The American Affair: Chapter 5
The American Affair: Chapter 5
“Hello, Irene.” Sherlock said. “It’s good to see you again. Though I’m afraid you’ve rather broken, John.”
“You’re dead!” John said, pointing his finger. David stepped back. There was surprise in John’s voice, but something else as well. Something darker, accusatory. “You--!”
Irene smiled at John. David had never seen Irene smile like that before, predatory and utterly confident with a hint of “I know something you don’t know.” Still, David was unsurprised. Of course Irene could smile like that.
“I died in all but body, Doctor.” Irene said. “To escape the web.”
John paled, and clenched his teeth, muscle jumping in his jaw. The stalemate continued, John staring at Irene, Irene smiling at John, Sherlock glancing between them, almost nervous.
John whirled on Sherlock. “You knew!” he said. “You--Mycroft said it could only be you--you--” John stopped and barked out a laugh. He bent over, hands braced on his knees, and his shoulders shook. Sherlock took a step towards John, but John held up a hand. He looked up, face red, and his voice was almost fond when he said, “You idiot.”
David knew he was missing something big, and looked to Irene for a hint. Irene saw him looking, and her smile faded into something he was more used to, but he could see the shadows of that harder woman underneath. He had a feeling he always would, now.
“So,” he said. “I take it you know each other?”
“It’s ancient history,” Irene said. “Sherlock helped me out of a bad situation.”
“By faking your death,” David said. “You know, if it were anyone else, Irene, I would be surprised.”
Irene raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. David heard murmuring behind him, and when he turned to look, he saw John and Sherlock whispering to each other. He looked back to Irene, and saw hew smiling indulgently at them, and David nodded towards her desk. “We need a list of company clients, none that were Tim’s.” He thought for a moment. “Separate them by big boss, then by sport. And put Rich’s at the top. They’d be the one Tim’s most likely to have met.”
Irene nodded and sat at her desk, fingernails clacking against the keyboard. She looked up as the data compiled, her eyes coming to rest, once again, on Sherlock and John. “They’re very sweet, together.”
David looked over. John looked ready to beat Sherlock’s skull in, but his hands, where they were twisted in Sherlock’s scarf, were gentle. Likewise, Sherlock’s hands grasped at John like he was afraid John would disappear, belying his scowl. Irene was right; it was a surprisingly tender sight.
“And good on John,” Irene continues, her fingers flying once more.
“Oh?” David asked, not wanting to be seen prying when the subjects were right over there, but desperate to know just how they happened.
Irene’s look said, “you’re not fooling me,” but she answered as she hit “print,” letting the noise of the machine help cover their voices. “When I first met them, they had been roommates, and partners in crime fighting, for little over a year. They were already the other half of each other; a couple, a unit--even though Sherlock didn’t consider himself a sexual being, and John was clinging to heterosexuality in that way men do when they’re just about ready to admit that, just maybe, they aren’t as straight as all that.” She paused. “I’m actually surprised anything did happen; they were solid before, they didn’t need sex to solidify anything. Something must have happened that made John realize he was already in love.”
“John?” David asked. “Not Sherlock?”
“Look at them,” Irene said. “Do you really think Sherlock would go anywhere that John didn’t lead?”
David saw what she meant. For all that Sherlock had taken the lead on this case, it was clear to see that John was his anchor; it was because of John that Sherlock could take off into flights of deduction.
The list finished printing and Irene collected it from the printer tray. She handed it to David, and he flipped through it briefly. He frowned at what he saw.
Each agent specialized in a particular sport and division. Rich worked with the NASL, and provided agents for the top soccer players. Soccer player, huh Tim? David thought, and his mind flashed to Kacy, who could barely kick a ball in a straight line. Whatever floats your boat.
He turned back to Sherlock and John. It was time to talk to Rich.
***
John knew, from long years of experience, that he would never actually strangle Sherlock. He’d miss him too much, never mind the mess and the questions. Still, at times like this, it was bloody tempting.
“I thought we were past the part where we kept secrets from each other,” John said, and it only hurts a little. John had so few secrets before The Hiatus, Sherlock plucking them from the air like he was wont to do, that he had coveted the ones he had been able to keep. That ended, and as did Sherlock’s deliberate inscrutability for John, with Sherlock’s return. Now, Sherlock’s wrapped around him--He’s wrapped around Sherlock--they’re wrapped around each other in a way they rarely do outside the sanctity of their flat.
“Not my secret,” Sherlock said, and there’s hurt in his eyes like gets sometimes when he doesn’t believe John’s really forgiven him for The Hiatus. To be fair, John’s not really sure he’s completely forgiven Sherlock, but he’s lived in a world-without-Sherlock and, if there’s one thing he learned, it’s that it wasn’t really *living* without Sherlock there. He needs him, just as much as Sherlock needs him, and at the end of the day, Sherlock is there, alive and breathing, and really--that’s all that matters.
John nodded, and pushed the issue aside--they had a case. “We should get that list,” he said. He tried to pull back, but Sherlock tightened his grip.
“In a moment,” Sherlock said, and John narrowed his eyes.
