Fic: We Were Never Forever: Chapter Seven
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.
Beta'd by slashfairy . I couldn't do without her.
We Were Never Forever
Chapter Seven
New York City: April 18, 2011
The van stunk. There was nothing else you could say about it. It stunk. It reeked. It oozed with the odors of sweat, bad breath and ancient take-out orders. There was congealed soy sauce on one corner of the shallow ledge holding all the monitors and receivers. Sherlock thought he was going to be sick.
“This is brilliant!” John beamed, gazing around the van’s interior as though it were an exibit at the Smithsonian or something. “We’re in the Van. The actual bloody Van. Sherlock this is amazing!”
“No it’s not.” Sherlock said, trying not to breathe through his nose.
“Oh, come on. FBI stake-out. Us in the Van. Operative in the field. How can you not be loving this?”
Sherlock peered at him, his head swimming with the fumes. “Have you met me?”
John rolled his eyes. “Right, sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
The door at the rear of the vehicle jerked open, and Peter appeared, hefting himself up onto the manky carpeting.
“Okay, fellas. Dry run.” He said, maneuvering himself into the seat beside Sherlock’s. “Practice makes perfect, so we’re gonna test how well you and Neal work in the field.”
“I am perfectly capable of separating my personal opinions from my professional endeavours, Agent Burke.” Sherlock sniped.
“Sherlock, he’s a Special Agent, at least try to lie convincingly.” John teased. Sherlock glared at him.
Peter smirked. “And that, Dr. Watson, is exactly why you’re here. I’m thinking Myles had the right idea sending the matched set.”
“Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered. “My brother’s name is Mycroft. Not Myles.”
Peter shrugged. “Whatever.” He passed a pair of exceedingly large and out-dated headphones to Sherlock, who sneered at them before gingerly slipping them over his ears. They were tight, noise-canceling, and they pinched his hair. He frowned, and glanced at John, who flashed him a concerned look. Sherlock shook his head and took a deep breath. He removed one of the cups, the one surrounding his left ear, closest to John, and sound returned. He relaxed.
“I’ll be in the club with Neal, monitoring his progress. We’ll all be in radio contact, I’ll relay your objective once I’m inside, then it’s up to you and Neal to achieve it. You’ll have one hour. Good luck.” He hopped down from the van and closed the door behind him. The stink returned.
“All right?” John asked quietly as soon as they were alone.
Sherlock nodded and smiled tightly. Sensory deprivation, while rewarding in a controlled environment, always made him feel uncomfortable if not on his terms.
John’s hand slid carefully over Sherlock’s, his fingers settling into the spaces between Sherlock’s own. Sherlock didn’t pull away, but he didn’t turn his hand over to lace their fingers together either. He let John comfort him, and forced himself not to think back on all the times Neal had done the same.
“Moon river, wider than a mile” Oh, speak of the devil.
“That was a cheap shot.” Sherlock grumbled.
“Oh come on, Sherlock. You’ve gotta admit it’s better than ‘testing, 1 2 3’.”
“Most things would be.”
“Besides, I remember you crying at--”
“Shut up, Neal!” Sherlock snapped.
John furrowed his brow and flipped the switch that would pipe the radio signal through the speakers as well as Sherlock’s headphones.
“What was that? Dr. Watson listening in?”
“Yes. I’d be very careful if I were you. He’s a lethal man.”
“He would be.”
“Alright, boys, can we please at least attempt to keep this professional?” Peter’s voice chimed in. “Stand by for mission objective.”
“Peter, I love it when you take charge like that.” Neal teased.
“Shut it, Neal. I still haven’t told June what happened to her orchids.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a look, and both of them had to fight back snorts of laughter. John waggled his finger sternly and mouthed “not your housekeeper”, and Sherlock had to slap a hand over his mouth to hold back the giggling.
“Fine, fine. What do we have to do here?”
Sherlock slid the left cup back over his ear, shutting out all sound save for the radio transmission. Time to focus.
“Okay boys, this is a double-blind. We have a number of agents in the club, each one of them has something concealed on their person. They don’t know which of them you’re looking for, you don’t know which of them has what you want. Neal can spot an undercover agent on his own, it’ll be up to Sherlock to determine which undercover agent is holding your objective.”
“Straightforward, if a bit dull.” John swatted Sherlock’s arm lightly. He ignored it.
“Okay, what’s our objective?”
“You’re looking for a coin. A Liberty Silver Dollar. Find the agent with the coin in less than an hour, and you’re ready to take on Hale come Thursday.”
“Okay.” Said Neal. “Ready on the floor.”
