Fic: We Were Never Forever: Chapter Five
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.
Now Beta'd by slashfairy , who is brilliant. Like the Sahara.
We Were Never Forever
Five
Cambridge: January 29, 2000
Awareness crashed into Sherlock, shocking him from sleep and tightening his skin around his bones. The events of the previous night paraded through his mind at speed: nervous fidgeting and too-sweet cider burning his tongue, comfort and peace and the feel of his back against the cushions, a million tiny sounds that made up a painting in progress, Neal, Neal, Neal.
The memory of kissing danced over his lips, and he raised a hand to press his fingers against them. They felt odd, tender and slightly swollen. He figured if he looked in a mirror he’d see a red flush to them. Turned out he liked when Neal bit him, but not too hard. Interesting information, that.
And then...the memory of their “discussion”. Well, really it had been Neal’s levelheadedness and Sherlock practically begging like a tupenny whore. He felt a flush of humiliation creep into his cheeks. Dear God what had he been thinking? What would he have done if Neal hadn’t held back? Would it have hurt? Would he be experiencing a full blown panic attack right now instead of mild hyperventilation? His body felt wrong, ill-used and they hadn’t even done anything. But they’d come close. Sherlock thought back to the moment when he’d tried to guide Neal’s hand to his...to his...oh Christ, he couldn’t even think it! He was pathetic. A child. Any second now Neal was going to realize just how inexperienced and skittish Sherlock really was and he’d move on to the nearest set of perky breasts and round hips that caught his fancy. Better that way, better if they’d never--
“Morning.” A voice, thick with sleep, crept up from behind him on the couch. It really was a deep, plush sofa. Capable of comfortably accomodating two full-grown male bodies and...and it had done just that. Sherlock remembered what had happened after the kissing, when they had rolled on their sides and just smiled at each other like idiots, when Sherlock had twisted round in Neal’s arms so that he could feel Neal’s heartbeat between his own shoulder blades. He realised that he could feel Neal’s arm draped over his waist, and Neal’s breath hot against the back of his neck.
His own breath quickened. He felt himself tense.
“Hey, hey, shhh, it’s alright.” Neal was instantly soothing him, whispering into his ear and stroking his hand along his ribcage. “It’s okay, we’re fine.”
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispered. He honestly meant it this time. It was hard to imagine a sorrier specimen than Sherlock Holmes at this moment. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not...I don’t do that.”
There was a sharp exhale, a laugh without a voice. “How do you know? Last night was your first time. Sherlock, everyone gets carried away at first. It’s a lot of sensation to process, and sometimes it’s hard to think rationally. I almost lost it, too, remember? You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He pressed himself more fully against Sherlock’s back, making him relax slightly. “If it helps, last night was incredible for me. I haven’t felt that raw in a long time. I really, really hope it was good for you, too.”
“I think my wanton sex mania might have indicated that.” Sherlock sniped, but his heart wasn’t in it. Something Neal had said was sticking oddly in his mind, chipping away at a wall he didn’t honestly think he wanted to dismantle. Something about last night...
Neal laughed. “You were hardly wanton. God I love that you actually talk like that.”
But Sherlock was barely paying attention, even when Neal’s hand began to card through his hair, which felt incredibly pleasant, actually. Too bad he was so distracted. Last night...last night...what was so important about--
He shot up into a sitting position, and Neal gave a little yelp of surprise. “Last night!” He cried, his eyes wide and frantic. “Last night! Oh shit! I stayed over!” He clambered off the couch looking around desperately for his coat and shoes. “Oh bollocks, oh bollocks, oh bollocks!” He struggled into his left shoe, still unsure where to find its mate.
“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Nothing happened.”
“No, no that doesn’t matter!” He cried, desperate. “He’ll know! Oh God, I didn’t tell him. I never even said. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, oh fuck.” He finally found his right shoe lying under an end table. “Listen, Neal, this is very important. Don’t fight. Whatever happens, just don’t fight, and remember: you didn’t shag me last night.”
“I didn’t, Sherlock. What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
He slipped into his coat, fumbling when he realized one of the sleeves was inside-out. “I’m so sorry, Neal. I have to go. I have to find him. Maybe if I explain...”
“Sherlock, who?” Neal’s voice was louder, and his expression slightly panicked.
Sherlock just swooped down to kiss him, chastely, he hadn’t had a chance to brush his teeth yet. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry Neal. Thank you for everything, last night was wonderful. And...thank you for stopping me.”
“No problem. Sherlock, what’s going on?”
“It would take too long. I have to go.” He was already hurrying to the door. “I’m sorry! A bientôt!”
“Sure thing.” But Sherlock barely heard it before he slammed the door and all but flew down the stairs to the front entrance. There was no way in hell this wouldn’t end badly.
::
Neal slumped back onto the couch. Well, that was...interesting. What was Sherlock so frantic about? Neal got the distinct impression he was in some kind of trouble. Well, okay. He could deal with trouble.
Maybe half an hour passed before a shrill ring blasted from the kitchen, and Neal scrambled up to snatch his cell from the fruit bowl (which didn’t actually have any fruit in it). He checked the caller ID and swore under his breath, but he accepted the call.
“Victor Trevor.” He said. “What do you got for me? ...Okay wait, wait, slow down Croy, what happened?” He winced and swore silently. “Okay, but you can still get the paper, right?” He had to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Yes, yes, alright! I’ll be there. Just give me a few minutes. ...I understand. ...No, I’ll take care of it. I’m on my way.” He hung up and snatched up his coat. He made it halfway to the door before he realized he wasn’t wearing shoes.
Half an hour later, he was walking into an empty car park and not looking over his shoulder. At all. Nervous people look over their shoulders. Con men are never nervous.
Of course, if he had looked over his shoulder, he might’ve had some warning before the two large men in hooded jackets appeared behind him and grabbed him by the arms. He went stiff and started trying to twist out of their holds.
