Fic: We Were Never Forever: Chapter One
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 amazing.
We Were Never Forever
OneLondon: April 14, 2011
"Bit nippy for April, isn't it?" John commented blandly, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's mile-wide-stride.
"Tedious, John. You're slipping."
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was in a right strop this morning, his face as warm and affectionate as a thundercloud. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm afraid my best mate repertoire doesn't cover sibling blackmail."
"Really? After a year or more one would think you'd have acquired sufficient experience in the matter."
John shook his head. "Yeah, well, you're usually so good at getting out of it."
"Not this time."
"Why is that, again?"
Sherlock let out a noise halfway between a whimper and a groan. "Don't make me say it, John!"
"Say what? It's not my fault my tiny, feeble brain can't hold vital information for a prolonged length of time."
"I already apologized for that!"
John smirked. "You took the skull out of the bathroom. That's not an apology, that's deflecting."
"But the humidity-"
"Save it, Sherlock. There's only one thing I want to hear from you, and you know exactly what it is." He was all but crowing.
Sherlock grimaced and actually stamped his foot, petulantly. "Must I?"
John nodded. "You must."
Sherlock grumbled and pouted, then gave a resigned sigh. "Mycroft saved my life. I'm in his debt."
"And...?" John needled.
Sherlock deflated. "And...without him I would have lost you. There, I said it, are we done?"
John beamed, wickedly. "Ask me again in four hours."
Sherlock groaned.
::
New York City: April 15, 2011
"Again with the fingers!" Neal hissed. Beside him, Peter smirked.
"Better see what they want."
"It's the London thing. Has to be the London thing." Neal commented, striding alongside Peter to the glass-enclosed conference room.
"What have I told you about snooping in my files?" Peter scolded. Neal preened. Peter was so cute when he was all stern.
"I didn't snoop. Elizabeth told me."
"Why would she tell you?" Peter asked, but they had reached the glass door, behind which stood a scowling Hughes.
"I'll tell you later."
They pushed into the room, Peter immediately accepting a cup of imitation coffee from one of the aids and Neal leaning apathetically against the wall. He didn't take off his hat.
"We've just recieved word. They're sending a consultant." Hughes huffed without preamble. Neal perked up. Another consultant?
"Who is, Interpol?" Peter demanded. Diana handed him a file, which he perused absently while sipping his coffee. Neal didn't miss the flicker of a grimace on his face and had to force back a smirk. He'd get Peter converted to genuine, quality coffee yet. Turkish maybe. Or an Italian blend.
Hughes shook his head. "Nope. Apparently this isn't officially an international matter."
Jones snorted. "You're kidding. They're smuggling overseas, how is that not international?"
"British government doesn't want to seek the cooperation of Interpol. Apparently this case has been upgraded, a threat to national security. England wants as few eyes on the evidence as possible. That's why it's down to the task force, and whoever this guy is they're sending."
"Guys." Diana corrected. "There's an invoice here for two first-class seats." She brandished yet another file folder. Neal was beginning to wonder if he could wall-paper Peter's rec room with the things. He probably could. Elizabeth would kill him, though.
"How is it national security?" Peter demanded.
Hughes sighed, weariness evident in every line of his face. "They've uncovered evidence on their side of a deeper operation. Apparently we have reason to believe that British state secrets are being smuggled underneath the artwork and gems. Now, we know they're peddling a fortune in antiquities, diamonds and enough forgeries to make Caffrey blush-"
"Allegedly." Neal interrupted. Hughes ignored him.
"It's not much of a stretch to imagine our own secrets might be making their way overseas as well. But until we have confirmation, we've been requested to refrain from bringing in the DHS. Like I said, minimum personnel only."
"So why us? Or, more specifically, why me? I'm not exactly a secure asset." Neal remarked.
Hughes actually winced. "Our contact with the British government requested your involvement as part of the deal. He says your record speaks for itself, and he hopes that your skills can help bring the investigation to a close as quickly as possible."
Something in the cadence and delivery of that last part sat wrong wtih Neal. It wasn't Hughes talking, it was a quote. A quote with the sort of phrasing and smug arrogance that made something in his shoulders twitch. It was familiar, and terrifying.
"Who's your contact?" He asked, forcing nonchalance into his voice.
Peter tilted his head, thinking out loud. "Mike something. Or maybe Michell. Or Myles. Something with My in it-"
"Mycroft?" Neal asked, too quickly. Dammit. Keep your cool Caffrey.
"That's it." Hughes confirmed, peering intently at the CI. "Mycroft Holmes. You know him?"
Neal gulped. Oh. Oh merciless shit. "We've met." He hedged. "He...doesn't like me much."
Jones snorted. Hughes smirked. Peter just shook his head. "And yet he's requesting you by name."
Neal shrugged. "Mycroft is nothing if not practical." And arrogant. And ruthless. And smug. And cold. And the single most dangerous man Neal had ever encountered, and that had been when the man was just an MP. Last he knew, and he did keep track, Mycroft Holmes was, essentially, the British government itself.
A thought occured to Neal, wriggling at long last past the barriers he'd erected in his head to keep it out. He wouldn't. Mycroft wouldn't. The man was cruel and vindictive, yes, but even he wouldn't got that far.
Please?
A wave of panic began to rise in Neal's chest, because he would. He absolutely would. It would be fun for him! He'd sit back in his plush, mahogany office and laugh himself sick at the way Neal danced at the end of his puppet strings. It would be the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?
He forced his terror down, locking it away behind a smooth, carefree expression. "So, Peter, what do we got?"
Peter smiled, itching to get into the work. He set down the file Diana had given him and jabbed at the picture clipped to the papers. It showed a lean, handsome man, middle-aged and meticulously dressed.
"We have Desmond Hale, British aristocrat with dual citizenship for the US and the United Kingdom. Lives half the year here in New York, spends the other half in his estate in Kensington. He owns three export companies, all of which have passed every international trade inspection with flying colors. Squeaky clean, according to the paperwork."
"But?" Neal pressed.
"But." Diana chimed in. "Last year one of his accountants went on record with an irregularity in the books. Nothing major, just a few extra crates that weren't on the manifest. It didn't even register as a blip on the radar with any shipping authority, and nothing came of it. Even so, the accountant went missing a week later."
Neal nodded. "Liability."
"We smelled a rat." Hughes continued. "But we could never get Hale on anything. Couldn't connect him to any illegal activity."
"So how do you know he's in with the smuggling ring?" Neal demanded.
Jones scowled. "We didn't. Britain did. Somehow they managed to find documentation that puts Hale in the vicinity of a known smuggling operation, but there's nothing concrete enough to hold him."