“Ready in the van.” Sherlock added. John beamed at him. Sherlock smiled tightly in return.
“I’m going in.” Neal said, and there was a soft clicking sound, then the diluted sounds of laughter, conversation and clinking glass filtered through the headphones. Sherlock focused his attention on the sounds he could make out, and waited.
“Got one. Male, mid forties, suit’s a bit too big for him. Full head of hair, but he’s going gray and he knows it. Wait...isn’t that Jenks?”
“Neal, focus. And now I definitely regret letting you crash the office Christmas party.”
“Yep. Definitely Jenks. Good man with a lawn dart, that guy.”
“Neal!”
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll behave.”
“That’ll be a first.” Sherlock snorted. John slapped him again, this time it hurt. He rubbed his arm and glowered at his flatmate. “Take me to him.”
“Can do.” Neal was silent for a moment, then his voice returned, jovial and dripping with charm. “Jenks, right? From the Christmas party? You hooked up with that blonde from IT, right?”
“Right! Neal Caffrey, man. Good to see you again.”
It went downhill from there. Sherlock listened dutifully, but really it was the worst kind of busywork. He tried to pass the time by counting all the pop culture references, highlighting the ones he didn’t recognise, but that was a bit uncomfortable in the circumstances so instead he turned his attention to trying to place the man’s origin by his accent, something remarkably more difficult to do in America, where the accent tends toward homogenization in urban centers.
Then, yes, he had it. “Ask him for the time. Pay attention to his watch.”
Neal followed Sherlock’s lead, then parted with Agent Jenks graciously.
“You were right. Concealed flash drive in his digital watch. Nice work.”
“How?” John demanded. Sherlock couldn’t hear him, but John always made the same scrunched up, disbelieving face when he asked that question. Sherlock removed the left headphone.
“He’s in his forties, generally an age range not entirely at home with modern technology. His speech patterns support that, he’s less conservative with his words, not someone accustomed to condensing his thoughts to fit a restrictive medium like texting or twitter. A man like that doesn’t harp on technology unless he’s been recently confronted with it, but Jenks couldn’t shut up about it. He kept rubbing his arm or his wrist, I heard the movement of his sleeve. So, technology, very modern, something on his arm, a watch then, but not just a watch, something sophisticated, something like...this:” He rapidly navigated his phone until he found what he was looking for, then showed it to John. It was an advertisement for the kind of digital watch Neal had described on a technology website.
“You did all that just by listening to him?” Peter demanded.
“He does that.” John said, leaning over to talk into Sherlock’s microphone.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We still haven’t found the coin.” He pointed out. “Can we please get on with it?”
::
Cambridge: February 16, 2000
“Are you ready for this?” Neal asked. “There’s still time to change your mind.” He stroked the backs of his fingers along Sherlock’s cheek, leaving tingling heat trails in his wake. Sherlock grabbed Neal’s hand in his own and pressed a kiss to Neal’s palm.
“I’m ready.” He said, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “I’m-- I want this, Neal. I think it’s time.”
Neal let out a long breath. “Christ, Sherlock. You just dive right in, don’t you?”
Sherlock nodded. “Please, Neal. You’re important to me. This, between us, this is important.” He swallowed again. “But if you’re not up for it--”
“No, no, I’m ready. I can handle it, trust me.” He pulled Sherlock into a brief, chaste kiss, then ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head into the touch.
“Okay.” Said Neal. “Let’s do it.”
Sherlock blinked, and shot a glance at the door. He felt so comfortable, so safe surrounded by the acids, bases, compounds and glassware of the chemistry lab. Just beyond that door, though, lie something else entirely. Something daunting.
He squared his shoulders and, resolute, laced the fingers of his right hand through those of Neal’s left. Neal’s grip was warm and steady.
“You’re my...” Sherlock stumbled a bit over the word, but he managed it. “Boyfriend.” He felt a flutter in his stomach, something bright and giddy. “I won’t keep you a secret.”
Neal just smiled and put a hand on the door handle. A twist, a push, and they stepped outside together, hand in hand.
::
New York City: April 18, 2011
“Do you have to flirt with every woman you encounter?” Sherlock’s voice demanded through the earpiece.
“Flirting works. You know that perfectly well.” He muttered, keeping his voice low and his lip movements minimal while casually concealing his face from the club at large.
“Certainly works for you.” Sherlock sniped. Neal was about to say something back when there was a muffled voice on the other end, clearly Dr. Watson’s, and while Neal couldn’t make out much of what he said, he thought he picked up on the words “Molly”, “morgue” and “Tesco’s girl”.