“Don’t fight, Mr Trevor.” A voice, cultured and cold, drifted up from the waist of the guy on his left. It was tinny. A walkie-talkie, probably. “Things will go so much better for you if you don’t fight.”
Whatever happens, just don’t fight.
“Damn you, Sherlock.” Neal muttered. But he went limp and allowed himself to be led inside, where a van was waiting. He was bundled inside, where a young and very attractive man was diligently typing away at a PDA.
Neal let out a sigh. “So you’re here to intimidate me, huh?”
The man didn’t look up. “Nope.”
Neal fidgeted. “Tempt me?”
“Nope.”
Neal nodded. “Okay, then you’re here to observe me, report on everything I say or do, and simultaneously keep me uneasy so I’m off my game.”
He didn’t look up, but he did smile. “How am I doing?”
Neal let out a breath. “Really, really well.” He paused. “You got a name?”
The man paused, pursing his lips. “Nolan.” He said, but without any sense of familiarity.
“Of course it is.” Neal smirked. “My name is Victor.”
“Of course it is.” “Nolan” retorted, matching Neal’s expression.
After a time, the van rolled to a stop, the driver got out and the door beside Neal slid open. With a resigned sigh, Neal slid out. “Later Nolan.”
“Not much, Neal.”
Neal rounded on him, but before he could say a word the door slid shut and the voice from the walkie-talkie came back, this time without the tinniness or static.
“Please have a seat Mr Trevor.” The voice called. Neal spun round to see a tall, imposing man in a three-piece suit, holding an umbrella. He was young, just over thirty at a guess, and his body had the soft, thick quality of someone still adjusting to life behind a desk and an expanded food budget. Probably too many business dinners, too. He was tilting his head toward a folding chair.
Neal walked toward him, looking around. They were underground, surrounded on all sides by concrete and columns. “Where am I?”
“That is of no consequence. Do have a seat.” The man gestured with his free hand and leaned on the umbrella as though it were a cane.
“I’ll stand.” Neal replied, still walking forward. “You found Croy.”
“Found? Hardly. Mr Davis Croyden has been under serveilance for the past twenty-two months.”
Neal blinked, but made no other show of his surprise. Damn. Croy had been so careful. “Okay, you have my attention. It’ll take me weeks to locate a new supplier.” He paused. “But that’s not what this is about, is it?”
He examined the man. Thick, dark hair. High, proud forehead. Sharp nose, long neck, blunt chin.
And eyes fashioned from smoke and ice, glittering out at the world with barely contained intelligence that bordered on madness. And while these eyes were bluer, and more remote, they were undeniably similar to the ones he’d spent the better part of an evening gazing into.
“It’s you.” He breathed. “You’re Mycroft Holmes.”
Mycroft smiled, and Neal had to suppress the urge to bolt in the opposite direction. Sharks smiled like that, not men.
“Ah, yes, but then, I would expect such a level of observation from you Mr Trevor.” He raised his eyebrows. “That is the name you prefer when dealing with government officials and law enforcement, is it not?” He pulled out a leather bound notebook and flipped through the pages idly. “Ah, yes, Victor Trevor, late of San Francisco. I must say your paperwork is masterfully fabricated. One would almost be inclined to take it as genuine.” He looked up with only his eyes, and Neal felt like a disappointment. “Almost.”
“How do you know that?” Neal licked his lips. God he was scared. When had he last been this scared? The last time he could remember had been when he was seven and the shadows on his wall had looked like gnarled hands. Mycroft gave every impression that, should he wish it, the shadows could become hands, and you wouldn’t know it until after they’d cut off your breathing.
Mycroft ignored his question, just flipped through the notebook some more. “Of course, considering the circumstances it might be preferable for me to call you Neal. After all, you are here as the result of a decidedly familial interest.” His glare was made of ice and steel, and it worked its way into Neal’s blood until it was all he could do to keep from shivering.
“I won’t drag this out. Tell me what you want with my brother. I don’t think I need be more specific.”
“Nothing.” Neal answered. “He’s not a mark. I’m not working him.”
Mycroft sneered, and he went back to his notebook. “Melissa Colbin. Amy Hague. Claire Rosling. Valerie Nance. Genevive Montmartre...I trust I make my point.”
“How did you--”
“You are a man of insatiable appetite by all accounts, Mr Caffrey, and yet your palette thus far has been rather, shall we say...restricted? You have had a few serious relationships, all of them with women. Your far more numerous flings have, according to my current data, been similarly uniform in their heteronormativity.”
“Who the hell--”
“And yet yesterday my younger brother was observed entering your flat and did not emerge until almost ten o’ clock this morning. I don’t have to tell you that his physical state was decidedly telling. You can understand my confusion.” Odd, Neal hadn’t realized until just that moment that “confusion” was a synonym for “suspicion”.
“Why have you targeted my brother and to what end are you using him?”
“I’m not using him.”
Mycroft smiled again, that pitying, disappointed smile. “When a confidence trickster breaks with his romantic proclivites in order to pursue a vulnerable young man with intimate ties to a Member of Parliament, it does tend to suggest otherwise Mr Caffrey.”
“Vulnerable? You have met him, right?”
“Kindly don’t insult me, Mr Caffrey. You read people for a living. It would be preposterous to believe for even a second that you haven’t seen through my brother’s frankly brittle exterior. In time, perhaps, Sherlock will learn to project a truly believable facade, but that day has not yet come.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Neal up and down. “Even then, I suspect he would give you little trouble.”
“I’m not using Sherlock. I have no interest in the British government or anyone working for it. Politics is boring.”
Mycroft’s smile this time was as slick and slimy as oil, and it gave the general impression that he’d tasted something disgusting. “Intriguing. I would almost be inclined to believe you. Tell me, did my brother prove himself an enjoyable conquest? I’m sure by now you know of his inexperience but I’d hazard what he lacked in skill he made up for in...enthusiasm.”
If looks could kill, Neal would be a shattered corpse. If a voice could be toxic, Neal would be vomiting blood. There was murder in Mycroft’s eyes, and Neal felt the overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball and hide.
