Fic: We Were Never Forever: Chapter Six
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.
We Were Never Forever
Chapter Six
New York City: April 17, 2011
“And I still say this is a very bad idea.” Mozzie insisted, tracking Neal’s pacing with his eyes.
“Well, we don’t have much of a choice.” Peter said. He was leaning against the wall near the doorway, also watching Neal’s agitated circuit of the room.
“Suit, I beg of you. Listen to me. You’ve gotta get rid of the Automaton. Neal,” he shifted focus to his friend. “You know I love you, but you’re a moron when it comes to people you care about. Almost every stupid decision you’ve ever made since we met has been because of Kate.”
“Right,” said Peter. “Or Alex, or Sara. Admit it, Neal, you’ve got a blind spot.” He sighed. “But we need this guy.”
“According to his brother. Nepotism alive and well in the United Kingdom I see.” Mozzie opined.
“Shut up Moz.” Neal said quietly, coming to a halt at the window. Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the city was gradually shifting to bronze and gold. His city. His beautiful city.
Mozzie sputtered and went red. Neal smiled at him weakly. “I’m sorry, Mozzie. But you don’t know what you’re talking about. Mycroft would never ask Sherlock to do this if Sherlock wasn’t the only man for the job.” His attention wandered back to the window, and he looked down at the busy street below. A yellow cab was slowing to a halt outside of June’s building. The door opened, and a pair of illogically long legs slid out, followed by the man himself in shirtsleeves. Neal’s heart stammered in his chest.
“You brought him here?” He demanded, rounding on Peter.
“We need a plan of action, Neal. Sherlock needs to see the blueprints of Hale’s home and office, you need to work on your cover, and Mozzie...needs to do Mozzie things.”
“Hm.” Mozzie hummed, peering out the window. “The Machine brought his sidekick.”
“Stop that.” Neal scolded. “Anyway, Sherlock doesn’t do sidekicks.”
“What do you mean? What else is he for?” Peter asked.
Neal smirked. “He’s changed a lot, but one thing Sherlock will never do is suffer the company of anyone less competant than he is. Watson there is a medical doctor and a decorated soldier. Watch him, Peter. Watch the way he moves.”
Peter came up to the window in time to see John watson nod a good-bye to the cab driver and stride up to June’s front door.
“He’s alert.” Peter noted. “Scans his environment. Bit of a march, too, when he walks. He hasn’t been a civilian for long.”
“No.” Agreed Neal. He could hear the distant buzz of the doorbell, and the soft click of June’s kitten heels. “He hasn’t.”
“Working with military.” Mozzie sneered. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Aw, come on Moz.” Peter slapped Mozzie on the back with a file folder. “It can’t be worse than working with the FBI.”
Mozzie narrowed his eyes. “You would say that. The only thing worse than a suit is a suit with dog tags.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Neal went to open it. June smiled at him from the hallway and he gave her a quick, affectionate hug. He was still holding her when Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, Watson close behind.
“You know where I’ll be if you need anything, sweetie.” June said with a smile.
Neal grinned back, “Same to you, June.”
June patted his cheek and turned to leave. She smiled at Sherlock and placed a warm hand on his arm. He returned the sentiment without restraint, which confused Neal a little, but seemed to just amuse John who offered June a handshake in parting.
“Anything at all, boys. Just downstairs.”
“Thank you.” The Englishmen chorused with almost identical polite reserve, and very nearly in unison. Neal could have burst out laughing, but Sherlock chose that moment to fix his gaze on him, and the mirth was swept away.
He waited for June to disappear downstairs, then glared down his nose at Neal and said, “Well?”
Neal sighed and slumped against the doorjamb. “Come in, I guess.”
They did, and Neal lethargically closed the door behind them and gestured widely at the sitting room. “You’ve met Peter. The guy giving Watson the stink-eye is Mozzie.”
“Mozzie?” Sherlock asked, sounding both disdainful and amused.