“That’s completely different.” Sherlock snapped, presumably at John. Again the voice, and then, “Because I don’t enjoy it.”
“Liar.” And that one he heard clearly, in John’s deceptively light voice. Neal snorted.
“Eyes on the prize, boys.” Peter admonished. Neal nodded slightly and squared his shoulders. Back to work. So far they’d found a ruby, two more flash drives, a hibiscus blossom (for some reason), a photograph from a closed case, but no coin.
“Next one.” He said. “Female, late thirties, doesn’t usually wear heels. Knock-out in an indigo dress.”
“Just take me to her, Casanova.”
“You flatter me, Locks.” He said. It came easily, comfortably, and he didn’t realise he’d said it until it was far, far too late.
There was silence through the earpiece, a tense silence.
“Sherlock, I...”
“Shut up. Just go lie through your teeth for a bit. It is what you’re best at.”
Neal fought the urge to hang his head. Instead, he stood erect, back straight, and strode off toward the next undercover agent to do what he did best.
::
Cambridge: February 23, 2000
“Are you okay?” Neal asked, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. The young man shuddered slightly and gripped Neal tighter. He was partially on top of Neal, his face buried in Neal’s collar bone and his right hand clutching Neal’s shoulder. They were both naked, concealed only by the sheets.
“I’m...yes. I, I think so.” His voice was thin, a little strained. “Did I, I mean, was I... okay?”
Neal laughed, and Sherlock tensed. “No, no, Sherlock. You were wonderful. Incredible.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re learning. You’re very good at that.”
Sherlock sighed and turned his face more fully to Neal’s chest, so Neal couldn’t see his eyes. “Sometimes I think you must hate me.” He confessed.
“Hate you? Why?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Because I’m taking so long. It’s been almost a month and I’m...” he turned his head back and pressed his lips together into a thin line. “I’m still a virgin.”
Neal huffed a laugh and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m fine, Sherlock. This is enough.”
“What, a mutual wank and some cuddling? That’s all it takes to satisfy you?” He sounded a bit snide, probably more insulting than he’d intended. Neal was still getting used to the occasional glimpses of a far more callous Sherlock, sarcastic and impatient and rude. He was growing to like it, which was typical. He’d always gone for the feisty girls, the ones with more than their share of bite. Why should this man be any different?
“For now? Yes. This is new territory for me, too.” He paused, and something clicked in his head. “It’s...not enough for you, is it?”
Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled onto his back. “I don’t know.” He groaned. “Sometimes it’s too much. Other times... dear God it’s like I’m starving. When we were-- I mean, just now, I thought I’d fall apart. But then it all sort of... fades and I feel, I don’t know. Empty, I guess.”
Neal shifted so he was laying on his side and propped himself up with an elbow, resting his head on his hand. “What do you want, Sherlock?”
Sherlock met his eyes and was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I want it to be over. All of this doubting and all the little panics. I just want to skip it and get to the part where it comes naturally.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I want to fall into bed with you. I’m tired of all the planning, the negotiations, always having to tell you I’m okay and...and when I’m not.”
Neal sighed. “Do you want to just...do it? Get it over with?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shrunk in on himself a little. Neal felt like a complete idiot, and he slapped his hand over his face as Sherlock turned away from him.
“I hate this.” Sherlock whispered. “Why am I so scared?”
“Well... it’s your body. It takes a lot to share it with someone.”
“It’s just a mass of chemicals, Neal, it’s not like it’s important.”
“Your brain is a mass of chemicals. Are you going to tell me that’s not important?”
Sherlock shifted round and glared at him. Neal smiled and toyed with one of the dark curls of Sherlock’s fringe. “It’s yours. Your body. No one else’s. That makes it important. It isn’t mine to take, it’s yours to give.”
“Are you scared?” Sherlock asked, barely above a whisper.
Neal nodded. “That’s how I know it matters. You’re not just a fling, Locks. You’re a big deal.”
Sherlock furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. “Locks?”
Neal shrugged and chuckled. “You hate ‘Shar’. And I love your hair. It seemed to fit.”
Sherlock rested his head on the pillow. “Locks.” He said to himself, seeming to taste the name, to test the feel of it on his tongue. He shrugged. “I don’t loathe it.”
Neal smiled. “Midnight locks and skin like pearls. You’re a fairy tale, Sherlock.”
Sherlock groaned and swatted him. “Stop that!” He chided, but he was smiling. “You really can’t turn that stupid inner poet off, can you?”
“Nope.” Neal confirmed.