“I didn’t sleep with him.”
“His face says otherwise.”
“I kissed him.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Neal amended, “A lot. And I enjoyed it, if you must know. I’ll say it one more time Mr. Holmes: I am not. Using. Your brother. Yes, I’ve only dated women before. That doesn’t mean I can’t be attracted to Sherlock. I am. I like him. I want to be with him. I don’t give a damn about you or your job. I only knew you existed because I was asking around, about Sherlock, and your name came up.”
Mycroft just kept glaring, so Neal did what he did best, and kept talking. “And I get it, I really do. You’re looking out for your little brother, trying to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. Well I’m not out to hurt him, Mycroft.” The man just barely flinched at the use of his given name, and Neal marked a point in the “win” column. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll end up doing the exact opposite.”
“How do you figure that?” Mycroft demanded, his voice bored but his eyes sharp.
Neal smiled. “Because the second I leave this place, I’m going to find Sherlock, and I’m going to kiss him until he knows beyond any doubt that you didn’t scare me off.” He paused a moment to think. “And if, someday, we do end up in bed together, it will be because both of us want it and, honestly? It’ll be none of your goddamn business.” And with that he spun on his heel and strode back toward the van. Mycroft’s voice halted him mid-stride.
“I will give you one warning, Mr Caffrey, and only one. You have no idea what you’re getting into. Sherlock is unlike anyone you’ve ever known. He will push you. He won’t even realise he’s doing so. You are an exceptional man, Neal.” A pause. “Do you honestly think yourself exceptional enough to tame him?”
Neal thought for a long moment, then replied, “I would sooner burn the Sistine Chapel than tame Sherlock Holmes.” And he walked to the van, yanked the door open, and climbed inside. “Nolan” was waiting for him.
“Address?”
“Just take me to the university. I’ll take it from there.”
::
Sherlock flopped back onto his bed and slapped his hands over his face. He’d spent the better part of an hour failing spectacularly to focus on next month’s chemistry coursework before irritably blaring Vivaldi from his CD player and giving it up for a bad job.
“What am I doing?” He moaned into his hands. “This is insane. I’m insane.” He barely knew Neal. He was a complete novice at anything romantic. He was incapable of connecting with another human being.
Well you bloody well connected last night, didn’t you? His mind argued.
Sherlock glowered at nothing and focussed on taking deep, steadying breaths. He’d just about managed to get his head into something resembling order when his mobile buzzed on the desk. He scrambled up from the mattress and snatched it, checking the caller ID.
[Withheld Calling]
Sherlock groaned and pressed the phone to his forehead, feeling the vibrations reverberate through his skull, then let out a long hiss of air and answered it.
“You absolute bastard, I’ve been trying to reach you!” He shouted. “When did you change your number?”
“One can never be too careful, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s smooth, disinterested voice oozed through the reciever. It felt oily in Sherlock’s ear.
“You lying arse! You did it deliberately to keep me from getting through!”
“You could have discovered my new number with a little effort.” Mycroft chided.
Sherlock gritted his teeth. “This is a university, Mycroft, not MI-5. My resources are slightly lacking here.”
“Feeble excuses. I expect better of you.”
Sherlock groaned and scrubbed his hand through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He was assaulted by a sudden sense memory of Neal doing something very similar but much slower and far more intense. He shivered.
“No riposte? I’m surprised at you, little brother.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and waited out the arousal. It lingered, but he tamped it down with fraternal annoyance. “Is it finished?” He demanded.
“You understand why it had to be done, Sherlock.” Nothing in his tone indicated a question, but Sherlock could read Mycroft’s uncertainty as clearly as if it were painted on the wall in glowing block letters.
“Yes.” Sherlock sighed. “I understand.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
There was a huff of exasperated air. “Don’t you want to know how it went?”
Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t need to ask. Your heavies grabbed him on the way to some illegal transaction, loaded him into a van, then drove him somewhere remote where you proceeded to intimidate him into submission and now he’ll never want to speak to me again.”
There was a light chuckle. “Well done, Sherlock, you were very nearly accurate on all accounts.”
Sherlock perked up. “Nearly? What did I get wrong?” He was sitting up now, clutching the phone in a vice grip.
“Neal Caffrey, alias Victor Trevor, seems resistant to intimidation. He puts up a good front, anyway. Oh, it was painfully obvious that he was terrified, but he didn’t back down.”
Sherlock swallowed nervously. “And...and me?”
There was a smile in Mycrofts voice when he said, “He compared you to the Sistine Chapel, as a matter of fact.”
Sherlock let himself fall back onto his pillow. Something seized his heart and began to toy with its beats, making them irregular and far too strong. “He did?” Sherlock breathed. “What did he say?”
“The ceiling was found wanting.” Heat surged in Sherlock’s chest, his skin tingled as though sparks were playing over the surface. Something light and frothy and giddy bubbled up inside him, and he found he was smiling like an idiot.
“Thank you, Mycroft.” He said, completely sincere for once.
“Be careful, Sherlock. He is a criminal, remember.” Mycroft sighed. “But he seems smitten with you, and I don’t believe he represents any kind of threat. Even so, please don’t get carried away. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
“I won’t. I-- I’ll try. My love to mum.”
“Of course. Good-bye, Sherlock.”
“Bye, Mycroft.”
He hung up. Moments later, there was a knock at the door. He grinned and vaulted to his feet, tossing his phone carelessly to the mattress. He cleared the space to the door in a bound and yanked it open.
Neal frowned at him from the corridor, then shook his head with a sigh and raised his eyebrows incredulously.
“Look,” Sherlock began. “I can--”
“Shut up.” And Neal was in the room, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, and then they were pressed together, chest to chest and lips to lips, and Sherlock barely registered Neal closing and locking the door before his world went soft and golden at the edges.
When they broke for air, Sherlock realised they had somehow made it to the bed. He gasped in great gulps of air, and Neal tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Vivaldi?” Neal asked. Sherlock only nodded. Neal grinned. “Nice.”