“Problem, android?” Mozzie demanded. Sherlock blinked.
“Moz, don’t.” Neal warned.
Mozzie deflated. “Fine.”
John chuckled lightly and held out his hand to Mozzie. “Dr John Watson.” He said.
Mozzie shrank away from the offered hand. “Suit with dog tags.” He muttered.
John tilted his head and looked down at himself. “I’m wearing jeans.” He protested.
“In cognito suit with dog tags.” Mozzie conceded.
“And a Rolling Stones t-shirt.” John went on, tugging at the item in question. His face was beginning to furrow, the lines in his forehead deepening with his frown.
“Only until I get a chance to burn it.” Sherlock muttered. John shot him a glare.
“What if he’s packing?” Mozzie demanded, addressing the question to Neal and Peter.
Peter shook his head. “Relax, Moz. Civilians can’t carry handguns in the UK. Right?” He turned to Watson for confirmation.
The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “Um, right. More... more or less. Ahem.”
“I remain unconvinced.” Said Moz.
“Well he’s not going anywhere, so I suggest if you have a problem you should leave now.” Sherlock informed him.
John rolled his eyes at the both of them. “Sherlock, shut it. Mr Mozzie, here.” And he slid a hand under his t-shirt and pulled out a metal chain with a set of rubber-edged dog tags dangling from a wire loop. With a frown, he slipped the chain over his head and slapped the tags onto Neal’s dining table.
“How’s that?” He asked, his voice flat.
“Better.” Mozzie allowed.
Sherlock frowned at John. “Why were you wearing those?” He demanded.
“Later.” John muttered.
“Why didn’t I notice them?”
“Rolling Stones shirt. You don’t look at it if you don’t have to.”
Sherlock glared at him, and it was like the heat had just kicked on despite the warm spring weather. “Clever.” He grumbled.
John smirked. “I thought so.”
“Shall we, then?” Peter asked, gesturing to the unrolled sheafs of blue prints and myriad files spread out on Neal’s table.
They got to work. Sherlock and John moved in tandem, using one another as mere extentions of themselves. There were a few instances where they actually finished each other’s sentences. For Neal, it was almost painful to watch. He’d been that, once. He’d stood within that cold blaze, been a part of it. He honestly caught himself wondering at one point, What does he have that I don’t? But he pushed that thought right out of his head, because if he allowed himself to ask the question, there was a sickening chance he might learn the answer.
::
John was Not Happy. Sherlock could see it in a thousand tiny tells he doubted anyone else would pick up on. Outwardly, John projected an easy appearance of calm, sober dilligence as he listened to Agent Burke’s information, contributed his own opinions and questions, examined the evidence and the plan outline, raised his concerns about Sherlock’s role in the proceedings and generally made himself useful and displayed his competance in the matter-of-fact way he always did.
But Sherlock could see the tension in his shoulders, and how it increased fractionally every time Neal’s small and paranoid friend spoke, which was often. Sherlock saw the dark, seething look in John’s eyes when he wasn’t looking at anyone, and how it vanished the moment he had to make visual contact with somebody. He noticed, especially, the nervous and frequent sidelong glances John cast at his dog tags, still sitting on the edge of the table. They were never more than a fraction of a second long, but there were enough of them to make it painfully obvious that John did not appreciate the separation.
“I can’t be anywhere near this.” Burke was saying, looking frustrated. “Without a warrant, nothing I’d find in that office would be admissable in court.”
“Not an issue for me.” Sherlock pointed out, and it was true. It never was an issue.
“Or me.” Neal piped up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t hear that.” Peter muttered. “Neal, I need you to get in close to Hale. You’ll be wearing a wire so Sherlock can hear everything you two talk about, anything that might help him gain access to those offices.”
“Oh, lovely.” Sherlock muttered. “An evening of Caffrey charm boring into my head.”
