The American Affair: Chapter 8
The American Affair: Chapter 8
David was the last person out of the taxi, and still carrying the cat, to boot, who had decided that this very moment was the right time to dig his claws into David’s chest. David hissed, and tried to pull the cat away, and stand, and as a result, when he looked around again, Sherlock and John were halfway down the block, rapidly approaching a man dressed in riot gear, and woman dressed in a smart business suit, who was texting on her Blackberry.
“Ah, there you are,” Sherlock said as David caught up to them. “As you can see,” Sherlock turned back to the woman. “We have everything.”
The woman looked up at Dave, smiled distractedly, and looked back down at her phone.
“Everything seems to be in order,” she said. David wasn’t really surprised to hear that she was also English. It seemed to be the thing with this case.
John nudged Dave’s elbow. “Give her the cat,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“O-kay,” David said slowly, and when he pulled the cat away from his chest, the man in riot gear held up a--was that a cat carrier? How did?
David looked at John, questioning, but John just waved at him to put the cat in the carrier. “It’s what they’re like,” he said, inexplicably. “It’s best just to go with it.”
“What who are like?” David muttered back. He held up the cat, but before he could put it in the carrier, he heard it, yelling from inside the building. He jumped, ready to rush in and do--what he didn’t know. But something. John started next to him, but Sherlock held out a hand, blocking their path.
“No,” he said. “Listen. Observe, John.”
John rolled his eyes, and David was compelled to to the same, but listened like John was doing, eyes shut and face screwed up in concentration. David felt his eyebrows raise. That was definitely Tim, he would recognize that accent anywhere. But he wasn’t in pain, and he wasn’t scared. He sounded almost--pissed.
The muffled yelling sharpened as Tim came through the doorway, red faced, bruised and with a scabbed over cut on his cheek, but lively and followed by a sheepish looking man who was, David was pretty sure, the soccer-player boyfriend.
“And another thing,” Tim yelled. He stopped, seeing the small gathering on the sidewalk. “Is that Tigerlilly?”
David looked at the cat in his hands, looked at the irate Tim storming towards them, and wished he could be anywhere else. Tim opened his mouth, probably to continue yelling, but Sherlock cut him off.
“Your cat will not be harmed, I assure you,” Sherlock said. “But he is a vital witness to the events that led to your recent imprisonment.”
It took the wind out of Tim’s sails. “What?” He said.
“Your cat,” Sherlock said. “Tigerlilly, has pika. I could tell by the plants in your flat.”
“Well, yeah,” Tim said. “My--wait, my plants?”
“Your cat was a gift from your lover, here,” Sherlock said, and David could already recognize the glint in Sherlock’s eye. This is what John was telling him. Sherlock loves an audience. “Who had Tigerlilly for a few weeks before giving her to you, partially because he knew you would like her, and partially because the data chip had gone missing and you wanted the cat cared for.”
“I--” Tim said. He turned around and looked at the player. What’s his face, David thought. Greene? Greene didn’t look so hot, pale and staring at Sherlock like the man had three heads.
“What he didn’t realize, however,” Sherlock went on. “Was that he had given away the data chip.”
“The pika,” John said. “The cat ate the chip.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock said. “When they arrived for Greene and the chip, they found him missing. They knew of you from the surveillance they had on him--don’t give me that look John, of course there was surveillance--and assumed, in a way correctly, that if Greene was going to hide the chip, he’d hide it with you.” Sherlock paused, looking Tim over. “They took you, then, but--ah.” Sherlock said. “Greene took you. He brought you here, explained how this was out of his hands. He kept them from hurting you too badly.” Sherlock looked Greene over. “If I were you, I’d leave him now.” Sherlock raised an eye. “And get tested for Syphilis. It’s on the rise, you know.”
Tim stared at Sherlock, who gestured. “This man is going to take the cat,” the riot-gear man took Tigerlilly from David’s hands and, while David wasn’t sorry to see her go, he was a little worried about the lost look on Tim’s face. “And once they’ve retrieved the chip, Tigerlilly will be returned to you, unharmed.”
Tim looked at Sherlock, then at Tigerlilly, then at Greene. Then back at Sherlock. Then he spun, and punched Greene right in the nose.
“And that’s for Tigerlilly you bastard!” Tim then turned and stomped away to a waiting ambulance while Greene sat on the ground, holding a bloody nose.
David was pretty sure that meant that Tim was, once again, single.