Sherlock, despite his chaotic breathing, managed to cock an eyebrow. “The Sistine Chapel?” He teased.
Neal didn’t look even a little abashed. “Absolutely.” He breathed, and he lowered his head to claim another kiss, and Sherlock ignited once more.
::
New York City: April 17, 2011
“How could you?!” Sherlock screamed into the phone. He didn’t want to text, not for this. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John flinch, but he ignored it.
“Of all the underhanded, conniving, petty things you’ve done over the course of my life, this one stands apart. How could you do this to me?”
The line was silent. Sherlock raged. “Say something you bloated arse!” He shouted.
“It was a decade ago.” Mycroft said, as though time meant something. As though time had anything to do with it.
“I don’t fucking care! You had no right, Mycroft.”
“Honestly, Sherlock. Must this be about you? I needed the best. Caffrey ranks among them.”
“Someone else.” Sherlock hissed. “Anyone else. Not him. I can’t do this, Mycroft. Don’t ask me to do this.”
“Your vulnerability is distressing, Sherlock. I suggest you learn to overcome it. Caffrey is a resource, nothing more. Utilise him, finish the job, then move on. Surely you haven’t forgotten how to prioritise? One would think you’d have eradicated all of this...sentimentality years ago.”
Deleted it, he meant. Sherlock winced. “I...can’t.” He admitted.
“No.” Mycroft sighed. “I don’t supposed you can.”
“We’re even, after this. All of it.” He paused, willing his tensed muscles to relax just a little. “I will never forgive you for this, Mycroft.” He said it soft, and calm. He said it with absolute conviction. He meant it.
“There are a lot of things for which you’ll never forgive me, Sherlock. I do them anyway.”
“Because you’re a soulless shit.”
Mycroft sighed again. He didn’t do it as often as John, but he was undeniably superior in his execution. “Because you would never do them for yourself. Unwilling is not incapable, Sherlock. Until you learn that, I won’t hesitate to push you.”
“Fuck off. I don’t need you. I never did.”
“Very good, Sherlock. Your performance is coming along quite well.”
“Go assassinate somebody. Forget I exist.”
Yet another sigh. “If only.”
Sherlock hung up. He slumped onto the sofa beside John and cradled his head in his hands. “I don’t want to do this.” He said, with all the inflection of someone announcing the need to buy a new toothbrush.
“I figured. No joy with Mycroft then?”
Sherlock snorted. “You expected different? He’s an intolerable git. I just wanted to shout at him a little.”
John sighed (patented John-sigh. Never as accusing as Mycroft’s, it just sounded tired) and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He moved it back and forth a couple of times, creating a mild friction between skin and cloth that felt warmer than it should.
“For your benefit again?” Sherlock asked.
“Both of us, I think.”
“Thank you.”
John licked his lips in the way that always meant he was about to say something difficult. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Her name was Ellen. I was...eighteen? Yeah, eighteen. We were in school together. And I...I was certain. I mean, completely. I asked her to marry me.”
“You what?”
John chuckled at Sherlock’s astonished tone. “Yeah, well. I was a kid. Everything felt important back then.”
“I remember.” Sherlock said ruefully.
“We’d been together for three years. I was convinced she was the one.”
“What happened?”
John eyed him. “You never pretend to me.” He said slowly. “You’re actually interested?”
“Yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Go on, before I get bored with this conversation.”
He shrugged. “She rejected me. She said she had no interest in being an army wife, and in retrospect she had good reason. But back then...it felt like an excuse, you know? I mean, I had no plans of joining up until after med school. Doctor first, you know. Like my granddad. It was all planned but it felt so distant back then. I was living in the moment, and she was thinking ahead. We were never gonna catch each other up by then.”
Sherlock shifted on the sofa so his back was against the arm and his toes were wiggling under John’s thigh, which earned him a half-hearted slap to the calf. He kicked gently and John shoved his shoulder. It made him smile. John was good at making him smile.
“I was happy.” He said at last. “Neal made me...really very happy.”
“What happened?”
Sherlock winced and looked away. “I got bored.”
“Oh.” And how brilliant was it that John understood what that meant?
“I found a way to stop being bored. I ruined everything.” He studied his hands, unable to meet John’s eyes. “In the end...I’d broken it too badly to fix. And I hated him. For being kind. For loving me even when I was...” He drew a shaky breath. “For not being enough to stop me.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the rush of blood to his brain. “And then for leaving. After all that, everything I’d done to him, he left me. And even that was out of love.” He smirked, joyless. “He left me to save me. Stupid ponce.”
“Did it work?”
Sherlock brought his head back up. “Nope. Made it worse. I did it on purpose, just to spite him. I consumed every recreational substance I could get my hands on, slept with complete strangers whenever I got the chance, forced myself to graduate just to keep Mycroft from getting too involved, then buggered off to London to disappear for six months...” He paused, thinking hard. “I don’t remember that bit, actually. Just what I’ve read from Mycroft’s reports. I think at one point I bit off a man’s little finger, but I’m not sure.”
John laughed. “So what did save you?”
Sherlock shrugged. “The Work. The cases were better. Better than anything. Distracting.”
“I see.” And he did, he honestly did, and that was wonderful. “Why didn’t you delete him, then? Neal. I mean, I tried to forget Ellen.”
Sherlock exhaled loudly. “I tried, too. But Neal is too tangled up in my work. I can’t delete him without deleting a great deal of vital knowledge.”
“Like what?”
Sherlock’s mobile rang, he glared at the screen for a moment, then hit the answer button and held it to his ear. “Sherlock Holmes.” He gritted out. He listened to the voice on the other end, frowned, then said, “Yes, of course. We’ll be there soon.” He hung up the phone.
“That was Special Agent Burke.” He smirked at John’s snort of laughter. “I think he wants to yell at us again.”
“At you, you mean.” John retorted, but he stood and tossed Sherlock his shoes before hunting around for his own.