Burke sighed wearily and rubbed his forehead. “And Sherlock will be transmitting instructions to Neal as well, so Neal knows exactly how to steer the conversation.”
“This should be fun.” Neal sniped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I regret this already.” Peter grumbled.
“Hey suit,” Mozzie inquired. “Will we actually get the chance to see these British state secrets everyone’s so concerned about?”
Peter glared at the tiny man. “No, Mozzie, we won’t. Sherlock will retrieve them and see them safely across the Pond. It’s our job to get him in and out in one piece, got that? No peeking.”
Mozzie slumped in his chair. “Got it.”
“What about the rest?” John asked. “They’re a ring of smugglers, right? They’re moving more than just intel.”
“Well we’re hoping Sherlock can find enough in Hale’s office to bring that down, too. But really once the information is secure, the rest is White Collar territory. Mr. Holmes only specified your involvement with the intelligence investigation.”
“Yeah, but we can still help, right? I mean this is our case, too. If Sherlock hadn’t found and decyphered the ledger we wouldn’t have been able to connect Hale to the operation in the first place.”
“That was you?” Peter asked, impressed.
Sherlock shrugged. “I almost wish I hadn’t. Mycroft probably wouldn’t have even considered me for this... assignment if I’d just stayed away to begin with.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Neal muttered. Sherlock shot him a glare, but it was summarily ignored. Prat.
“You’re the best.” Neal went on, and Sherlock forced himself not to acknowledge the flutter of heat in his breast at the compliment. “Mycroft never settles for less than that.”
“Well, you’d know.” Sherlock sniped. Neal’s face flushed red, and he looked away. The tiny Mozzie man scowled at Sherlock, and equilibrium restored.
Peter cleared his throat. “Well, I think that’s enough for tonight. I’m sure we’re all ready to call it a day. What do you say we regroup tomorrow, say three, three thirty, make sure everyone’s on the same page?”
“Good idea.” John said with a nod, and slid his chair out to stand, swiping up his dog tags as he moved. Sherlock was just about to follow when Neal reached out a hand and settled it over his.
“How long?” He asked quietly.
Sherlock glanced around. By now Peter and John were leaning against a wall, chatting about something very masculine, probably. Mozzie was staring intently at a series of bendy straws arranged in a fractal for some reason. No one was paying attention to them.
“Just over six years.” He answered.
Neal jerked back as though bitten. “What? Why did you wait so long?”
Sherlock didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on John, which was comforting. “I didn’t have anything better to do.” He said, and he kept his voice flippant. He didn’t say, to prove to you that you shouldn’t have left. He didn’t say, to prove to myself that I deserved to lose you. He certainly didn’t say, I wasn’t strong enough to stop. Really, there were dozens of reasons, all more humiliating than the last. How to choose? So he didn’t bother.
“What did it?” Neal asked, and Sherlock risked a look at his ex, to see Neal carefully monitoring the activity in the room, ensuring they weren’t overheard. “In the end. What made you decide to...”
Sherlock shrugged. “There was a question nobody else could answer. I got it right, they treated me like a god. Then they found out I was...” He pretended to inspect his fingernails and cleared his throat. “I didn’t want their pity. I’d had enough of yours.”
Neal gritted his teeth. “You idiot.” He muttered. “I never pitied you, you ass. I loved you.”
“You loved who you wanted me to be.” Sherlock shot back. “I was never going to be your masterpiece, Neal.” He smiled, but it was more of a sneer and it felt sickly on his lips. He snatched his hand away, ignoring the dumbstruck expression on Neal’s face, and advanced on John and Peter. He just caught a snippet of conversation.
“Yeah, that sounds great. Incredible, actually. I’ll definitely--” But John didn’t get to finish before Sherlock hooked an arm around his elbow and yanked him away.
“Come on, John. We’re going.”
“Oi!” John protested, but he followed. He always followed, when he knew Sherlock needed him. It was one of his quieter strengths.