“Christ, you’ll turn me into a girl if you keep that up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Neal smirked, pulling Sherlock into his arms and pressing him close, naked skin to naked skin. “Locks.”
::
New York City: April 18, 2011
“That’s it.” Sherlock said, his voice far more clipped than necessary, even to his own ears. “He’s got the coin.”
“Interesting theory, Walt. Never would’ve thought of it myself.” Neal said smoothely.
“Yes I’m bloody sure.” Sherlock snapped. “He has the coin. Prove me right and we can get the hell out of here.”
“Sherlock?” John asked. He’d been wearing his concerned face for the past half hour and it was driving Sherlock mad. He hated being coddled. He hated especially when John was the one trying to coddle him.
“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock snarled.
Neal stammered almost imperceptibly over the connection, but persisted in asking Walter Fallard if he had change for a hundred.
“No, sorry man.” Walter’s voice said, faint over the radio but still audible.
“Oh, well. Thanks anyway buddy. Hey, I’ll see you around, okay?” They parted like old friends, and when Neal was alone he said, “Yep. Liberty Silver Dollar. You got him. How’s our time?”
“Eight minutes to spare. Adequate. Good bye, Neal.”
“Sherlock, wait I’m--” But Sherlock didn’t bother to listen to the rest, he simply removed the headphones and flicked the switch to terminate the transmission.
“Sherlock.” John scolded.
“Shut up.”
John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “You have got to talk to him.” He said.
“I’d rather not. Therefore, I won’t.” Sherlock replied. He carefully moved to the door, taking pains not to bash his head against the low ceiling. He shoved against the door and all but collapsed out into open, breathable air.
John stayed in the van, glaring at the counter and massaging his brow. Sometimes John didn’t follow, and those were the times when Sherlock needed to be alone.
“Great job, Holmes.” Peter called, bounding toward him from the club. “That was a lot less painful than I thought it would be.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I take it we’re cleared for Hale’s meeting, then?”
Peter winced. “Well...”
“What?”
“It’s Neal. He’s...he can get a little...well, I guess you know. I think you distract him.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Neal loves being distracted. It’s what he lives for.”
Peter frowned, then glanced around. He looked through the open van doors to John, and something silent and unfathomable seemed to pass between them. John gave a little nod, and it made Sherlock’s heart lurch painfully, the phantom smell of chlorine in his nostrils and the phantom weight of a Browning in his hand. He felt strangely angry and annoyed that John could connect that way with someone who wasn’t him, that someone else could understand him the way Sherlock could.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because in the next instant Peter’s hand was on his arm and he was being dragged bodily away from the van. Peter pulled him forcefully down the sidewalk in into the meager shelter of one of Manhattan’s solitary standing trees, planted in a strategically positioned bit of ground amongst all the cement.
“Look,” said Peter. “I know...Neal made some mistakes in the past. He’s got his demons, just like everyone. But, he’s different, okay? I know him. You were together for two years, I chased him for three. We’ve been working together for two years now, and I can tell you he’s not the man he was.”
“Neither am I.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
Sherlock froze, and he stared at Peter, trying to see beneath his calm demeanor. He couldn’t see anything, either because Peter Burke was exceptionally good at concealing his motives, or because there really was nothing more to see.
“What did he tell you?”
“Neal tells me a lot of things, only half of which I understand. The other half I generally wish I didn’t understand. But I know this: Neal doesn’t do half-assed relationships. When he loves someone, he loves them with all he’s got. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what he goes through when things go bad.”
“Kate.” Sherlock said, before he could stop himself.
“He’s still hurting, Mr. Holmes. He’s still mourning her. Please, if any part of you still gives a damn about him, please don’t hurt him more than he is already.”
Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the tree. He couldn’t bring himself to look Peter in the eye.
“Talk to him. Just talk. You’ve got two days left before we go after Hale. Just...just deal with whatever it is you two need to deal with, okay?”
“Why do you care so much?” Sherlock demanded.
Peter smiled. “Because Neal Caffrey is probably my best friend, next to my wife. And I love the smug bastard. You should understand. You’ve got John,” he nodded to the van. “Neal’s got me. What would John do in my place?”
Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. “It would probably involve his fists.”
Peter snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m a bit too official to get away with that. Besides, I’m sure John would kill me if I laid a hand on you.”
“True.”
“Think about it, okay? There’s no point dragging the past with you.”
“I’ll think about it.” Sherlock said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it.
“Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make sure he doesn’t get sloshed while he mopes over you.”
Sherlock couldn’t tell if Peter was joking, so he didn’t smile. Instead he watched Peter stride off toward the club and made his way back to the van, where John was waiting.