Peter picked up the train, piecing together what he did know with what he didn't and finding his conclusion. "So we need to get proof that Hale's involved with the ring, and get evidence of them smuggling state secrets, all without alerting any intelligence organizations or starting an international incident." He shook his head. "Can't be done."
"According to Mr. Holmes, it can." Hughes countered. "If we do everything his consultant says, that is."
"And who is this consultant he's so confident about?" Peter demanded.
But Neal already knew. He could feel it, even before he heard the door opening, even before he caught a glipse out of the corner of his eye of that familiar, brazen stride. He was barely aware of Hughes talking as he turned his body, shifting to see more clearly the long, lithe body, the chaotic black hair, the piercing nickel eyes.
"Says here he's an independant operator, based in London. According to this his name is-"
"Sherlock." Neal breathed, his voice soft and his eyes locked on the man he never thought he'd see again.
::
Hughes, Diana and Jones filed out of the conference room to intercept the Englishman. Neal noticed for the first time that there was another man, short in stature but solidly built, with sandy blond hair just beginning to tinge gray, walking beside Sherlock. That sent something dangerously close to a pang through Neal's chest.
Peter moved to follow his cohorts, but froze when he noticed Neal hadn't moved.
"Neal? What are you waiting for?" He asked.
Neal just shook his head. "I can't, Peter. I can't go out there."
Peter narrowed his eyes and studied Neal in that disconcerting, clinical way of his. "Neal, what's going on?"
Neal swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Did you know that before I moved to New York nine years ago, I lived in England?"
Peter blinked. "Um...yeah, I think I read that somewhere. You never talked about it, so I guess I just, I don't know, dismissed it."
Neal nodded. "For two years. 2000 and 2001."
Peter shrugged. "Okay, so? What does that have to do with this?"
Neal nodded to the pale, elegant man in the bull pen. "Meet the reason why."
Peter's eyes followed Neal's gaze, and he could see the connections forming in the agent's brain. It took all of six seconds for Peter to come to a conclusion, and another four to convince himeself it was, indeed, the right one.
"You- you mean you? And, and him?" Peter stammered. His eyes kept flicking between Neal and Sherlock, who was currently smarming his way through the introductions, the mystery man hovering very, very close to him. Even knowing the Briton as he did, Neal still had a hard time locating the concealed contempt Sherlock was actually feeling.
"The suit is new. And he used to have short hair. I don't know the other guy, Sherlock doesn't exactly make friends easily. But, yeah. That's him. That's the ex I never intended to tell you about."
Peter was shifting uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck and huffing into his cheeks. "Oh. Oh, wow. Um...okay. Yeah, that's...that's great. Neal. Um...I, I guess I just never, ahem, pegged you for the-for the..."
Neal smiled crookedly. "I'm not gay, Peter." He said.
Peter looked up at him, still fidgeting nervously. "Oh. Um..."
Neal shook his head. "I mean it. Really. Sherlock was and is the only man I have ever-"
"Yeah, yeah, okay. I mean, I don't have a problem with it or anything. Diana is-"
"A lesbian." Neal finished. "Which is always easier for men to accept than a gay man. But I am not gay. Sherlock is part of my past, when I was still figuring out who I was. I've never been with another man since him, and I'd never been with one before him." He paused, feeling as though he should stand up for his younger self. "But I don't regret him. And I don't deny that part of myself. It took a long time to come to grips with it, but I know who I am and I'm good with it."
Peter nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Me...me too. Um...two years?"
Neal shrugged. "I was in love. I thought I was, anyway. It didn't end well."
It was only a matter of time, he knew. Not for the first time, he cursed the architect who decided to forgo opaque walls for the conference room. Sherlock's attention was focused on Diana at the moment, but Neal could see his gaze flickering methodically around the room whenever he got the chance. It might take him a moment to add the years, to look past the hat and the suit and see the man he'd once clung to amidst sweat-soaked sheets and cool, shadowy darkness. They'd been barely more than boys then, but the sight of Sherlock brought the memories up to the surface where they danced along Neal's skin. Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's scent. Sherlock's voice...
Sherlock's hate.
It was coming. He couldn't escape it, so he had to face it. Part of him held the faint hope that Sherlock had deleted him after they broke up, but he knew better. Sherlock never deleted his anger. He held it, incorporated it into himself and used its heat to forge a new plate of armor around his heart. Neal had spent months chipping away at that armor, only to re-forge it, stronger than ever in the end.
So he took a deep breath, put his hands casually in his pockets and nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding out to stand at the top of the stairs.
"Sherlock Holmes." He called, and the man's head snapped up, taking Neal in. It all happened in less than a second, the assesment, the recognition, the shock, the pain, the fury and then the pure, blank calm. Neal clutched his hands into fists inside his pockets to keep them from shaking, and forced his voice to come out smooth.
"It's been a while."
::
Dull. Boring. So endlessly monotonous. Ooh! That was a good one, he hadn't used that one in a while. He made a note to work it into the conversation next time he was complaining at John. But not now. Now he had to be charming and functional and normal. John had made him promise, and he needed these Yanks to work with him if he was going to get this tedius case out of the way and back to England.
He hated New York. It was too bright and too hot and too loud. It tried too hard. Not like London, secure in its own history and import, not bothering with the endless flash.
Well, okay there was the gherkin, but Sherlock chalked that one up to the zeitgeist.
Oh, but he was getting distracted. Not that there was much worth paying attention to, anyway. All of these people were the same. Law-enforcement, noble, dedicated. Thre was one lesbian currently having problems with her long-time girlfriend, and the old man was almost a textbook example of stress-related heart disease, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before.
Even so, something was nagging at the back of his mind. He found himself standing just a little bit closer to John than strictly necessary. He wanted to look around the place, but social niceities forced him to keep his gaze locked on the FBI agents currently invading his personal space. He settled for flicking his eyes around whenever their attention was distracted.
He should have looked at the conference room first. He probably had, and had simply deleted the information instantaneously, in a subconcious act of self-defense. If that was the case, it had certainly backfired, because he had no way to prepare for the sight awaiting him at the top of those stairs.
"Sherlock Holmes." The voice was smooth, cool and more than a little smug. It was almost like Sebastian's greeting at the bank, that Black Lotus case. Only this voice was also fond, and a little apprehensive, and so painfully familiar.
Sherlock jerked his attention to the voice, and the world froze. He could no longer feel the reassuring warmth of John's body close by, or see the painfully polite faces of the agents he would be forced to work with. All he saw were intense blue eyes, a jauntily tilted fedora, an exquisitely fitted suit, slightly more flashy than what he himself wore, and that familiar swoop of artfully mussed hair.