::
“You okay, Neal?” Peter asked.
Neal said nothing. His head was pounding, his hand still tingled with residual warmth from Sherlock’s fingers, his chest ached and he was heartsick in a way he hadn’t thought he could feel after Kate... after Kate.
Mozzie slid into the chair beside him and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Hey... it’s gonna be okay, man. Just a few more days and it’ll all be over.”
Neal couldn’t raise his head, couldn’t look anyone in the eye. “It was all over a long time ago, Moz.” He said. “It’s time I let it die.”
::
“I hate blokes like him.” John spat. He’d finally given up trying to get Sherlock to open up about Neal after they’d gotten in the cab, and was filling the space between them with his own venom.
“Paranoid conspiracy theorists with a penchant for quoting classical philosophers?”
John nodded. “Oh, yes. The ‘intellectual elite’. The bloody existential thinkers of the modern age. They’re all the bleeding same, aren’t they? They sit in their fucking ivory towers and glare down at everyone below them. I’ve had my fill of the bloody sanctimonious pricks. You join up, you spend the greater part of your adult life amidst a hail of gunfire, living and dying for people you’ll never meet, and you come home to arseholes like that.” He clenched his fists and his jaw. “Looking at me like I’m a trained dog on a choke chain.” His hand lifted to clutch at his dog tags, the fingers wrapping around the metal oblongs until his knuckles started to pale.
“You’re not.” Sherlock said. Sometimes, he knew, the best tactic was to state the obvious with unflinching certainty. It gave people something solid to grab onto.
“I know I’m bloody well not!” John snapped. “But people like that, they look at you with this smug sort of pity and they don’t even bother trying to hide it! They’re just so certain that once you put on a uniform you lose the ability to think. You’re just some hapless machine carrying out orders, like you’ve given up your self for a pair of boots.”
“He seemed scared of you. I didn’t notice any pity.”
“It was there. It helps them cope with the paranoia that you’ll snap at any moment and produce a bloody AK-47 from your arse and go spare on a shopping mall.”
Sherlock snorted. “Now there’s an image.”
John chuckled. “Yeah, guess so.”
Sherlock paused a moment. Then, “What were you and Agent Burke planning?”
John perked up at that, and his face split into a grin. “Oh, that! He said he’ll see about pulling some strings to get me into the FBI’s firing range. I mean, obviously there’ll be some restrictions but he reckons he can get me some time with the handguns, maybe even try my hand at something bigger.”
“You’re giddy.” Sherlock accused.
“Yes. Yes I am. Sherlock, you do realise it’s been over a year now since I’ve been able to handle a firearm without worrying I’ll be arrested? I don’t like hiding it, and here...” He sighed. “I mean, say what you like, America knows how to treat a bloke with an itchy trigger finger.”
“Yes, lethal injection for the most part, I believe.”
“Wanker.”
“Moron.”
They were grinning at each other, now. Their individual pains were, if not forgotten, at least less important now. It was times like this, and they were surprisingly numerous, when Sherlock wondered how he’d managed before John. He never bothered to contemplate life after John, because there wouldn’t be one. It was that simple. John, and John alone, was forever.
“Film? Back at the suite?” John asked after they’d been silent a while.
“Which?”
John considered. “I could go for something stupid and funny.”
“Hot Fuzz?” Sherlock asked.
John beamed. “Like you can read minds, mate.”
Sherlock shrugged. “You’re excited about the gun range. Hot Fuzz is the only one of the few comedic films we can agree on that promienently features the use of firearms. Not a difficult leap.”
“Yes, yes. You’re brilliant and godlike. I vote pizza.”
Sherlock made a face. “Must we?”
“Peter was telling me about New York pizza. Second to none, apparently. It’d be a cultural insult if we didn’t.”
“I don’t get a say, do I?”
“Nope.”
“Fine.”
They chatted amiably the rest of the way to the hotel. Not once did they mention Neal or the military.