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.
Beta'd by slashfairy . I couldn't do without her.
We Were Never Forever
Chapter Seven
New York City: April 18, 2011
The van stunk. There was nothing else you could say about it. It stunk. It reeked. It oozed with the odors of sweat, bad breath and ancient take-out orders. There was congealed soy sauce on one corner of the shallow ledge holding all the monitors and receivers. Sherlock thought he was going to be sick.
“This is brilliant!” John beamed, gazing around the van’s interior as though it were an exibit at the Smithsonian or something. “We’re in the Van. The actual bloody Van. Sherlock this is amazing!”
“No it’s not.” Sherlock said, trying not to breathe through his nose.
“Oh, come on. FBI stake-out. Us in the Van. Operative in the field. How can you not be loving this?”
Sherlock peered at him, his head swimming with the fumes. “Have you met me?”
John rolled his eyes. “Right, sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
The door at the rear of the vehicle jerked open, and Peter appeared, hefting himself up onto the manky carpeting.
“Okay, fellas. Dry run.” He said, maneuvering himself into the seat beside Sherlock’s. “Practice makes perfect, so we’re gonna test how well you and Neal work in the field.”
“I am perfectly capable of separating my personal opinions from my professional endeavours, Agent Burke.” Sherlock sniped.
“Sherlock, he’s a Special Agent, at least try to lie convincingly.” John teased. Sherlock glared at him.
Peter smirked. “And that, Dr. Watson, is exactly why you’re here. I’m thinking Myles had the right idea sending the matched set.”
“Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered. “My brother’s name is Mycroft. Not Myles.”
Peter shrugged. “Whatever.” He passed a pair of exceedingly large and out-dated headphones to Sherlock, who sneered at them before gingerly slipping them over his ears. They were tight, noise-canceling, and they pinched his hair. He frowned, and glanced at John, who flashed him a concerned look. Sherlock shook his head and took a deep breath. He removed one of the cups, the one surrounding his left ear, closest to John, and sound returned. He relaxed.
“I’ll be in the club with Neal, monitoring his progress. We’ll all be in radio contact, I’ll relay your objective once I’m inside, then it’s up to you and Neal to achieve it. You’ll have one hour. Good luck.” He hopped down from the van and closed the door behind him. The stink returned.
“All right?” John asked quietly as soon as they were alone.
Sherlock nodded and smiled tightly. Sensory deprivation, while rewarding in a controlled environment, always made him feel uncomfortable if not on his terms.
John’s hand slid carefully over Sherlock’s, his fingers settling into the spaces between Sherlock’s own. Sherlock didn’t pull away, but he didn’t turn his hand over to lace their fingers together either. He let John comfort him, and forced himself not to think back on all the times Neal had done the same.
“Moon river, wider than a mile” Oh, speak of the devil.
“That was a cheap shot.” Sherlock grumbled.
“Oh come on, Sherlock. You’ve gotta admit it’s better than ‘testing, 1 2 3’.”
“Most things would be.”
“Besides, I remember you crying at--”
“Shut up, Neal!” Sherlock snapped.
John furrowed his brow and flipped the switch that would pipe the radio signal through the speakers as well as Sherlock’s headphones.
“What was that? Dr. Watson listening in?”
“Yes. I’d be very careful if I were you. He’s a lethal man.”
“He would be.”
“Alright, boys, can we please at least attempt to keep this professional?” Peter’s voice chimed in. “Stand by for mission objective.”
“Peter, I love it when you take charge like that.” Neal teased.
“Shut it, Neal. I still haven’t told June what happened to her orchids.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a look, and both of them had to fight back snorts of laughter. John waggled his finger sternly and mouthed “not your housekeeper”, and Sherlock had to slap a hand over his mouth to hold back the giggling.
“Fine, fine. What do we have to do here?”
Sherlock slid the left cup back over his ear, shutting out all sound save for the radio transmission. Time to focus.
“Okay boys, this is a double-blind. We have a number of agents in the club, each one of them has something concealed on their person. They don’t know which of them you’re looking for, you don’t know which of them has what you want. Neal can spot an undercover agent on his own, it’ll be up to Sherlock to determine which undercover agent is holding your objective.”
“Straightforward, if a bit dull.” John swatted Sherlock’s arm lightly. He ignored it.
“Okay, what’s our objective?”
“You’re looking for a coin. A Liberty Silver Dollar. Find the agent with the coin in less than an hour, and you’re ready to take on Hale come Thursday.”
“Okay.” Said Neal. “Ready on the floor.”