Neal.
Neal. Sodding. Caffrey.
In that heartbeat that lasted a lifetime, Sherlock was assaulted by memories, old emotions, ancient hurt. He was going to bloody kill Mycroft! This went so far beyond fair play! He struggled to suppress the sense memories of Neal. Neal smiling at him. Neal painting him. Neal soothing him. Neal inside of him.
Neal leaving him.
But time was about to come crashing back, so Sherlock forced himself into a blank state of calm, at least outwardly. Inwardly, he couldn't shake the phantom sensations of Neal's hands, his lips, his body pressed against Sherlock's own. No! Dammit! That was ten years ago! It was over, beyond over! Neal was nothing to him now. He had the Work now, and Neal had never been half so fulfilling.
"It's been a while."
Sherlock forced a professional smile, and slipped his voice into a businesslike cadence.
"Neal Caffrey. I was under the impression you'd been arrested."
Neal smirked, and that too-familiar quirk of his lips sent a bolt of heat straight to Sherlock's groin. He ignored it, and watched clinically as Neal sauntered down the steps like they were connected to the stage of a 1940's night club.
"You were right. I was. I'm out now. I consult for the FBI."
Sherlock took him in, noting absolutely everything. He siezed on the tracking anklet, ready to tear into Neal with his status as a caged bird, but what came out was something altogether different.
"I heard about Kate."
Shit. Shit! Why had he said that? How could he say that? He shouldn't even know about Kate.
Neal smiled, a sadder smile than Sherlock could remember ever seeing before. "It's okay. You don't have to pretend you're sorry."
Sherlock shrugged, taking the opportunity to regain his aloof detachment. "I never said I was."
A jab in his ribs. John. Suddenly he was aware of the wide-eyed stares fixed on the pair of them, growing more and more intent as Neal walked closer. He didn't blush, but it was a near thing.
"You look good." Neal offered. Sherlock fought back the urge to sneer.
"Yes, well. I clean up fairly well." The implication was plain, and he knew Neal got it. He was clean. Clean and functional and successful, all without Neal sodding Caffrey's help.
"You do at that." Neal commented, and Sherlock wanted desperately to hate him and his smug, cocky attitude. But it was hard! So hard when Neal's voice was still barely more than a whisper, when his every word sounded like a soft-spoken declaration murmured delicately into the shell of Sherlock's ear. He felt his knees begin to slack as the heat in his belly spread to his limbs, and he struggled to remain upright. It wasn't fair! It was wrong that Neal could still do this to him! He was irrelevant!
At that moment, a man in his mid to late forties, athletically built and looking young for his age (though Sherlock was never fooled), came up behind Neal. He stood close, well within Neal's personal space, what little he had, but carried himself with none of the tension or posessiveness of a lover. There was a ring on his left hand, it gleamed in the lighting and was well worn, hints of milky skin underneath where the sun never touched his finger. Happily married, then. Not Neal's new lover, but definitely a friend. And Neal had always been so good at making friends. He'd gotten Sherlock, after all. He'd gotten all of Sherlock.
The agent beside Neal introduced himself as Peter Burke, and Sherlock was impressed at John's ability not to snort at the name. Within seconds, it became apparent to Sherlock just who this Burke character was.
Ah. He thought, directing his mental voice to Neal. You've got yourself a Watson.
"Sherlock Holmes." He responded taking Burke's hand. "Consulting detective. This is my friend and colleague Dr John Watson." John and Peter exchanged a handshake, and John hesitated a breath before offering the same to Neal.
"Neal, John. John, Neal." Sherlock rattled off dismissively.
"Sorry, you know each other?" John was practically chomping at the bit, Sherlock knew. The doctor would give his eyeteeth to delve into Sherlock's secret and hidden past. Sherlock let his gaze flicker up to Neal, and he forced himself to ignore the surge of heat in his abdomen.
"You could say that." He kept his voice cold. Colder even than when he'd introduced John to Mycroft, and oh, was Mycroft going to regret this "favour" when he got back.
"Oh, Sherlock and I go way back." Neal chirped, crossing his arms over his chest. The flush creeping over Agent Burke's face told Sherlock with a pang of fury that the man knew. Neal had told him. The thought chilled him. Would he tell John? Could he? Oh, God. Would Neal? Right now?
"Ah. An enemy." John supplied. Of course, Sherlock heaved an inward sigh of relief. John knew full well that Sherlock didn't have friends, and since Sherlock had mentioned Neal's arrest...
"Not. Exactly." Neal contradicted. Sherlock wanted to groan. More, he wanted to strangle Neal. Wanted to push him down onto the floor and pound his fists into that gorgeous, careless face until it was a seething mass of bruises and blood.
He didn't. Of course he didn't. Sherlock was a master of self-control when he needed to be. Even so, his whole body went several degrees cooler at John's perplexed, suspicious face.
Peter cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. Ah, so the news was recent. Neal hadn't told Peter until after he'd seen Sherlock in the bull pen. He wondered when Neal had become all about full disclosure. Odd for a man who played everything so close to the vest.
"Um, it's nice to meet you both." He was struggling visibly to maintain his professionalism.
Sherlock offered him a carefully crafted smile. "Likewise. If you'll just give me the reports, Dr Watson and I will be on our way. I'd really rather not attend a briefing with jet lag." Preposterous, really. Jet lag was like any other bodily weakness, irrelevant. But John would be grumpy over his, and Sherlock was desperate to get as far away from Neal as possible.
"Of course. Naturally. Um, just follow me." Sherlock did, even though every cell of his body was desperate to hang back, to keep John and Neal separate or at least supervised. But he couldn't, and John was making no move to follow him and Special Agent Burke. At the door to the conference room, Sherlock risked a look back at Neal and John. The former criminal was leaning too close to John, talking softly. John's face was getting redder and more and more astonished. John kept looking up at Sherlock in pure disbelief.
Damn you to hell, Neal Caffrey!
::
Neal tracked Sherlock's departure with his eyes, keeping his face turned toward John Watson. Sherlock was just a bit taller than Neal, so he'd dwarfed the doctor considerably. In Sherlock's absence, John didn't seem nearly as small. In fact, John was an imposing figure, and Neal instantly noted the too-even growth of his hair, the very-nearly Parade Rest of his posture, the automatic alterness with which he took in the subdued chaos of the bull pen, and reached his conclusion.
"So where were you stationed, Doctor?" He asked.
John sighed. "Oh, brilliant. Another one."
Neal laughed, leaning in toward the other man to gauge his reaction. If this was Sherlock's new guy, he should pull away when Neal just barely entered his personal space. John fidgeted, but stayed still. "Sherlock pulled the whole life-story bit, didn't he?"