Chapter Seven
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.
We Were Never Forever
Chapter Six
New York City: April 17, 2011
“And I still say this is a very bad idea.” Mozzie insisted, tracking Neal’s pacing with his eyes.
“Well, we don’t have much of a choice.” Peter said. He was leaning against the wall near the doorway, also watching Neal’s agitated circuit of the room.
“Suit, I beg of you. Listen to me. You’ve gotta get rid of the Automaton. Neal,” he shifted focus to his friend. “You know I love you, but you’re a moron when it comes to people you care about. Almost every stupid decision you’ve ever made since we met has been because of Kate.”
“Right,” said Peter. “Or Alex, or Sara. Admit it, Neal, you’ve got a blind spot.” He sighed. “But we need this guy.”
“According to his brother. Nepotism alive and well in the United Kingdom I see.” Mozzie opined.
“Shut up Moz.” Neal said quietly, coming to a halt at the window. Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the city was gradually shifting to bronze and gold. His city. His beautiful city.
Mozzie sputtered and went red. Neal smiled at him weakly. “I’m sorry, Mozzie. But you don’t know what you’re talking about. Mycroft would never ask Sherlock to do this if Sherlock wasn’t the only man for the job.” His attention wandered back to the window, and he looked down at the busy street below. A yellow cab was slowing to a halt outside of June’s building. The door opened, and a pair of illogically long legs slid out, followed by the man himself in shirtsleeves. Neal’s heart stammered in his chest.
“You brought him here?” He demanded, rounding on Peter.
“We need a plan of action, Neal. Sherlock needs to see the blueprints of Hale’s home and office, you need to work on your cover, and Mozzie...needs to do Mozzie things.”
“Hm.” Mozzie hummed, peering out the window. “The Machine brought his sidekick.”
“Stop that.” Neal scolded. “Anyway, Sherlock doesn’t do sidekicks.”
“What do you mean? What else is he for?” Peter asked.
Neal smirked. “He’s changed a lot, but one thing Sherlock will never do is suffer the company of anyone less competant than he is. Watson there is a medical doctor and a decorated soldier. Watch him, Peter. Watch the way he moves.”
Peter came up to the window in time to see John watson nod a good-bye to the cab driver and stride up to June’s front door.
“He’s alert.” Peter noted. “Scans his environment. Bit of a march, too, when he walks. He hasn’t been a civilian for long.”
“No.” Agreed Neal. He could hear the distant buzz of the doorbell, and the soft click of June’s kitten heels. “He hasn’t.”
“Working with military.” Mozzie sneered. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Aw, come on Moz.” Peter slapped Mozzie on the back with a file folder. “It can’t be worse than working with the FBI.”
Mozzie narrowed his eyes. “You would say that. The only thing worse than a suit is a suit with dog tags.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Neal went to open it. June smiled at him from the hallway and he gave her a quick, affectionate hug. He was still holding her when Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, Watson close behind.
“You know where I’ll be if you need anything, sweetie.” June said with a smile.
Neal grinned back, “Same to you, June.”
June patted his cheek and turned to leave. She smiled at Sherlock and placed a warm hand on his arm. He returned the sentiment without restraint, which confused Neal a little, but seemed to just amuse John who offered June a handshake in parting.
“Anything at all, boys. Just downstairs.”
“Thank you.” The Englishmen chorused with almost identical polite reserve, and very nearly in unison. Neal could have burst out laughing, but Sherlock chose that moment to fix his gaze on him, and the mirth was swept away.
He waited for June to disappear downstairs, then glared down his nose at Neal and said, “Well?”
Neal sighed and slumped against the doorjamb. “Come in, I guess.”
They did, and Neal lethargically closed the door behind them and gestured widely at the sitting room. “You’ve met Peter. The guy giving Watson the stink-eye is Mozzie.”
“Mozzie?” Sherlock asked, sounding both disdainful and amused.