Chapter Six
::
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.
Now Beta'd by slashfairy , who is brilliant. Like the Sahara.
We Were Never Forever
Five
Cambridge: January 29, 2000
Awareness crashed into Sherlock, shocking him from sleep and tightening his skin around his bones. The events of the previous night paraded through his mind at speed: nervous fidgeting and too-sweet cider burning his tongue, comfort and peace and the feel of his back against the cushions, a million tiny sounds that made up a painting in progress, Neal, Neal, Neal.
The memory of kissing danced over his lips, and he raised a hand to press his fingers against them. They felt odd, tender and slightly swollen. He figured if he looked in a mirror he’d see a red flush to them. Turned out he liked when Neal bit him, but not too hard. Interesting information, that.
And then...the memory of their “discussion”. Well, really it had been Neal’s levelheadedness and Sherlock practically begging like a tupenny whore. He felt a flush of humiliation creep into his cheeks. Dear God what had he been thinking? What would he have done if Neal hadn’t held back? Would it have hurt? Would he be experiencing a full blown panic attack right now instead of mild hyperventilation? His body felt wrong, ill-used and they hadn’t even done anything. But they’d come close. Sherlock thought back to the moment when he’d tried to guide Neal’s hand to his...to his...oh Christ, he couldn’t even think it! He was pathetic. A child. Any second now Neal was going to realize just how inexperienced and skittish Sherlock really was and he’d move on to the nearest set of perky breasts and round hips that caught his fancy. Better that way, better if they’d never--
“Morning.” A voice, thick with sleep, crept up from behind him on the couch. It really was a deep, plush sofa. Capable of comfortably accomodating two full-grown male bodies and...and it had done just that. Sherlock remembered what had happened after the kissing, when they had rolled on their sides and just smiled at each other like idiots, when Sherlock had twisted round in Neal’s arms so that he could feel Neal’s heartbeat between his own shoulder blades. He realised that he could feel Neal’s arm draped over his waist, and Neal’s breath hot against the back of his neck.
His own breath quickened. He felt himself tense.
“Hey, hey, shhh, it’s alright.” Neal was instantly soothing him, whispering into his ear and stroking his hand along his ribcage. “It’s okay, we’re fine.”
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispered. He honestly meant it this time. It was hard to imagine a sorrier specimen than Sherlock Holmes at this moment. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not...I don’t do that.”
There was a sharp exhale, a laugh without a voice. “How do you know? Last night was your first time. Sherlock, everyone gets carried away at first. It’s a lot of sensation to process, and sometimes it’s hard to think rationally. I almost lost it, too, remember? You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He pressed himself more fully against Sherlock’s back, making him relax slightly. “If it helps, last night was incredible for me. I haven’t felt that raw in a long time. I really, really hope it was good for you, too.”
“I think my wanton sex mania might have indicated that.” Sherlock sniped, but his heart wasn’t in it. Something Neal had said was sticking oddly in his mind, chipping away at a wall he didn’t honestly think he wanted to dismantle. Something about last night...
Neal laughed. “You were hardly wanton. God I love that you actually talk like that.”
But Sherlock was barely paying attention, even when Neal’s hand began to card through his hair, which felt incredibly pleasant, actually. Too bad he was so distracted. Last night...last night...what was so important about--
He shot up into a sitting position, and Neal gave a little yelp of surprise. “Last night!” He cried, his eyes wide and frantic. “Last night! Oh shit! I stayed over!” He clambered off the couch looking around desperately for his coat and shoes. “Oh bollocks, oh bollocks, oh bollocks!” He struggled into his left shoe, still unsure where to find its mate.
“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Nothing happened.”
“No, no that doesn’t matter!” He cried, desperate. “He’ll know! Oh God, I didn’t tell him. I never even said. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, oh fuck.” He finally found his right shoe lying under an end table. “Listen, Neal, this is very important. Don’t fight. Whatever happens, just don’t fight, and remember: you didn’t shag me last night.”
“I didn’t, Sherlock. What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
He slipped into his coat, fumbling when he realized one of the sleeves was inside-out. “I’m so sorry, Neal. I have to go. I have to find him. Maybe if I explain...”
“Sherlock, who?” Neal’s voice was louder, and his expression slightly panicked.
Sherlock just swooped down to kiss him, chastely, he hadn’t had a chance to brush his teeth yet. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry Neal. Thank you for everything, last night was wonderful. And...thank you for stopping me.”
“No problem. Sherlock, what’s going on?”
“It would take too long. I have to go.” He was already hurrying to the door. “I’m sorry! A bientôt!”
“Sure thing.” But Sherlock barely heard it before he slammed the door and all but flew down the stairs to the front entrance. There was no way in hell this wouldn’t end badly.
::
Neal slumped back onto the couch. Well, that was...interesting. What was Sherlock so frantic about? Neal got the distinct impression he was in some kind of trouble. Well, okay. He could deal with trouble.
Maybe half an hour passed before a shrill ring blasted from the kitchen, and Neal scrambled up to snatch his cell from the fruit bowl (which didn’t actually have any fruit in it). He checked the caller ID and swore under his breath, but he accepted the call.
“Victor Trevor.” He said. “What do you got for me? ...Okay wait, wait, slow down Croy, what happened?” He winced and swore silently. “Okay, but you can still get the paper, right?” He had to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Yes, yes, alright! I’ll be there. Just give me a few minutes. ...I understand. ...No, I’ll take care of it. I’m on my way.” He hung up and snatched up his coat. He made it halfway to the door before he realized he wasn’t wearing shoes.
Half an hour later, he was walking into an empty car park and not looking over his shoulder. At all. Nervous people look over their shoulders. Con men are never nervous.
Of course, if he had looked over his shoulder, he might’ve had some warning before the two large men in hooded jackets appeared behind him and grabbed him by the arms. He went stiff and started trying to twist out of their holds.