John nodded. "Less than a minute after we met, actually." He paused, licking his lips unconciously. "Afghanistan."
Neal nodded. "You and Sherlock been together long?"
John rolled his eyes. "No, look, it's not like that. You knew him, you should know he's not...anyway, we're friends. He's not interested in that sort of thing."
Neal forgot himself, and spoke without thinking. "Really? He used to be."
John blinked and snapped his head around to look at Neal squarely. "What?"
Neal panicked a bit. He had to backpedal, and well. "Yeah. I knew him, at Cambridge.I didn't go there but I was dating a student." He said it smoothely, off-hand. John's body language didn't change at all. Perfect. "Sherlock there was something of a hopeless romantic when I knew him. 'Besotted' I think is the word he used."
John's whole body spasmed in shock, and he flushed deeply. His gaze flickered rapidly between Neal and Sherlock. Neal risked a glance at the office and saw Sherlock through the glass, looking back at the two of them with undisguised rage in his eyes. It took everything Neal had not to flinch away. The last time he'd seen that look...but he didn't want to think about that. When he thought of Sherlock, which was more often than he'd admit, he preferred to think about the good times. The early days, when Sherlock had been timidly enraptured by him, when the tingling ache in Neal's heart had convinced him to turn his back on everything he'd known and give the strange young man a chance to ignite his world. And Sherlock had done it, too. With enthusiasm.
Sherlock exchanged a few terse words with Hughes, snatched a handul of file folders in those ridiculously long and elegant hands of his, and slammed the glass door open with such force Neal expected it to shatter. He strode stormily down the stairs and over to his companion, glaring black death at Neal the whole way.
"Come on, John. We have work to do." He snarled. He didn't slow his stride in the least as he passed them by. John smiled apologetically at Neal, shrugged and rushed out at Sherlock's heels.
Peter appeared at Neal's side, hands on hips and breathing a disbelieving puff of air. "Well, that was a 180." He commented.
Neal winced. "That was...my fault."
Peter nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I figured. Exes have a knack for getting under a guy's skin."
Neal shook his head. "I don't...he's different, Peter. That's not the man I knew."
"People change. It happens."
"Yeah...yeah, they do." Somehow, that didn't help.
Peter's hand fell heavy and warm on his shoulder, and he felt a gentle push urging him forward. "Come on. There's nothing more we can do until Holmes is up to date, you and I are going for a drink."
"We are?" Neal cocked an eyebrow.
Peter nodded. "Yep. And you are going to tell me all about you and the Englishman."
"You sure you're up to it?"
"Not remotely. But griping about exes is a time-honored tradition, and it's best done drunk. Let's go."
::
Sherlock was ready to explode. Bloody, bloody Caffrey! No one else, save maybe Mycroft, had such an unerring talent for shattering Sherlock's control. He barely managed to get free of the FBI headquarters before his resolve crumbled and he rounded on John, pinning him against the wall at arm's length. John let it happen, glaring at Sherlock in irritation, his body tensing in such a way as to make it abundantly clear that it was only his patience keeping Sherlock's back off the cement.
"What did he tell you?" Sherlock demanded. "Tell me what he said!" He must've looked like a madman, he knew. A trace of unease crept into John's expressive face.
"What? Nothing! Sherlock, what is this about?"
"You're lying! What did he say about me?" He shoved at John's shoulders, grinding his back against the rough stone facade.
That burst John's thin bubble of patience, and the soldier overwhelmed the doctor in him with a swift, jerking movement that dislodged Sherlock's hands and sent him stumbling back a couple of paces.
"Oi! Back off, Sherlock! It was nothing."
"It's never nothing with him!"
"Yeah, well this time it is."
"I saw your face, John! He told you!"
"Yeah, he told me something. I'm not sure I believe it, but he told me something. It's not like I asked."
Sherlock grimaced and spun on his heel, pacing furiously. "I was young! It was a long time ago, John. I had all these...thoughts. Impulses. I didn't know what I was doing!"
"Relax, Sherlock. I'm not judging you. I don't know why you're upset!"
"Why? Why? It's bad enough I'm out of London, working a case for my brother, now I find out I have to do it with him! How am I supposed to relax, John?"
"Sherlock, calm down! I don't see why it's such a big deal. So he knew you when you were-" John's eyes went wide. Too late, Sherlock realized he'd let his imagination get the better of him. Stupid, stupid. He was better than this! He should've thought, observed, taken the time to understand before confronting John. Only Neal could've done this. Only Neal could sabotage his flawless hard drive this way.
John's face grew red, and his mouth went slack. "Oh my God." He breathed. "It can't...there's no way."
Sherlock swore and spun away, biting hard on the knuckle of his right index finger.
"You were...and he..." John stammered.
"Yes?" Sherlock snarled. "Get on with it!"
"He was your..." John swallowed anxiously, and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "You?"
"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped. Then he rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fine. Okay? He was my boyfriend. That's what you're getting at. Neal, and I, were together. Dating. Lovers. Whatever the hell you want to call it. Like I told you, I was young. He was...amenable."
To Sherlock's surprise, and horror, John grinned. Then he laughed, a deep, convulsing belly laugh that had him doubled over and clutching his stomach.
"What?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth.
"Nothing." John gasped, struggling to breathe. "Just...I was right."
"About what?"
"You remember." John prompted. "Angelo's. 'Not my area'? Remember?"
Oh. Their first night. The taxi driver case. Of course. "You were guessing."
"Yeah, but I guessed right. I should've known when you didn't dismiss it. So?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So what?"
"So how did it happen? What was he like? How long were you together?" John was prodding, and plainly delighted. For some reason, Sherlock's past was an endless source of fascination for him.
Sherlock clenched his jaw. Best to get it over with, before John sunk his teeth in any deeper. "He was someone Sebastian hated. He was sickeningly charming. Almost two years."
John's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Two years?"
"Almost."
"Sherlock...that's not dating. That's a relationship."
"I told you he was my boyfriend."
"Yeah, but..."
"But?"
"Well...I pictured something like a month of awkward flirting and clumsy groping, something I don't want to picture very vividly, mind, and then a relieved break-up."
Sherlock felt a stab of injury. "Is that all you think I'm capable of?"
John paled. "I...well...yes." He lowered his head, deferential and ashamed.
"Well, it's not." Sherlock said awkwardly. "I was...we were...I loved him." He hated saying it. He wasn't sure why he'd said it. He just wanted this conversation to be over. "Come on. Let's go to the hotel. I want to read over these and you need to sleep off the jet lag."
In utter silence, John fell into step beside him and they walked away from Neal Caffrey and his FBI friend.