“Ready in the van.” Sherlock added. John beamed at him. Sherlock smiled tightly in return.
“I’m going in.” Neal said, and there was a soft clicking sound, then the diluted sounds of laughter, conversation and clinking glass filtered through the headphones. Sherlock focused his attention on the sounds he could make out, and waited.
“Got one. Male, mid forties, suit’s a bit too big for him. Full head of hair, but he’s going gray and he knows it. Wait...isn’t that Jenks?”
“Neal, focus. And now I definitely regret letting you crash the office Christmas party.”
“Yep. Definitely Jenks. Good man with a lawn dart, that guy.”
“Neal!”
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll behave.”
“That’ll be a first.” Sherlock snorted. John slapped him again, this time it hurt. He rubbed his arm and glowered at his flatmate. “Take me to him.”
“Can do.” Neal was silent for a moment, then his voice returned, jovial and dripping with charm. “Jenks, right? From the Christmas party? You hooked up with that blonde from IT, right?”
“Right! Neal Caffrey, man. Good to see you again.”
It went downhill from there. Sherlock listened dutifully, but really it was the worst kind of busywork. He tried to pass the time by counting all the pop culture references, highlighting the ones he didn’t recognise, but that was a bit uncomfortable in the circumstances so instead he turned his attention to trying to place the man’s origin by his accent, something remarkably more difficult to do in America, where the accent tends toward homogenization in urban centers.
Then, yes, he had it. “Ask him for the time. Pay attention to his watch.”
Neal followed Sherlock’s lead, then parted with Agent Jenks graciously.
“You were right. Concealed flash drive in his digital watch. Nice work.”
“How?” John demanded. Sherlock couldn’t hear him, but John always made the same scrunched up, disbelieving face when he asked that question. Sherlock removed the left headphone.
“He’s in his forties, generally an age range not entirely at home with modern technology. His speech patterns support that, he’s less conservative with his words, not someone accustomed to condensing his thoughts to fit a restrictive medium like texting or twitter. A man like that doesn’t harp on technology unless he’s been recently confronted with it, but Jenks couldn’t shut up about it. He kept rubbing his arm or his wrist, I heard the movement of his sleeve. So, technology, very modern, something on his arm, a watch then, but not just a watch, something sophisticated, something like...this:” He rapidly navigated his phone until he found what he was looking for, then showed it to John. It was an advertisement for the kind of digital watch Neal had described on a technology website.
“You did all that just by listening to him?” Peter demanded.
“He does that.” John said, leaning over to talk into Sherlock’s microphone.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We still haven’t found the coin.” He pointed out. “Can we please get on with it?”
::
Cambridge: February 16, 2000
“Are you ready for this?” Neal asked. “There’s still time to change your mind.” He stroked the backs of his fingers along Sherlock’s cheek, leaving tingling heat trails in his wake. Sherlock grabbed Neal’s hand in his own and pressed a kiss to Neal’s palm.
“I’m ready.” He said, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “I’m-- I want this, Neal. I think it’s time.”
Neal let out a long breath. “Christ, Sherlock. You just dive right in, don’t you?”
Sherlock nodded. “Please, Neal. You’re important to me. This, between us, this is important.” He swallowed again. “But if you’re not up for it--”
“No, no, I’m ready. I can handle it, trust me.” He pulled Sherlock into a brief, chaste kiss, then ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head into the touch.
“Okay.” Said Neal. “Let’s do it.”
Sherlock blinked, and shot a glance at the door. He felt so comfortable, so safe surrounded by the acids, bases, compounds and glassware of the chemistry lab. Just beyond that door, though, lie something else entirely. Something daunting.
He squared his shoulders and, resolute, laced the fingers of his right hand through those of Neal’s left. Neal’s grip was warm and steady.
“You’re my...” Sherlock stumbled a bit over the word, but he managed it. “Boyfriend.” He felt a flutter in his stomach, something bright and giddy. “I won’t keep you a secret.”
Neal just smiled and put a hand on the door handle. A twist, a push, and they stepped outside together, hand in hand.
::
New York City: April 18, 2011
“Do you have to flirt with every woman you encounter?” Sherlock’s voice demanded through the earpiece.
“Flirting works. You know that perfectly well.” He muttered, keeping his voice low and his lip movements minimal while casually concealing his face from the club at large.
“Certainly works for you.” Sherlock sniped. Neal was about to say something back when there was a muffled voice on the other end, clearly Dr. Watson’s, and while Neal couldn’t make out much of what he said, he thought he picked up on the words “Molly”, “morgue” and “Tesco’s girl”.