“Don’t fight, Mr Trevor.” A voice, cultured and cold, drifted up from the waist of the guy on his left. It was tinny. A walkie-talkie, probably. “Things will go so much better for you if you don’t fight.”
Whatever happens, just don’t fight.
“Damn you, Sherlock.” Neal muttered. But he went limp and allowed himself to be led inside, where a van was waiting. He was bundled inside, where a young and very attractive man was diligently typing away at a PDA.
Neal let out a sigh. “So you’re here to intimidate me, huh?”
The man didn’t look up. “Nope.”
Neal fidgeted. “Tempt me?”
“Nope.”
Neal nodded. “Okay, then you’re here to observe me, report on everything I say or do, and simultaneously keep me uneasy so I’m off my game.”
He didn’t look up, but he did smile. “How am I doing?”
Neal let out a breath. “Really, really well.” He paused. “You got a name?”
The man paused, pursing his lips. “Nolan.” He said, but without any sense of familiarity.
“Of course it is.” Neal smirked. “My name is Victor.”
“Of course it is.” “Nolan” retorted, matching Neal’s expression.
After a time, the van rolled to a stop, the driver got out and the door beside Neal slid open. With a resigned sigh, Neal slid out. “Later Nolan.”
“Not much, Neal.”
Neal rounded on him, but before he could say a word the door slid shut and the voice from the walkie-talkie came back, this time without the tinniness or static.
“Please have a seat Mr Trevor.” The voice called. Neal spun round to see a tall, imposing man in a three-piece suit, holding an umbrella. He was young, just over thirty at a guess, and his body had the soft, thick quality of someone still adjusting to life behind a desk and an expanded food budget. Probably too many business dinners, too. He was tilting his head toward a folding chair.
Neal walked toward him, looking around. They were underground, surrounded on all sides by concrete and columns. “Where am I?”
“That is of no consequence. Do have a seat.” The man gestured with his free hand and leaned on the umbrella as though it were a cane.
“I’ll stand.” Neal replied, still walking forward. “You found Croy.”
“Found? Hardly. Mr Davis Croyden has been under serveilance for the past twenty-two months.”
Neal blinked, but made no other show of his surprise. Damn. Croy had been so careful. “Okay, you have my attention. It’ll take me weeks to locate a new supplier.” He paused. “But that’s not what this is about, is it?”
He examined the man. Thick, dark hair. High, proud forehead. Sharp nose, long neck, blunt chin.
And eyes fashioned from smoke and ice, glittering out at the world with barely contained intelligence that bordered on madness. And while these eyes were bluer, and more remote, they were undeniably similar to the ones he’d spent the better part of an evening gazing into.
“It’s you.” He breathed. “You’re Mycroft Holmes.”
Mycroft smiled, and Neal had to suppress the urge to bolt in the opposite direction. Sharks smiled like that, not men.
“Ah, yes, but then, I would expect such a level of observation from you Mr Trevor.” He raised his eyebrows. “That is the name you prefer when dealing with government officials and law enforcement, is it not?” He pulled out a leather bound notebook and flipped through the pages idly. “Ah, yes, Victor Trevor, late of San Francisco. I must say your paperwork is masterfully fabricated. One would almost be inclined to take it as genuine.” He looked up with only his eyes, and Neal felt like a disappointment. “Almost.”
“How do you know that?” Neal licked his lips. God he was scared. When had he last been this scared? The last time he could remember had been when he was seven and the shadows on his wall had looked like gnarled hands. Mycroft gave every impression that, should he wish it, the shadows could become hands, and you wouldn’t know it until after they’d cut off your breathing.
Mycroft ignored his question, just flipped through the notebook some more. “Of course, considering the circumstances it might be preferable for me to call you Neal. After all, you are here as the result of a decidedly familial interest.” His glare was made of ice and steel, and it worked its way into Neal’s blood until it was all he could do to keep from shivering.
“I won’t drag this out. Tell me what you want with my brother. I don’t think I need be more specific.”
“Nothing.” Neal answered. “He’s not a mark. I’m not working him.”
Mycroft sneered, and he went back to his notebook. “Melissa Colbin. Amy Hague. Claire Rosling. Valerie Nance. Genevive Montmartre...I trust I make my point.”
“How did you--”
“You are a man of insatiable appetite by all accounts, Mr Caffrey, and yet your palette thus far has been rather, shall we say...restricted? You have had a few serious relationships, all of them with women. Your far more numerous flings have, according to my current data, been similarly uniform in their heteronormativity.”
“Who the hell--”
“And yet yesterday my younger brother was observed entering your flat and did not emerge until almost ten o’ clock this morning. I don’t have to tell you that his physical state was decidedly telling. You can understand my confusion.” Odd, Neal hadn’t realized until just that moment that “confusion” was a synonym for “suspicion”.
“Why have you targeted my brother and to what end are you using him?”
“I’m not using him.”
Mycroft smiled again, that pitying, disappointed smile. “When a confidence trickster breaks with his romantic proclivites in order to pursue a vulnerable young man with intimate ties to a Member of Parliament, it does tend to suggest otherwise Mr Caffrey.”
“Vulnerable? You have met him, right?”
“Kindly don’t insult me, Mr Caffrey. You read people for a living. It would be preposterous to believe for even a second that you haven’t seen through my brother’s frankly brittle exterior. In time, perhaps, Sherlock will learn to project a truly believable facade, but that day has not yet come.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Neal up and down. “Even then, I suspect he would give you little trouble.”
“I’m not using Sherlock. I have no interest in the British government or anyone working for it. Politics is boring.”
Mycroft’s smile this time was as slick and slimy as oil, and it gave the general impression that he’d tasted something disgusting. “Intriguing. I would almost be inclined to believe you. Tell me, did my brother prove himself an enjoyable conquest? I’m sure by now you know of his inexperience but I’d hazard what he lacked in skill he made up for in...enthusiasm.”
If looks could kill, Neal would be a shattered corpse. If a voice could be toxic, Neal would be vomiting blood. There was murder in Mycroft’s eyes, and Neal felt the overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball and hide.