“Problem, android?” Mozzie demanded. Sherlock blinked.
“Moz, don’t.” Neal warned.
Mozzie deflated. “Fine.”
John chuckled lightly and held out his hand to Mozzie. “Dr John Watson.” He said.
Mozzie shrank away from the offered hand. “Suit with dog tags.” He muttered.
John tilted his head and looked down at himself. “I’m wearing jeans.” He protested.
“In cognito suit with dog tags.” Mozzie conceded.
“And a Rolling Stones t-shirt.” John went on, tugging at the item in question. His face was beginning to furrow, the lines in his forehead deepening with his frown.
“Only until I get a chance to burn it.” Sherlock muttered. John shot him a glare.
“What if he’s packing?” Mozzie demanded, addressing the question to Neal and Peter.
Peter shook his head. “Relax, Moz. Civilians can’t carry handguns in the UK. Right?” He turned to Watson for confirmation.
The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “Um, right. More... more or less. Ahem.”
“I remain unconvinced.” Said Moz.
“Well he’s not going anywhere, so I suggest if you have a problem you should leave now.” Sherlock informed him.
John rolled his eyes at the both of them. “Sherlock, shut it. Mr Mozzie, here.” And he slid a hand under his t-shirt and pulled out a metal chain with a set of rubber-edged dog tags dangling from a wire loop. With a frown, he slipped the chain over his head and slapped the tags onto Neal’s dining table.
“How’s that?” He asked, his voice flat.
“Better.” Mozzie allowed.
Sherlock frowned at John. “Why were you wearing those?” He demanded.
“Later.” John muttered.
“Why didn’t I notice them?”
“Rolling Stones shirt. You don’t look at it if you don’t have to.”
Sherlock glared at him, and it was like the heat had just kicked on despite the warm spring weather. “Clever.” He grumbled.
John smirked. “I thought so.”
“Shall we, then?” Peter asked, gesturing to the unrolled sheafs of blue prints and myriad files spread out on Neal’s table.
They got to work. Sherlock and John moved in tandem, using one another as mere extentions of themselves. There were a few instances where they actually finished each other’s sentences. For Neal, it was almost painful to watch. He’d been that, once. He’d stood within that cold blaze, been a part of it. He honestly caught himself wondering at one point, What does he have that I don’t? But he pushed that thought right out of his head, because if he allowed himself to ask the question, there was a sickening chance he might learn the answer.
::
John was Not Happy. Sherlock could see it in a thousand tiny tells he doubted anyone else would pick up on. Outwardly, John projected an easy appearance of calm, sober dilligence as he listened to Agent Burke’s information, contributed his own opinions and questions, examined the evidence and the plan outline, raised his concerns about Sherlock’s role in the proceedings and generally made himself useful and displayed his competance in the matter-of-fact way he always did.
But Sherlock could see the tension in his shoulders, and how it increased fractionally every time Neal’s small and paranoid friend spoke, which was often. Sherlock saw the dark, seething look in John’s eyes when he wasn’t looking at anyone, and how it vanished the moment he had to make visual contact with somebody. He noticed, especially, the nervous and frequent sidelong glances John cast at his dog tags, still sitting on the edge of the table. They were never more than a fraction of a second long, but there were enough of them to make it painfully obvious that John did not appreciate the separation.
“I can’t be anywhere near this.” Burke was saying, looking frustrated. “Without a warrant, nothing I’d find in that office would be admissable in court.”
“Not an issue for me.” Sherlock pointed out, and it was true. It never was an issue.
“Or me.” Neal piped up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t hear that.” Peter muttered. “Neal, I need you to get in close to Hale. You’ll be wearing a wire so Sherlock can hear everything you two talk about, anything that might help him gain access to those offices.”
“Oh, lovely.” Sherlock muttered. “An evening of Caffrey charm boring into my head.”