“That’s completely different.” Sherlock snapped, presumably at John. Again the voice, and then, “Because I don’t enjoy it.”
“Liar.” And that one he heard clearly, in John’s deceptively light voice. Neal snorted.
“Eyes on the prize, boys.” Peter admonished. Neal nodded slightly and squared his shoulders. Back to work. So far they’d found a ruby, two more flash drives, a hibiscus blossom (for some reason), a photograph from a closed case, but no coin.
“Next one.” He said. “Female, late thirties, doesn’t usually wear heels. Knock-out in an indigo dress.”
“Just take me to her, Casanova.”
“You flatter me, Locks.” He said. It came easily, comfortably, and he didn’t realise he’d said it until it was far, far too late.
There was silence through the earpiece, a tense silence.
“Sherlock, I...”
“Shut up. Just go lie through your teeth for a bit. It is what you’re best at.”
Neal fought the urge to hang his head. Instead, he stood erect, back straight, and strode off toward the next undercover agent to do what he did best.
::
Cambridge: February 23, 2000
“Are you okay?” Neal asked, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. The young man shuddered slightly and gripped Neal tighter. He was partially on top of Neal, his face buried in Neal’s collar bone and his right hand clutching Neal’s shoulder. They were both naked, concealed only by the sheets.
“I’m...yes. I, I think so.” His voice was thin, a little strained. “Did I, I mean, was I... okay?”
Neal laughed, and Sherlock tensed. “No, no, Sherlock. You were wonderful. Incredible.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re learning. You’re very good at that.”
Sherlock sighed and turned his face more fully to Neal’s chest, so Neal couldn’t see his eyes. “Sometimes I think you must hate me.” He confessed.
“Hate you? Why?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Because I’m taking so long. It’s been almost a month and I’m...” he turned his head back and pressed his lips together into a thin line. “I’m still a virgin.”
Neal huffed a laugh and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m fine, Sherlock. This is enough.”
“What, a mutual wank and some cuddling? That’s all it takes to satisfy you?” He sounded a bit snide, probably more insulting than he’d intended. Neal was still getting used to the occasional glimpses of a far more callous Sherlock, sarcastic and impatient and rude. He was growing to like it, which was typical. He’d always gone for the feisty girls, the ones with more than their share of bite. Why should this man be any different?
“For now? Yes. This is new territory for me, too.” He paused, and something clicked in his head. “It’s...not enough for you, is it?”
Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled onto his back. “I don’t know.” He groaned. “Sometimes it’s too much. Other times... dear God it’s like I’m starving. When we were-- I mean, just now, I thought I’d fall apart. But then it all sort of... fades and I feel, I don’t know. Empty, I guess.”
Neal shifted so he was laying on his side and propped himself up with an elbow, resting his head on his hand. “What do you want, Sherlock?”
Sherlock met his eyes and was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I want it to be over. All of this doubting and all the little panics. I just want to skip it and get to the part where it comes naturally.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I want to fall into bed with you. I’m tired of all the planning, the negotiations, always having to tell you I’m okay and...and when I’m not.”
Neal sighed. “Do you want to just...do it? Get it over with?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shrunk in on himself a little. Neal felt like a complete idiot, and he slapped his hand over his face as Sherlock turned away from him.
“I hate this.” Sherlock whispered. “Why am I so scared?”
“Well... it’s your body. It takes a lot to share it with someone.”
“It’s just a mass of chemicals, Neal, it’s not like it’s important.”
“Your brain is a mass of chemicals. Are you going to tell me that’s not important?”
Sherlock shifted round and glared at him. Neal smiled and toyed with one of the dark curls of Sherlock’s fringe. “It’s yours. Your body. No one else’s. That makes it important. It isn’t mine to take, it’s yours to give.”
“Are you scared?” Sherlock asked, barely above a whisper.
Neal nodded. “That’s how I know it matters. You’re not just a fling, Locks. You’re a big deal.”
Sherlock furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. “Locks?”
Neal shrugged and chuckled. “You hate ‘Shar’. And I love your hair. It seemed to fit.”
Sherlock rested his head on the pillow. “Locks.” He said to himself, seeming to taste the name, to test the feel of it on his tongue. He shrugged. “I don’t loathe it.”
Neal smiled. “Midnight locks and skin like pearls. You’re a fairy tale, Sherlock.”
Sherlock groaned and swatted him. “Stop that!” He chided, but he was smiling. “You really can’t turn that stupid inner poet off, can you?”
“Nope.” Neal confirmed.