“I didn’t sleep with him.”
“His face says otherwise.”
“I kissed him.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Neal amended, “A lot. And I enjoyed it, if you must know. I’ll say it one more time Mr. Holmes: I am not. Using. Your brother. Yes, I’ve only dated women before. That doesn’t mean I can’t be attracted to Sherlock. I am. I like him. I want to be with him. I don’t give a damn about you or your job. I only knew you existed because I was asking around, about Sherlock, and your name came up.”
Mycroft just kept glaring, so Neal did what he did best, and kept talking. “And I get it, I really do. You’re looking out for your little brother, trying to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. Well I’m not out to hurt him, Mycroft.” The man just barely flinched at the use of his given name, and Neal marked a point in the “win” column. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll end up doing the exact opposite.”
“How do you figure that?” Mycroft demanded, his voice bored but his eyes sharp.
Neal smiled. “Because the second I leave this place, I’m going to find Sherlock, and I’m going to kiss him until he knows beyond any doubt that you didn’t scare me off.” He paused a moment to think. “And if, someday, we do end up in bed together, it will be because both of us want it and, honestly? It’ll be none of your goddamn business.” And with that he spun on his heel and strode back toward the van. Mycroft’s voice halted him mid-stride.
“I will give you one warning, Mr Caffrey, and only one. You have no idea what you’re getting into. Sherlock is unlike anyone you’ve ever known. He will push you. He won’t even realise he’s doing so. You are an exceptional man, Neal.” A pause. “Do you honestly think yourself exceptional enough to tame him?”
Neal thought for a long moment, then replied, “I would sooner burn the Sistine Chapel than tame Sherlock Holmes.” And he walked to the van, yanked the door open, and climbed inside. “Nolan” was waiting for him.
“Address?”
“Just take me to the university. I’ll take it from there.”
::
Sherlock flopped back onto his bed and slapped his hands over his face. He’d spent the better part of an hour failing spectacularly to focus on next month’s chemistry coursework before irritably blaring Vivaldi from his CD player and giving it up for a bad job.
“What am I doing?” He moaned into his hands. “This is insane. I’m insane.” He barely knew Neal. He was a complete novice at anything romantic. He was incapable of connecting with another human being.
Well you bloody well connected last night, didn’t you? His mind argued.
Sherlock glowered at nothing and focussed on taking deep, steadying breaths. He’d just about managed to get his head into something resembling order when his mobile buzzed on the desk. He scrambled up from the mattress and snatched it, checking the caller ID.
[Withheld Calling]
Sherlock groaned and pressed the phone to his forehead, feeling the vibrations reverberate through his skull, then let out a long hiss of air and answered it.
“You absolute bastard, I’ve been trying to reach you!” He shouted. “When did you change your number?”
“One can never be too careful, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s smooth, disinterested voice oozed through the reciever. It felt oily in Sherlock’s ear.
“You lying arse! You did it deliberately to keep me from getting through!”
“You could have discovered my new number with a little effort.” Mycroft chided.
Sherlock gritted his teeth. “This is a university, Mycroft, not MI-5. My resources are slightly lacking here.”
“Feeble excuses. I expect better of you.”
Sherlock groaned and scrubbed his hand through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He was assaulted by a sudden sense memory of Neal doing something very similar but much slower and far more intense. He shivered.
“No riposte? I’m surprised at you, little brother.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and waited out the arousal. It lingered, but he tamped it down with fraternal annoyance. “Is it finished?” He demanded.
“You understand why it had to be done, Sherlock.” Nothing in his tone indicated a question, but Sherlock could read Mycroft’s uncertainty as clearly as if it were painted on the wall in glowing block letters.
“Yes.” Sherlock sighed. “I understand.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
There was a huff of exasperated air. “Don’t you want to know how it went?”
Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t need to ask. Your heavies grabbed him on the way to some illegal transaction, loaded him into a van, then drove him somewhere remote where you proceeded to intimidate him into submission and now he’ll never want to speak to me again.”
There was a light chuckle. “Well done, Sherlock, you were very nearly accurate on all accounts.”
Sherlock perked up. “Nearly? What did I get wrong?” He was sitting up now, clutching the phone in a vice grip.
“Neal Caffrey, alias Victor Trevor, seems resistant to intimidation. He puts up a good front, anyway. Oh, it was painfully obvious that he was terrified, but he didn’t back down.”
Sherlock swallowed nervously. “And...and me?”
There was a smile in Mycrofts voice when he said, “He compared you to the Sistine Chapel, as a matter of fact.”
Sherlock let himself fall back onto his pillow. Something seized his heart and began to toy with its beats, making them irregular and far too strong. “He did?” Sherlock breathed. “What did he say?”
“The ceiling was found wanting.” Heat surged in Sherlock’s chest, his skin tingled as though sparks were playing over the surface. Something light and frothy and giddy bubbled up inside him, and he found he was smiling like an idiot.
“Thank you, Mycroft.” He said, completely sincere for once.
“Be careful, Sherlock. He is a criminal, remember.” Mycroft sighed. “But he seems smitten with you, and I don’t believe he represents any kind of threat. Even so, please don’t get carried away. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
“I won’t. I-- I’ll try. My love to mum.”
“Of course. Good-bye, Sherlock.”
“Bye, Mycroft.”
He hung up. Moments later, there was a knock at the door. He grinned and vaulted to his feet, tossing his phone carelessly to the mattress. He cleared the space to the door in a bound and yanked it open.
Neal frowned at him from the corridor, then shook his head with a sigh and raised his eyebrows incredulously.
“Look,” Sherlock began. “I can--”
“Shut up.” And Neal was in the room, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, and then they were pressed together, chest to chest and lips to lips, and Sherlock barely registered Neal closing and locking the door before his world went soft and golden at the edges.
When they broke for air, Sherlock realised they had somehow made it to the bed. He gasped in great gulps of air, and Neal tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Vivaldi?” Neal asked. Sherlock only nodded. Neal grinned. “Nice.”