Chapter Two
--
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 amazing.
We Were Never Forever
OneLondon: April 14, 2011
"Bit nippy for April, isn't it?" John commented blandly, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's mile-wide-stride.
"Tedious, John. You're slipping."
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was in a right strop this morning, his face as warm and affectionate as a thundercloud. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm afraid my best mate repertoire doesn't cover sibling blackmail."
"Really? After a year or more one would think you'd have acquired sufficient experience in the matter."
John shook his head. "Yeah, well, you're usually so good at getting out of it."
"Not this time."
"Why is that, again?"
Sherlock let out a noise halfway between a whimper and a groan. "Don't make me say it, John!"
"Say what? It's not my fault my tiny, feeble brain can't hold vital information for a prolonged length of time."
"I already apologized for that!"
John smirked. "You took the skull out of the bathroom. That's not an apology, that's deflecting."
"But the humidity-"
"Save it, Sherlock. There's only one thing I want to hear from you, and you know exactly what it is." He was all but crowing.
Sherlock grimaced and actually stamped his foot, petulantly. "Must I?"
John nodded. "You must."
Sherlock grumbled and pouted, then gave a resigned sigh. "Mycroft saved my life. I'm in his debt."
"And...?" John needled.
Sherlock deflated. "And...without him I would have lost you. There, I said it, are we done?"
John beamed, wickedly. "Ask me again in four hours."
Sherlock groaned.
::
New York City: April 15, 2011
"Again with the fingers!" Neal hissed. Beside him, Peter smirked.
"Better see what they want."
"It's the London thing. Has to be the London thing." Neal commented, striding alongside Peter to the glass-enclosed conference room.
"What have I told you about snooping in my files?" Peter scolded. Neal preened. Peter was so cute when he was all stern.
"I didn't snoop. Elizabeth told me."
"Why would she tell you?" Peter asked, but they had reached the glass door, behind which stood a scowling Hughes.
"I'll tell you later."
They pushed into the room, Peter immediately accepting a cup of imitation coffee from one of the aids and Neal leaning apathetically against the wall. He didn't take off his hat.
"We've just recieved word. They're sending a consultant." Hughes huffed without preamble. Neal perked up. Another consultant?
"Who is, Interpol?" Peter demanded. Diana handed him a file, which he perused absently while sipping his coffee. Neal didn't miss the flicker of a grimace on his face and had to force back a smirk. He'd get Peter converted to genuine, quality coffee yet. Turkish maybe. Or an Italian blend.
Hughes shook his head. "Nope. Apparently this isn't officially an international matter."
Jones snorted. "You're kidding. They're smuggling overseas, how is that not international?"
"British government doesn't want to seek the cooperation of Interpol. Apparently this case has been upgraded, a threat to national security. England wants as few eyes on the evidence as possible. That's why it's down to the task force, and whoever this guy is they're sending."
"Guys." Diana corrected. "There's an invoice here for two first-class seats." She brandished yet another file folder. Neal was beginning to wonder if he could wall-paper Peter's rec room with the things. He probably could. Elizabeth would kill him, though.
"How is it national security?" Peter demanded.
Hughes sighed, weariness evident in every line of his face. "They've uncovered evidence on their side of a deeper operation. Apparently we have reason to believe that British state secrets are being smuggled underneath the artwork and gems. Now, we know they're peddling a fortune in antiquities, diamonds and enough forgeries to make Caffrey blush-"
"Allegedly." Neal interrupted. Hughes ignored him.
"It's not much of a stretch to imagine our own secrets might be making their way overseas as well. But until we have confirmation, we've been requested to refrain from bringing in the DHS. Like I said, minimum personnel only."
"So why us? Or, more specifically, why me? I'm not exactly a secure asset." Neal remarked.
Hughes actually winced. "Our contact with the British government requested your involvement as part of the deal. He says your record speaks for itself, and he hopes that your skills can help bring the investigation to a close as quickly as possible."
Something in the cadence and delivery of that last part sat wrong wtih Neal. It wasn't Hughes talking, it was a quote. A quote with the sort of phrasing and smug arrogance that made something in his shoulders twitch. It was familiar, and terrifying.
"Who's your contact?" He asked, forcing nonchalance into his voice.
Peter tilted his head, thinking out loud. "Mike something. Or maybe Michell. Or Myles. Something with My in it-"
"Mycroft?" Neal asked, too quickly. Dammit. Keep your cool Caffrey.
"That's it." Hughes confirmed, peering intently at the CI. "Mycroft Holmes. You know him?"
Neal gulped. Oh. Oh merciless shit. "We've met." He hedged. "He...doesn't like me much."
Jones snorted. Hughes smirked. Peter just shook his head. "And yet he's requesting you by name."
Neal shrugged. "Mycroft is nothing if not practical." And arrogant. And ruthless. And smug. And cold. And the single most dangerous man Neal had ever encountered, and that had been when the man was just an MP. Last he knew, and he did keep track, Mycroft Holmes was, essentially, the British government itself.
A thought occured to Neal, wriggling at long last past the barriers he'd erected in his head to keep it out. He wouldn't. Mycroft wouldn't. The man was cruel and vindictive, yes, but even he wouldn't got that far.
Please?
A wave of panic began to rise in Neal's chest, because he would. He absolutely would. It would be fun for him! He'd sit back in his plush, mahogany office and laugh himself sick at the way Neal danced at the end of his puppet strings. It would be the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?
He forced his terror down, locking it away behind a smooth, carefree expression. "So, Peter, what do we got?"
Peter smiled, itching to get into the work. He set down the file Diana had given him and jabbed at the picture clipped to the papers. It showed a lean, handsome man, middle-aged and meticulously dressed.
"We have Desmond Hale, British aristocrat with dual citizenship for the US and the United Kingdom. Lives half the year here in New York, spends the other half in his estate in Kensington. He owns three export companies, all of which have passed every international trade inspection with flying colors. Squeaky clean, according to the paperwork."
"But?" Neal pressed.
"But." Diana chimed in. "Last year one of his accountants went on record with an irregularity in the books. Nothing major, just a few extra crates that weren't on the manifest. It didn't even register as a blip on the radar with any shipping authority, and nothing came of it. Even so, the accountant went missing a week later."
Neal nodded. "Liability."
"We smelled a rat." Hughes continued. "But we could never get Hale on anything. Couldn't connect him to any illegal activity."
"So how do you know he's in with the smuggling ring?" Neal demanded.
Jones scowled. "We didn't. Britain did. Somehow they managed to find documentation that puts Hale in the vicinity of a known smuggling operation, but there's nothing concrete enough to hold him."