“Christ, you’ll turn me into a girl if you keep that up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Neal smirked, pulling Sherlock into his arms and pressing him close, naked skin to naked skin. “Locks.”
::
New York City: April 18, 2011
“That’s it.” Sherlock said, his voice far more clipped than necessary, even to his own ears. “He’s got the coin.”
“Interesting theory, Walt. Never would’ve thought of it myself.” Neal said smoothely.
“Yes I’m bloody sure.” Sherlock snapped. “He has the coin. Prove me right and we can get the hell out of here.”
“Sherlock?” John asked. He’d been wearing his concerned face for the past half hour and it was driving Sherlock mad. He hated being coddled. He hated especially when John was the one trying to coddle him.
“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock snarled.
Neal stammered almost imperceptibly over the connection, but persisted in asking Walter Fallard if he had change for a hundred.
“No, sorry man.” Walter’s voice said, faint over the radio but still audible.
“Oh, well. Thanks anyway buddy. Hey, I’ll see you around, okay?” They parted like old friends, and when Neal was alone he said, “Yep. Liberty Silver Dollar. You got him. How’s our time?”
“Eight minutes to spare. Adequate. Good bye, Neal.”
“Sherlock, wait I’m--” But Sherlock didn’t bother to listen to the rest, he simply removed the headphones and flicked the switch to terminate the transmission.
“Sherlock.” John scolded.
“Shut up.”
John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “You have got to talk to him.” He said.
“I’d rather not. Therefore, I won’t.” Sherlock replied. He carefully moved to the door, taking pains not to bash his head against the low ceiling. He shoved against the door and all but collapsed out into open, breathable air.
John stayed in the van, glaring at the counter and massaging his brow. Sometimes John didn’t follow, and those were the times when Sherlock needed to be alone.
“Great job, Holmes.” Peter called, bounding toward him from the club. “That was a lot less painful than I thought it would be.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I take it we’re cleared for Hale’s meeting, then?”
Peter winced. “Well...”
“What?”
“It’s Neal. He’s...he can get a little...well, I guess you know. I think you distract him.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Neal loves being distracted. It’s what he lives for.”
Peter frowned, then glanced around. He looked through the open van doors to John, and something silent and unfathomable seemed to pass between them. John gave a little nod, and it made Sherlock’s heart lurch painfully, the phantom smell of chlorine in his nostrils and the phantom weight of a Browning in his hand. He felt strangely angry and annoyed that John could connect that way with someone who wasn’t him, that someone else could understand him the way Sherlock could.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because in the next instant Peter’s hand was on his arm and he was being dragged bodily away from the van. Peter pulled him forcefully down the sidewalk in into the meager shelter of one of Manhattan’s solitary standing trees, planted in a strategically positioned bit of ground amongst all the cement.
“Look,” said Peter. “I know...Neal made some mistakes in the past. He’s got his demons, just like everyone. But, he’s different, okay? I know him. You were together for two years, I chased him for three. We’ve been working together for two years now, and I can tell you he’s not the man he was.”
“Neither am I.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
Sherlock froze, and he stared at Peter, trying to see beneath his calm demeanor. He couldn’t see anything, either because Peter Burke was exceptionally good at concealing his motives, or because there really was nothing more to see.
“What did he tell you?”
“Neal tells me a lot of things, only half of which I understand. The other half I generally wish I didn’t understand. But I know this: Neal doesn’t do half-assed relationships. When he loves someone, he loves them with all he’s got. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what he goes through when things go bad.”
“Kate.” Sherlock said, before he could stop himself.
“He’s still hurting, Mr. Holmes. He’s still mourning her. Please, if any part of you still gives a damn about him, please don’t hurt him more than he is already.”
Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the tree. He couldn’t bring himself to look Peter in the eye.
“Talk to him. Just talk. You’ve got two days left before we go after Hale. Just...just deal with whatever it is you two need to deal with, okay?”
“Why do you care so much?” Sherlock demanded.
Peter smiled. “Because Neal Caffrey is probably my best friend, next to my wife. And I love the smug bastard. You should understand. You’ve got John,” he nodded to the van. “Neal’s got me. What would John do in my place?”
Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. “It would probably involve his fists.”
Peter snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m a bit too official to get away with that. Besides, I’m sure John would kill me if I laid a hand on you.”
“True.”
“Think about it, okay? There’s no point dragging the past with you.”
“I’ll think about it.” Sherlock said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it.
“Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make sure he doesn’t get sloshed while he mopes over you.”
Sherlock couldn’t tell if Peter was joking, so he didn’t smile. Instead he watched Peter stride off toward the club and made his way back to the van, where John was waiting.