Burke sighed wearily and rubbed his forehead. “And Sherlock will be transmitting instructions to Neal as well, so Neal knows exactly how to steer the conversation.”
“This should be fun.” Neal sniped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I regret this already.” Peter grumbled.
“Hey suit,” Mozzie inquired. “Will we actually get the chance to see these British state secrets everyone’s so concerned about?”
Peter glared at the tiny man. “No, Mozzie, we won’t. Sherlock will retrieve them and see them safely across the Pond. It’s our job to get him in and out in one piece, got that? No peeking.”
Mozzie slumped in his chair. “Got it.”
“What about the rest?” John asked. “They’re a ring of smugglers, right? They’re moving more than just intel.”
“Well we’re hoping Sherlock can find enough in Hale’s office to bring that down, too. But really once the information is secure, the rest is White Collar territory. Mr. Holmes only specified your involvement with the intelligence investigation.”
“Yeah, but we can still help, right? I mean this is our case, too. If Sherlock hadn’t found and decyphered the ledger we wouldn’t have been able to connect Hale to the operation in the first place.”
“That was you?” Peter asked, impressed.
Sherlock shrugged. “I almost wish I hadn’t. Mycroft probably wouldn’t have even considered me for this... assignment if I’d just stayed away to begin with.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Neal muttered. Sherlock shot him a glare, but it was summarily ignored. Prat.
“You’re the best.” Neal went on, and Sherlock forced himself not to acknowledge the flutter of heat in his breast at the compliment. “Mycroft never settles for less than that.”
“Well, you’d know.” Sherlock sniped. Neal’s face flushed red, and he looked away. The tiny Mozzie man scowled at Sherlock, and equilibrium restored.
Peter cleared his throat. “Well, I think that’s enough for tonight. I’m sure we’re all ready to call it a day. What do you say we regroup tomorrow, say three, three thirty, make sure everyone’s on the same page?”
“Good idea.” John said with a nod, and slid his chair out to stand, swiping up his dog tags as he moved. Sherlock was just about to follow when Neal reached out a hand and settled it over his.
“How long?” He asked quietly.
Sherlock glanced around. By now Peter and John were leaning against a wall, chatting about something very masculine, probably. Mozzie was staring intently at a series of bendy straws arranged in a fractal for some reason. No one was paying attention to them.
“Just over six years.” He answered.
Neal jerked back as though bitten. “What? Why did you wait so long?”
Sherlock didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on John, which was comforting. “I didn’t have anything better to do.” He said, and he kept his voice flippant. He didn’t say, to prove to you that you shouldn’t have left. He didn’t say, to prove to myself that I deserved to lose you. He certainly didn’t say, I wasn’t strong enough to stop. Really, there were dozens of reasons, all more humiliating than the last. How to choose? So he didn’t bother.
“What did it?” Neal asked, and Sherlock risked a look at his ex, to see Neal carefully monitoring the activity in the room, ensuring they weren’t overheard. “In the end. What made you decide to...”
Sherlock shrugged. “There was a question nobody else could answer. I got it right, they treated me like a god. Then they found out I was...” He pretended to inspect his fingernails and cleared his throat. “I didn’t want their pity. I’d had enough of yours.”
Neal gritted his teeth. “You idiot.” He muttered. “I never pitied you, you ass. I loved you.”
“You loved who you wanted me to be.” Sherlock shot back. “I was never going to be your masterpiece, Neal.” He smiled, but it was more of a sneer and it felt sickly on his lips. He snatched his hand away, ignoring the dumbstruck expression on Neal’s face, and advanced on John and Peter. He just caught a snippet of conversation.
“Yeah, that sounds great. Incredible, actually. I’ll definitely--” But John didn’t get to finish before Sherlock hooked an arm around his elbow and yanked him away.
“Come on, John. We’re going.”
“Oi!” John protested, but he followed. He always followed, when he knew Sherlock needed him. It was one of his quieter strengths.
::
“You okay, Neal?” Peter asked.