Sherlock, despite his chaotic breathing, managed to cock an eyebrow. “The Sistine Chapel?” He teased.
Neal didn’t look even a little abashed. “Absolutely.” He breathed, and he lowered his head to claim another kiss, and Sherlock ignited once more.
::
New York City: April 17, 2011
“How could you?!” Sherlock screamed into the phone. He didn’t want to text, not for this. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John flinch, but he ignored it.
“Of all the underhanded, conniving, petty things you’ve done over the course of my life, this one stands apart. How could you do this to me?”
The line was silent. Sherlock raged. “Say something you bloated arse!” He shouted.
“It was a decade ago.” Mycroft said, as though time meant something. As though time had anything to do with it.
“I don’t fucking care! You had no right, Mycroft.”
“Honestly, Sherlock. Must this be about you? I needed the best. Caffrey ranks among them.”
“Someone else.” Sherlock hissed. “Anyone else. Not him. I can’t do this, Mycroft. Don’t ask me to do this.”
“Your vulnerability is distressing, Sherlock. I suggest you learn to overcome it. Caffrey is a resource, nothing more. Utilise him, finish the job, then move on. Surely you haven’t forgotten how to prioritise? One would think you’d have eradicated all of this...sentimentality years ago.”
Deleted it, he meant. Sherlock winced. “I...can’t.” He admitted.
“No.” Mycroft sighed. “I don’t supposed you can.”
“We’re even, after this. All of it.” He paused, willing his tensed muscles to relax just a little. “I will never forgive you for this, Mycroft.” He said it soft, and calm. He said it with absolute conviction. He meant it.
“There are a lot of things for which you’ll never forgive me, Sherlock. I do them anyway.”
“Because you’re a soulless shit.”
Mycroft sighed again. He didn’t do it as often as John, but he was undeniably superior in his execution. “Because you would never do them for yourself. Unwilling is not incapable, Sherlock. Until you learn that, I won’t hesitate to push you.”
“Fuck off. I don’t need you. I never did.”
“Very good, Sherlock. Your performance is coming along quite well.”
“Go assassinate somebody. Forget I exist.”
Yet another sigh. “If only.”
Sherlock hung up. He slumped onto the sofa beside John and cradled his head in his hands. “I don’t want to do this.” He said, with all the inflection of someone announcing the need to buy a new toothbrush.
“I figured. No joy with Mycroft then?”
Sherlock snorted. “You expected different? He’s an intolerable git. I just wanted to shout at him a little.”
John sighed (patented John-sigh. Never as accusing as Mycroft’s, it just sounded tired) and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He moved it back and forth a couple of times, creating a mild friction between skin and cloth that felt warmer than it should.
“For your benefit again?” Sherlock asked.
“Both of us, I think.”
“Thank you.”
John licked his lips in the way that always meant he was about to say something difficult. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Her name was Ellen. I was...eighteen? Yeah, eighteen. We were in school together. And I...I was certain. I mean, completely. I asked her to marry me.”
“You what?”
John chuckled at Sherlock’s astonished tone. “Yeah, well. I was a kid. Everything felt important back then.”
“I remember.” Sherlock said ruefully.
“We’d been together for three years. I was convinced she was the one.”
“What happened?”
John eyed him. “You never pretend to me.” He said slowly. “You’re actually interested?”
“Yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Go on, before I get bored with this conversation.”
He shrugged. “She rejected me. She said she had no interest in being an army wife, and in retrospect she had good reason. But back then...it felt like an excuse, you know? I mean, I had no plans of joining up until after med school. Doctor first, you know. Like my granddad. It was all planned but it felt so distant back then. I was living in the moment, and she was thinking ahead. We were never gonna catch each other up by then.”
Sherlock shifted on the sofa so his back was against the arm and his toes were wiggling under John’s thigh, which earned him a half-hearted slap to the calf. He kicked gently and John shoved his shoulder. It made him smile. John was good at making him smile.
“I was happy.” He said at last. “Neal made me...really very happy.”
“What happened?”
Sherlock winced and looked away. “I got bored.”
“Oh.” And how brilliant was it that John understood what that meant?
“I found a way to stop being bored. I ruined everything.” He studied his hands, unable to meet John’s eyes. “In the end...I’d broken it too badly to fix. And I hated him. For being kind. For loving me even when I was...” He drew a shaky breath. “For not being enough to stop me.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the rush of blood to his brain. “And then for leaving. After all that, everything I’d done to him, he left me. And even that was out of love.” He smirked, joyless. “He left me to save me. Stupid ponce.”
“Did it work?”
Sherlock brought his head back up. “Nope. Made it worse. I did it on purpose, just to spite him. I consumed every recreational substance I could get my hands on, slept with complete strangers whenever I got the chance, forced myself to graduate just to keep Mycroft from getting too involved, then buggered off to London to disappear for six months...” He paused, thinking hard. “I don’t remember that bit, actually. Just what I’ve read from Mycroft’s reports. I think at one point I bit off a man’s little finger, but I’m not sure.”
John laughed. “So what did save you?”
Sherlock shrugged. “The Work. The cases were better. Better than anything. Distracting.”
“I see.” And he did, he honestly did, and that was wonderful. “Why didn’t you delete him, then? Neal. I mean, I tried to forget Ellen.”
Sherlock exhaled loudly. “I tried, too. But Neal is too tangled up in my work. I can’t delete him without deleting a great deal of vital knowledge.”
“Like what?”
Sherlock’s mobile rang, he glared at the screen for a moment, then hit the answer button and held it to his ear. “Sherlock Holmes.” He gritted out. He listened to the voice on the other end, frowned, then said, “Yes, of course. We’ll be there soon.” He hung up the phone.
“That was Special Agent Burke.” He smirked at John’s snort of laughter. “I think he wants to yell at us again.”
“At you, you mean.” John retorted, but he stood and tossed Sherlock his shoes before hunting around for his own.
Chapter Six
::