***
Things moved pretty quickly after that, John thought. Mycroft’s Americans cleaned up the warehouse, so quickly and thoroughly that Sherlock was stumped on details that surprised John. Well. Stumped for a bit. Not much got past Sherlock these days.
Tim was going to be fine; his ego was mostly bruised, and he was riding on a crest of righteous anger. John worried what would happen when the anger burned out, but, well, that was David’s problem now.
David was really a good sport about the whole thing. He was a big help, whether or not Sherlock would admit it. John last saw him talking to Tim, and riding with him in the ambulance.
John and Sherlock had gone back to the hotel, and made use of the feather-top mattress. If there was one thing to say about America, they certainly knew their comforts.
John slept the sleep of the well fucked, and when he woke Sherlock was gone. John wasn’t too worried. He had probably gone to see Irene, again. To say goodbye. There was a note on the pillow.
Mycroft said he wont move the tickets forward. That we’re to consider our stay a “Vacation.” I knew the mystery was too easily solved.
John snorted. Only Sherlock would consider a kidnapping a vacation. It was just as well, he though, leaning back and stretching. If we had tried another “proper” vacation, he would have blown up the hotel in about three hours. Again.
“Really, John,” Sherlock said from the doorway to the bedroom. “It was only the once.”
John grinned at Sherlock, upside down. “One day, I’ll stop being amazed that you know what I’m thinking.”
“And let things get dull?” Sherlock grinned. “Never.”
John laughed, and mock glared. “Why are you still dressed?” He asked. “We’re on a vacation, apparently.”
“And that means we must be naked?” Sherlock asked, but he was already unbuttoning his shirt.
“It does if Mycroft’s footing the bill,” John said. Sherlock paused, and when John looked up from where Sherlock’s pale skin was being slowly revealed, Sherlock was grinning.
“I do love you, John.”
John knew that tomorrow would involve some mad scheme, some crazy circumstance, some wild adventure on new soil; something that would have Mycroft wishing he had let them back to London. He knew that if it didn’t, Sherlock would weak unintended havoc trying to keep from boredom, once their bodies became too sore for sex. They’d probably see Irene, again. And David. And Sherlock would be there, throughout it all, in the middle of it all, the cause of it all, looking back at John, reaching out for John, with John.
John grinned. “I love you, too. Idiot.”
The end.
Chapter 7
Epilogue
David was the last person out of the taxi, and still carrying the cat, to boot, who had decided that this very moment was the right time to dig his claws into David’s chest. David hissed, and tried to pull the cat away, and stand, and as a result, when he looked around again, Sherlock and John were halfway down the block, rapidly approaching a man dressed in riot gear, and woman dressed in a smart business suit, who was texting on her Blackberry.
“Ah, there you are,” Sherlock said as David caught up to them. “As you can see,” Sherlock turned back to the woman. “We have everything.”
The woman looked up at Dave, smiled distractedly, and looked back down at her phone.
“Everything seems to be in order,” she said. David wasn’t really surprised to hear that she was also English. It seemed to be the thing with this case.
John nudged Dave’s elbow. “Give her the cat,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“O-kay,” David said slowly, and when he pulled the cat away from his chest, the man in riot gear held up a--was that a cat carrier? How did?
David looked at John, questioning, but John just waved at him to put the cat in the carrier. “It’s what they’re like,” he said, inexplicably. “It’s best just to go with it.”
“What who are like?” David muttered back. He held up the cat, but before he could put it in the carrier, he heard it, yelling from inside the building. He jumped, ready to rush in and do--what he didn’t know. But something. John started next to him, but Sherlock held out a hand, blocking their path.
“No,” he said. “Listen. Observe, John.”
John rolled his eyes, and David was compelled to to the same, but listened like John was doing, eyes shut and face screwed up in concentration. David felt his eyebrows raise. That was definitely Tim, he would recognize that accent anywhere. But he wasn’t in pain, and he wasn’t scared. He sounded almost--pissed.
The muffled yelling sharpened as Tim came through the doorway, red faced, bruised and with a scabbed over cut on his cheek, but lively and followed by a sheepish looking man who was, David was pretty sure, the soccer-player boyfriend.
“And another thing,” Tim yelled. He stopped, seeing the small gathering on the sidewalk. “Is that Tigerlilly?”
David looked at the cat in his hands, looked at the irate Tim storming towards them, and wished he could be anywhere else. Tim opened his mouth, probably to continue yelling, but Sherlock cut him off.
“Your cat will not be harmed, I assure you,” Sherlock said. “But he is a vital witness to the events that led to your recent imprisonment.”