Neal said nothing. His head was pounding, his hand still tingled with residual warmth from Sherlock’s fingers, his chest ached and he was heartsick in a way he hadn’t thought he could feel after Kate... after Kate.
Mozzie slid into the chair beside him and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Hey... it’s gonna be okay, man. Just a few more days and it’ll all be over.”
Neal couldn’t raise his head, couldn’t look anyone in the eye. “It was all over a long time ago, Moz.” He said. “It’s time I let it die.”
::
“I hate blokes like him.” John spat. He’d finally given up trying to get Sherlock to open up about Neal after they’d gotten in the cab, and was filling the space between them with his own venom.
“Paranoid conspiracy theorists with a penchant for quoting classical philosophers?”
John nodded. “Oh, yes. The ‘intellectual elite’. The bloody existential thinkers of the modern age. They’re all the bleeding same, aren’t they? They sit in their fucking ivory towers and glare down at everyone below them. I’ve had my fill of the bloody sanctimonious pricks. You join up, you spend the greater part of your adult life amidst a hail of gunfire, living and dying for people you’ll never meet, and you come home to arseholes like that.” He clenched his fists and his jaw. “Looking at me like I’m a trained dog on a choke chain.” His hand lifted to clutch at his dog tags, the fingers wrapping around the metal oblongs until his knuckles started to pale.
“You’re not.” Sherlock said. Sometimes, he knew, the best tactic was to state the obvious with unflinching certainty. It gave people something solid to grab onto.
“I know I’m bloody well not!” John snapped. “But people like that, they look at you with this smug sort of pity and they don’t even bother trying to hide it! They’re just so certain that once you put on a uniform you lose the ability to think. You’re just some hapless machine carrying out orders, like you’ve given up your self for a pair of boots.”
“He seemed scared of you. I didn’t notice any pity.”
“It was there. It helps them cope with the paranoia that you’ll snap at any moment and produce a bloody AK-47 from your arse and go spare on a shopping mall.”
Sherlock snorted. “Now there’s an image.”
John chuckled. “Yeah, guess so.”
Sherlock paused a moment. Then, “What were you and Agent Burke planning?”
John perked up at that, and his face split into a grin. “Oh, that! He said he’ll see about pulling some strings to get me into the FBI’s firing range. I mean, obviously there’ll be some restrictions but he reckons he can get me some time with the handguns, maybe even try my hand at something bigger.”
“You’re giddy.” Sherlock accused.
“Yes. Yes I am. Sherlock, you do realise it’s been over a year now since I’ve been able to handle a firearm without worrying I’ll be arrested? I don’t like hiding it, and here...” He sighed. “I mean, say what you like, America knows how to treat a bloke with an itchy trigger finger.”
“Yes, lethal injection for the most part, I believe.”
“Wanker.”
“Moron.”
They were grinning at each other, now. Their individual pains were, if not forgotten, at least less important now. It was times like this, and they were surprisingly numerous, when Sherlock wondered how he’d managed before John. He never bothered to contemplate life after John, because there wouldn’t be one. It was that simple. John, and John alone, was forever.
“Film? Back at the suite?” John asked after they’d been silent a while.
“Which?”
John considered. “I could go for something stupid and funny.”
“Hot Fuzz?” Sherlock asked.
John beamed. “Like you can read minds, mate.”
Sherlock shrugged. “You’re excited about the gun range. Hot Fuzz is the only one of the few comedic films we can agree on that promienently features the use of firearms. Not a difficult leap.”
“Yes, yes. You’re brilliant and godlike. I vote pizza.”
Sherlock made a face. “Must we?”
“Peter was telling me about New York pizza. Second to none, apparently. It’d be a cultural insult if we didn’t.”
“I don’t get a say, do I?”
“Nope.”
“Fine.”
They chatted amiably the rest of the way to the hotel. Not once did they mention Neal or the military.
Chapter Seven