con. I'm just travelling. I really am an artist. I do jobs when I need the cash, but right now I'm just honing my skill."
"Whose art?"
Neal grinned. "Oh, you're good. I favor the renaissance masters, but there are a few contemporaries I can sink my teeth into. I've been going through a Van Gogh phase lately." He pronounced it "Van Go", and Sherlock snorted.
"Ha, ha. Yes, Americans talk funny, I get it."
"You do, you know." Sherlock said cheekily.
"Look who's talking 'gov'ner'." Neal sniped.
"Oi!" Sherlock protested, slapping Neal's arm half-heartedly. It was a word he'd never used after the age of nine, and he could scarcely believe he'd used it now. With a sudden, tiny tremor of revulsion, he realized he was flirting with Neal.
"Exibit A!" Neal called, making a show of holding out his arms demonstrably and swiveling his torso to address the campus at large, pointing theatrically at Sherlock. "Everyone! Exibit A, right here!"
"Stop it!" Sherlock hissed through a pitifully suppressed giggle. Oh, God he was actually giggling.
Neal lowered his arms and his voice, grinning at Sherlock with hooded eyes. "I rest my case."
Sherlock's whole body siezed. Was he-? Oh dear God. Neal was flirting back! His skin felt like it was on fire, his internal organs trembled and contracted, his mouth went dry, and his every cell screamed with the desire to throw himself on top of Neal. To taste and smell and feel. To bite and suck and lick his way across every glorious, honey-coloured inch of him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see properly. But his mind was racing, outstripping even his thundering heart. He was assaulted, not by data, but by fantasies of Neal, naked and glowing and hot under his hands, his mouth, his hips. Neal, groaning and gasping and reaching out to touch, to fondle, to caress Sherlock into madness.
And hard on the heels of arousal was panic. He felt himself stirring, growing hard under the heat of Neal's dazzling smile. His trousers seemed to be growing tighter, and he knew he didn't have long before the problem became noticable. Unmistakable. Cold, sharp terror slammed into him, and he scrambled to his feet.
"I have to go." He said much too quickly, his voice tight and fumbling. "There's a...I have to...a thing. Forgot. Good to meet you." And with that he was off, walking away so quickly he was nearly running, his feet automatically steering him toward the safety and sanity of the chemistry lab. He tried to convince himself he hadn't heard Neal's strained cries of "Sherlock! Wait!" But he was never very good at lying to himself.
Once safe inside the lab, surrounded by the sharp tang of chemicals and the gentle hum of computers and equipment, he leaned his back against the wall and took a moment to breathe. His body was hyper-aware of every sensation, his senses all on high-alert, and his heart was still hammering behind his ribs.
He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and prayed to a nonexistant god that he'd never see Neal Caffrey again.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Quelle idiot: What an idiot. (May mean Sherlock, may mean Neal. Probably meant Neal.)
Tu parles français?: You speak French? (Informal, Neal is being very modern and casual calling Sherlock "tu".)
Oui. Je la parle. Je suis étonné que vous parlez la langue.: Yes. I speak it. I'm surprised you speak the language. (Formal. Sherlock is adhereing rigidly to propriety, calling Neal "vous".)
Je parle un peu. Et pas très bien. Mais pourquois si formal? Tu es un étudient d'université, pas le Premier Minestre.: I speak a little. And not very well. But why so formal? You're a university student, not the Prime Minister. (Neal speaks a sort of bastardised French known as "Franglais". Basically, he's speaking French words but with English inflection and phrasing. I do this, because I haven't studied French in several years, and it's way too easy to just translate directly. This is very. Bad. French. Think "spanglish" or "engrish". I don't think it's too noticable here, but trust me when I say Neal sucks at French in 2000.)
--
Chapter Three
--