Peter picked up the train, piecing together what he did know with what he didn't and finding his conclusion. "So we need to get proof that Hale's involved with the ring, and get evidence of them smuggling state secrets, all without alerting any intelligence organizations or starting an international incident." He shook his head. "Can't be done."
"According to Mr. Holmes, it can." Hughes countered. "If we do everything his consultant says, that is."
"And who is this consultant he's so confident about?" Peter demanded.
But Neal already knew. He could feel it, even before he heard the door opening, even before he caught a glipse out of the corner of his eye of that familiar, brazen stride. He was barely aware of Hughes talking as he turned his body, shifting to see more clearly the long, lithe body, the chaotic black hair, the piercing nickel eyes.
"Says here he's an independant operator, based in London. According to this his name is-"
"Sherlock." Neal breathed, his voice soft and his eyes locked on the man he never thought he'd see again.
::
Hughes, Diana and Jones filed out of the conference room to intercept the Englishman. Neal noticed for the first time that there was another man, short in stature but solidly built, with sandy blond hair just beginning to tinge gray, walking beside Sherlock. That sent something dangerously close to a pang through Neal's chest.
Peter moved to follow his cohorts, but froze when he noticed Neal hadn't moved.
"Neal? What are you waiting for?" He asked.
Neal just shook his head. "I can't, Peter. I can't go out there."
Peter narrowed his eyes and studied Neal in that disconcerting, clinical way of his. "Neal, what's going on?"
Neal swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Did you know that before I moved to New York nine years ago, I lived in England?"
Peter blinked. "Um...yeah, I think I read that somewhere. You never talked about it, so I guess I just, I don't know, dismissed it."
Neal nodded. "For two years. 2000 and 2001."
Peter shrugged. "Okay, so? What does that have to do with this?"
Neal nodded to the pale, elegant man in the bull pen. "Meet the reason why."
Peter's eyes followed Neal's gaze, and he could see the connections forming in the agent's brain. It took all of six seconds for Peter to come to a conclusion, and another four to convince himeself it was, indeed, the right one.
"You- you mean you? And, and him?" Peter stammered. His eyes kept flicking between Neal and Sherlock, who was currently smarming his way through the introductions, the mystery man hovering very, very close to him. Even knowing the Briton as he did, Neal still had a hard time locating the concealed contempt Sherlock was actually feeling.
"The suit is new. And he used to have short hair. I don't know the other guy, Sherlock doesn't exactly make friends easily. But, yeah. That's him. That's the ex I never intended to tell you about."
Peter was shifting uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck and huffing into his cheeks. "Oh. Oh, wow. Um...okay. Yeah, that's...that's great. Neal. Um...I, I guess I just never, ahem, pegged you for the-for the..."
Neal smiled crookedly. "I'm not gay, Peter." He said.
Peter looked up at him, still fidgeting nervously. "Oh. Um..."
Neal shook his head. "I mean it. Really. Sherlock was and is the only man I have ever-"
"Yeah, yeah, okay. I mean, I don't have a problem with it or anything. Diana is-"
"A lesbian." Neal finished. "Which is always easier for men to accept than a gay man. But I am not gay. Sherlock is part of my past, when I was still figuring out who I was. I've never been with another man since him, and I'd never been with one before him." He paused, feeling as though he should stand up for his younger self. "But I don't regret him. And I don't deny that part of myself. It took a long time to come to grips with it, but I know who I am and I'm good with it."
Peter nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Me...me too. Um...two years?"
Neal shrugged. "I was in love. I thought I was, anyway. It didn't end well."
It was only a matter of time, he knew. Not for the first time, he cursed the architect who decided to forgo opaque walls for the conference room. Sherlock's attention was focused on Diana at the moment, but Neal could see his gaze flickering methodically around the room whenever he got the chance. It might take him a moment to add the years, to look past the hat and the suit and see the man he'd once clung to amidst sweat-soaked sheets and cool, shadowy darkness. They'd been barely more than boys then, but the sight of Sherlock brought the memories up to the surface where they danced along Neal's skin. Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's scent. Sherlock's voice...
Sherlock's hate.
It was coming. He couldn't escape it, so he had to face it. Part of him held the faint hope that Sherlock had deleted him after they broke up, but he knew better. Sherlock never deleted his anger. He held it, incorporated it into himself and used its heat to forge a new plate of armor around his heart. Neal had spent months chipping away at that armor, only to re-forge it, stronger than ever in the end.
So he took a deep breath, put his hands casually in his pockets and nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding out to stand at the top of the stairs.
"Sherlock Holmes." He called, and the man's head snapped up, taking Neal in. It all happened in less than a second, the assesment, the recognition, the shock, the pain, the fury and then the pure, blank calm. Neal clutched his hands into fists inside his pockets to keep them from shaking, and forced his voice to come out smooth.
"It's been a while."
::
Dull. Boring. So endlessly monotonous. Ooh! That was a good one, he hadn't used that one in a while. He made a note to work it into the conversation next time he was complaining at John. But not now. Now he had to be charming and functional and normal. John had made him promise, and he needed these Yanks to work with him if he was going to get this tedius case out of the way and back to England.
He hated New York. It was too bright and too hot and too loud. It tried too hard. Not like London, secure in its own history and import, not bothering with the endless flash.
Well, okay there was the gherkin, but Sherlock chalked that one up to the zeitgeist.
Oh, but he was getting distracted. Not that there was much worth paying attention to, anyway. All of these people were the same. Law-enforcement, noble, dedicated. Thre was one lesbian currently having problems with her long-time girlfriend, and the old man was almost a textbook example of stress-related heart disease, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before.
Even so, something was nagging at the back of his mind. He found himself standing just a little bit closer to John than strictly necessary. He wanted to look around the place, but social niceities forced him to keep his gaze locked on the FBI agents currently invading his personal space. He settled for flicking his eyes around whenever their attention was distracted.
He should have looked at the conference room first. He probably had, and had simply deleted the information instantaneously, in a subconcious act of self-defense. If that was the case, it had certainly backfired, because he had no way to prepare for the sight awaiting him at the top of those stairs.
"Sherlock Holmes." The voice was smooth, cool and more than a little smug. It was almost like Sebastian's greeting at the bank, that Black Lotus case. Only this voice was also fond, and a little apprehensive, and so painfully familiar.
Sherlock jerked his attention to the voice, and the world froze. He could no longer feel the reassuring warmth of John's body close by, or see the painfully polite faces of the agents he would be forced to work with. All he saw were intense blue eyes, a jauntily tilted fedora, an exquisitely fitted suit, slightly more flashy than what he himself wore, and that familiar swoop of artfully mussed hair.
Neal.