It took the wind out of Tim’s sails. “What?” He said.
“Your cat,” Sherlock said. “Tigerlilly, has pika. I could tell by the plants in your flat.”
“Well, yeah,” Tim said. “My--wait, my plants?”
“Your cat was a gift from your lover, here,” Sherlock said, and David could already recognize the glint in Sherlock’s eye. This is what John was telling him. Sherlock loves an audience. “Who had Tigerlilly for a few weeks before giving her to you, partially because he knew you would like her, and partially because the data chip had gone missing and you wanted the cat cared for.”
“I--” Tim said. He turned around and looked at the player. What’s his face, David thought. Greene? Greene didn’t look so hot, pale and staring at Sherlock like the man had three heads.
“What he didn’t realize, however,” Sherlock went on. “Was that he had given away the data chip.”
“The pika,” John said. “The cat ate the chip.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock said. “When they arrived for Greene and the chip, they found him missing. They knew of you from the surveillance they had on him--don’t give me that look John, of course there was surveillance--and assumed, in a way correctly, that if Greene was going to hide the chip, he’d hide it with you.” Sherlock paused, looking Tim over. “They took you, then, but--ah.” Sherlock said. “Greene took you. He brought you here, explained how this was out of his hands. He kept them from hurting you too badly.” Sherlock looked Greene over. “If I were you, I’d leave him now.” Sherlock raised an eye. “And get tested for Syphilis. It’s on the rise, you know.”
Tim stared at Sherlock, who gestured. “This man is going to take the cat,” the riot-gear man took Tigerlilly from David’s hands and, while David wasn’t sorry to see her go, he was a little worried about the lost look on Tim’s face. “And once they’ve retrieved the chip, Tigerlilly will be returned to you, unharmed.”
Tim looked at Sherlock, then at Tigerlilly, then at Greene. Then back at Sherlock. Then he spun, and punched Greene right in the nose.
“And that’s for Tigerlilly you bastard!” Tim then turned and stomped away to a waiting ambulance while Greene sat on the ground, holding a bloody nose.
David was pretty sure that meant that Tim was, once again, single.
***
Things moved pretty quickly after that, John thought. Mycroft’s Americans cleaned up the warehouse, so quickly and thoroughly that Sherlock was stumped on details that surprised John. Well. Stumped for a bit. Not much got past Sherlock these days.
Tim was going to be fine; his ego was mostly bruised, and he was riding on a crest of righteous anger. John worried what would happen when the anger burned out, but, well, that was David’s problem now.
David was really a good sport about the whole thing. He was a big help, whether or not Sherlock would admit it. John last saw him talking to Tim, and riding with him in the ambulance.
John and Sherlock had gone back to the hotel, and made use of the feather-top mattress. If there was one thing to say about America, they certainly knew their comforts.
John slept the sleep of the well fucked, and when he woke Sherlock was gone. John wasn’t too worried. He had probably gone to see Irene, again. To say goodbye. There was a note on the pillow.
Mycroft said he wont move the tickets forward. That we’re to consider our stay a “Vacation.” I knew the mystery was too easily solved.
John snorted. Only Sherlock would consider a kidnapping a vacation. It was just as well, he though, leaning back and stretching. If we had tried another “proper” vacation, he would have blown up the hotel in about three hours. Again.
“Really, John,” Sherlock said from the doorway to the bedroom. “It was only the once.”
John grinned at Sherlock, upside down. “One day, I’ll stop being amazed that you know what I’m thinking.”
“And let things get dull?” Sherlock grinned. “Never.”
John laughed, and mock glared. “Why are you still dressed?” He asked. “We’re on a vacation, apparently.”
“And that means we must be naked?” Sherlock asked, but he was already unbuttoning his shirt.
“It does if Mycroft’s footing the bill,” John said. Sherlock paused, and when John looked up from where Sherlock’s pale skin was being slowly revealed, Sherlock was grinning.
“I do love you, John.”
John knew that tomorrow would involve some mad scheme, some crazy circumstance, some wild adventure on new soil; something that would have Mycroft wishing he had let them back to London. He knew that if it didn’t, Sherlock would weak unintended havoc trying to keep from boredom, once their bodies became too sore for sex. They’d probably see Irene, again. And David. And Sherlock would be there, throughout it all, in the middle of it all, the cause of it all, looking back at John, reaching out for John, with John.
John grinned. “I love you, too. Idiot.”
The end.
Chapter 7
Epilogue