Neal. Sodding. Caffrey.
In that heartbeat that lasted a lifetime, Sherlock was assaulted by memories, old emotions, ancient hurt. He was going to bloody kill Mycroft! This went so far beyond fair play! He struggled to suppress the sense memories of Neal. Neal smiling at him. Neal painting him. Neal soothing him. Neal inside of him.
Neal leaving him.
But time was about to come crashing back, so Sherlock forced himself into a blank state of calm, at least outwardly. Inwardly, he couldn't shake the phantom sensations of Neal's hands, his lips, his body pressed against Sherlock's own. No! Dammit! That was ten years ago! It was over, beyond over! Neal was nothing to him now. He had the Work now, and Neal had never been half so fulfilling.
"It's been a while."
Sherlock forced a professional smile, and slipped his voice into a businesslike cadence.
"Neal Caffrey. I was under the impression you'd been arrested."
Neal smirked, and that too-familiar quirk of his lips sent a bolt of heat straight to Sherlock's groin. He ignored it, and watched clinically as Neal sauntered down the steps like they were connected to the stage of a 1940's night club.
"You were right. I was. I'm out now. I consult for the FBI."
Sherlock took him in, noting absolutely everything. He siezed on the tracking anklet, ready to tear into Neal with his status as a caged bird, but what came out was something altogether different.
"I heard about Kate."
Shit. Shit! Why had he said that? How could he say that? He shouldn't even know about Kate.
Neal smiled, a sadder smile than Sherlock could remember ever seeing before. "It's okay. You don't have to pretend you're sorry."
Sherlock shrugged, taking the opportunity to regain his aloof detachment. "I never said I was."
A jab in his ribs. John. Suddenly he was aware of the wide-eyed stares fixed on the pair of them, growing more and more intent as Neal walked closer. He didn't blush, but it was a near thing.
"You look good." Neal offered. Sherlock fought back the urge to sneer.
"Yes, well. I clean up fairly well." The implication was plain, and he knew Neal got it. He was clean. Clean and functional and successful, all without Neal sodding Caffrey's help.
"You do at that." Neal commented, and Sherlock wanted desperately to hate him and his smug, cocky attitude. But it was hard! So hard when Neal's voice was still barely more than a whisper, when his every word sounded like a soft-spoken declaration murmured delicately into the shell of Sherlock's ear. He felt his knees begin to slack as the heat in his belly spread to his limbs, and he struggled to remain upright. It wasn't fair! It was wrong that Neal could still do this to him! He was irrelevant!
At that moment, a man in his mid to late forties, athletically built and looking young for his age (though Sherlock was never fooled), came up behind Neal. He stood close, well within Neal's personal space, what little he had, but carried himself with none of the tension or posessiveness of a lover. There was a ring on his left hand, it gleamed in the lighting and was well worn, hints of milky skin underneath where the sun never touched his finger. Happily married, then. Not Neal's new lover, but definitely a friend. And Neal had always been so good at making friends. He'd gotten Sherlock, after all. He'd gotten all of Sherlock.
The agent beside Neal introduced himself as Peter Burke, and Sherlock was impressed at John's ability not to snort at the name. Within seconds, it became apparent to Sherlock just who this Burke character was.
Ah. He thought, directing his mental voice to Neal. You've got yourself a Watson.
"Sherlock Holmes." He responded taking Burke's hand. "Consulting detective. This is my friend and colleague Dr John Watson." John and Peter exchanged a handshake, and John hesitated a breath before offering the same to Neal.
"Neal, John. John, Neal." Sherlock rattled off dismissively.
"Sorry, you know each other?" John was practically chomping at the bit, Sherlock knew. The doctor would give his eyeteeth to delve into Sherlock's secret and hidden past. Sherlock let his gaze flicker up to Neal, and he forced himself to ignore the surge of heat in his abdomen.
"You could say that." He kept his voice cold. Colder even than when he'd introduced John to Mycroft, and oh, was Mycroft going to regret this "favour" when he got back.
"Oh, Sherlock and I go way back." Neal chirped, crossing his arms over his chest. The flush creeping over Agent Burke's face told Sherlock with a pang of fury that the man knew. Neal had told him. The thought chilled him. Would he tell John? Could he? Oh, God. Would Neal? Right now?
"Ah. An enemy." John supplied. Of course, Sherlock heaved an inward sigh of relief. John knew full well that Sherlock didn't have friends, and since Sherlock had mentioned Neal's arrest...
"Not. Exactly." Neal contradicted. Sherlock wanted to groan. More, he wanted to strangle Neal. Wanted to push him down onto the floor and pound his fists into that gorgeous, careless face until it was a seething mass of bruises and blood.
He didn't. Of course he didn't. Sherlock was a master of self-control when he needed to be. Even so, his whole body went several degrees cooler at John's perplexed, suspicious face.
Peter cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. Ah, so the news was recent. Neal hadn't told Peter until after he'd seen Sherlock in the bull pen. He wondered when Neal had become all about full disclosure. Odd for a man who played everything so close to the vest.
"Um, it's nice to meet you both." He was struggling visibly to maintain his professionalism.
Sherlock offered him a carefully crafted smile. "Likewise. If you'll just give me the reports, Dr Watson and I will be on our way. I'd really rather not attend a briefing with jet lag." Preposterous, really. Jet lag was like any other bodily weakness, irrelevant. But John would be grumpy over his, and Sherlock was desperate to get as far away from Neal as possible.
"Of course. Naturally. Um, just follow me." Sherlock did, even though every cell of his body was desperate to hang back, to keep John and Neal separate or at least supervised. But he couldn't, and John was making no move to follow him and Special Agent Burke. At the door to the conference room, Sherlock risked a look back at Neal and John. The former criminal was leaning too close to John, talking softly. John's face was getting redder and more and more astonished. John kept looking up at Sherlock in pure disbelief.
Damn you to hell, Neal Caffrey!
::
Neal tracked Sherlock's departure with his eyes, keeping his face turned toward John Watson. Sherlock was just a bit taller than Neal, so he'd dwarfed the doctor considerably. In Sherlock's absence, John didn't seem nearly as small. In fact, John was an imposing figure, and Neal instantly noted the too-even growth of his hair, the very-nearly Parade Rest of his posture, the automatic alterness with which he took in the subdued chaos of the bull pen, and reached his conclusion.
"So where were you stationed, Doctor?" He asked.
John sighed. "Oh, brilliant. Another one."
Neal laughed, leaning in toward the other man to gauge his reaction. If this was Sherlock's new guy, he should pull away when Neal just barely entered his personal space. John fidgeted, but stayed still. "Sherlock pulled the whole life-story bit, didn't he?"
John nodded. "Less than a minute after we met, actually." He paused, licking his lips unconciously. "Afghanistan."
Neal nodded. "You and Sherlock been together long?"
John rolled his eyes. "No, look, it's not like that. You knew him, you should know he's not...anyway, we're friends. He's not interested in that sort of thing."
Neal forgot himself, and spoke without thinking. "Really? He used to be."
John blinked and snapped his head around to look at Neal squarely. "What?"
Neal panicked a bit. He had to backpedal, and well. "Yeah. I knew him, at Cambridge.I didn't go there but I was dating a student." He said it smoothely, off-hand. John's body language didn't change at all. Perfect. "Sherlock there was something of a hopeless romantic when I knew him. 'Besotted' I think is the word he used."
John's whole body spasmed in shock, and he flushed deeply. His gaze flickered rapidly between Neal and Sherlock. Neal risked a glance at the office and saw Sherlock through the glass, looking back at the two of them with undisguised rage in his eyes. It took everything Neal had not to flinch away. The last time he'd seen that look...but he didn't want to think about that. When he thought of Sherlock, which was more often than he'd admit, he preferred to think about the good times. The early days, when Sherlock had been timidly enraptured by him, when the tingling ache in Neal's heart had convinced him to turn his back on everything he'd known and give the strange young man a chance to ignite his world. And Sherlock had done it, too. With enthusiasm.
Sherlock exchanged a few terse words with Hughes, snatched a handul of file folders in those ridiculously long and elegant hands of his, and slammed the glass door open with such force Neal expected it to shatter. He strode stormily down the stairs and over to his companion, glaring black death at Neal the whole way.
"Come on, John. We have work to do." He snarled. He didn't slow his stride in the least as he passed them by. John smiled apologetically at Neal, shrugged and rushed out at Sherlock's heels.
Peter appeared at Neal's side, hands on hips and breathing a disbelieving puff of air. "Well, that was a 180." He commented.
Neal winced. "That was...my fault."
Peter nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I figured. Exes have a knack for getting under a guy's skin."
Neal shook his head. "I don't...he's different, Peter. That's not the man I knew."
"People change. It happens."
"Yeah...yeah, they do." Somehow, that didn't help.
Peter's hand fell heavy and warm on his shoulder, and he felt a gentle push urging him forward. "Come on. There's nothing more we can do until Holmes is up to date, you and I are going for a drink."
"We are?" Neal cocked an eyebrow.
Peter nodded. "Yep. And you are going to tell me all about you and the Englishman."
"You sure you're up to it?"
"Not remotely. But griping about exes is a time-honored tradition, and it's best done drunk. Let's go."
::
Sherlock was ready to explode. Bloody, bloody Caffrey! No one else, save maybe Mycroft, had such an unerring talent for shattering Sherlock's control. He barely managed to get free of the FBI headquarters before his resolve crumbled and he rounded on John, pinning him against the wall at arm's length. John let it happen, glaring at Sherlock in irritation, his body tensing in such a way as to make it abundantly clear that it was only his patience keeping Sherlock's back off the cement.
"What did he tell you?" Sherlock demanded. "Tell me what he said!" He must've looked like a madman, he knew. A trace of unease crept into John's expressive face.
"What? Nothing! Sherlock, what is this about?"
"You're lying! What did he say about me?" He shoved at John's shoulders, grinding his back against the rough stone facade.
That burst John's thin bubble of patience, and the soldier overwhelmed the doctor in him with a swift, jerking movement that dislodged Sherlock's hands and sent him stumbling back a couple of paces.
"Oi! Back off, Sherlock! It was nothing."
"It's never nothing with him!"
"Yeah, well this time it is."
"I saw your face, John! He told you!"
"Yeah, he told me something. I'm not sure I believe it, but he told me something. It's not like I asked."
Sherlock grimaced and spun on his heel, pacing furiously. "I was young! It was a long time ago, John. I had all these...thoughts. Impulses. I didn't know what I was doing!"
"Relax, Sherlock. I'm not judging you. I don't know why you're upset!"
"Why? Why? It's bad enough I'm out of London, working a case for my brother, now I find out I have to do it with him! How am I supposed to relax, John?"
"Sherlock, calm down! I don't see why it's such a big deal. So he knew you when you were-" John's eyes went wide. Too late, Sherlock realized he'd let his imagination get the better of him. Stupid, stupid. He was better than this! He should've thought, observed, taken the time to understand before confronting John. Only Neal could've done this. Only Neal could sabotage his flawless hard drive this way.
John's face grew red, and his mouth went slack. "Oh my God." He breathed. "It can't...there's no way."
Sherlock swore and spun away, biting hard on the knuckle of his right index finger.
"You were...and he..." John stammered.
"Yes?" Sherlock snarled. "Get on with it!"
"He was your..." John swallowed anxiously, and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "You?"
"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped. Then he rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fine. Okay? He was my boyfriend. That's what you're getting at. Neal, and I, were together. Dating. Lovers. Whatever the hell you want to call it. Like I told you, I was young. He was...amenable."
To Sherlock's surprise, and horror, John grinned. Then he laughed, a deep, convulsing belly laugh that had him doubled over and clutching his stomach.
"What?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth.
"Nothing." John gasped, struggling to breathe. "Just...I was right."
"About what?"
"You remember." John prompted. "Angelo's. 'Not my area'? Remember?"
Oh. Their first night. The taxi driver case. Of course. "You were guessing."
"Yeah, but I guessed right. I should've known when you didn't dismiss it. So?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So what?"
"So how did it happen? What was he like? How long were you together?" John was prodding, and plainly delighted. For some reason, Sherlock's past was an endless source of fascination for him.
Sherlock clenched his jaw. Best to get it over with, before John sunk his teeth in any deeper. "He was someone Sebastian hated. He was sickeningly charming. Almost two years."
John's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Two years?"
"Almost."
"Sherlock...that's not dating. That's a relationship."
"I told you he was my boyfriend."
"Yeah, but..."
"But?"
"Well...I pictured something like a month of awkward flirting and clumsy groping, something I don't want to picture very vividly, mind, and then a relieved break-up."
Sherlock felt a stab of injury. "Is that all you think I'm capable of?"
John paled. "I...well...yes." He lowered his head, deferential and ashamed.
"Well, it's not." Sherlock said awkwardly. "I was...we were...I loved him." He hated saying it. He wasn't sure why he'd said it. He just wanted this conversation to be over. "Come on. Let's go to the hotel. I want to read over these and you need to sleep off the jet lag."
In utter silence, John fell into step beside him and they walked away from Neal Caffrey and his FBI friend.
Chapter Two
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