“How much of this is performing for Irene?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, (really, John? Jealousy? Dull.) and John raised both of his in return (I can see right past your bullshit, so don’t even try it). John had a lot of time to think about Sherlock and Irene. He had teased them, then, about what had appeared to be growing sexual tension, had even offered up his middle name for their kid, because he knew the archaic Hamish would appeal to Sherlock’s aesthetic and his link to John, as well as piss Irene off. Irene, however, had taken it for the warning he didn’t know he was trying to send; back off, he’s mine.
In hindsight, it was easy to see the signs of attraction as what they were - performance - on both their ends. Neither had desired the other sexually, they were just playing the game. They had everybody fooled, including each other, briefly. Sherlock always did have a weakness for playmates who would play at his level.
John didn’t count. He and Sherlock played at a level all their own.
Sherlock pulled away after a moment, just as David approached them with the list of players.
“Here’s the list,” David said, and held it out. Sherlock took it, eyes scanning over the page, before he nodded and handed it to John. John looked but, not really know what Sherlock was looking for, could see nothing. He repressed a sigh.
David continued. “Rich should still be in his office,” he said. “It’s this way.” He lead them across to the other side of the floor, and over to another secretary. John looked at the young woman. Highly polished, like shining plastic, she was a cheap imitation of what Irene naturally exuded. Dyed hair. Too much, if well crafted, make up. Fake breasts, if John was any judge. Clothes well made, but too tight. She was one step away from snapping her gum. John smiled, and she blinked at him. John nudged Sherlock, who pasted on a grin of his own, and she startled, surprised and slightly flustered. Tosser.
“Susan, these are the men looking into Tim’s absence. They need to talk to Rich.”
Susan barely glanced at David, focusing on Sherlock’s cheekbones. John almost felt sorry for her, like he did for anyone getting suckered in by Sherlock’s “charming man” act. He would have, if he hadn’t seen the look on David’s face, the one that said this was not a new snub, that this woman looked down on David, and that David knew. John had a feeling that she took her cues from her boss, and that they were about the meet the American version of Sebastian Wilkes.
The secretary hit the intercom, and said, “Sir, Mr. Karofsky is here with some police to speak with you.”
John felt Sherlock stiffen. He hated being called “police.”
“What?” This Rich bloke’s voice sounded tinny through the intercom. “Well don’t keep them waiting, send them in!”
The secretary smiled at them, fake for John and David, smarmy for Sherlock, and gestured to the door. “Go on in.”
Rich turned out to be an older man, grey at the temples, and in rather good form. He, like David, had an air of ex-athlete about him, and quite a bit more “boys-club”. He greeted Sherlock and John with the typical American over-enthusiasm, saying inane greetings and finally, “I’m always happy to help the boys in blue.”
“We’re not police,” Sherlock said. “We’re working with the police. I’m a private consultant. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Doctor Watson.”
John smiled at the way Rich twitched. “Partner” was a common enough word for lovers in the states that he could see Rich connect them with David and get the--erroneous but still correct--answer. And he saw how it made Rick pull back, uncomfortable. That, plus the secretary, made John smirk.
He must hate Irene.
Sherlock was looking around the room, eyes not settling on anything. “When was the last time you spoke with Tim?”
“His last performance review. Two months ago.” The answer was given quickly, too quickly not to have been prepared for.
“And how long has he known that you’re cheating on your wife?” John looked at Sherlock sharply, but Sherlock was looking at the wall of newspaper clipping that had been framed and hung on the wall.
“Wha-what?” Rich sputtered. “I’m not--!”
“Of course you are,” Sherlock cut him off. “With that excuse for a secretary you have. She certainly didn’t get her job for her work ethic, or her typing speed, not with those nails. So she obviously got it for her willingness to show of her chest--as recent acquisition too, if I’m not mistaken.”
Rich was spluttering. “Get out!”
“Gladly.” Sherlock said, and swooped from the room. John hot to follow. He heard David close the door behind them.
“Sherlock! What the hell?”
“Relax, John. He’s scum, but he had nothing to do with this. Besides, now David has something to use the next time Rich, or that thing at his front desk, act like the bigots they are.” He sniffed. “I can’t abide bigots.”
John looked back to apologize to David, knowing that Sherlock rarely thought through having to work with someone after something like this. But David was grinning.
“That was amazing.”
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
“Hello, Irene.” Sherlock said. “It’s good to see you again. Though I’m afraid you’ve rather broken, John.”
“You’re dead!” John said, pointing his finger. David stepped back. There was surprise in John’s voice, but something else as well. Something darker, accusatory. “You--!”
Irene smiled at John. David had never seen Irene smile like that before, predatory and utterly confident with a hint of “I know something you don’t know.” Still, David was unsurprised. Of course Irene could smile like that.
“I died in all but body, Doctor.” Irene said. “To escape the web.”
John paled, and clenched his teeth, muscle jumping in his jaw. The stalemate continued, John staring at Irene, Irene smiling at John, Sherlock glancing between them, almost nervous.
John whirled on Sherlock. “You knew!” he said. “You--Mycroft said it could only be you--you--” John stopped and barked out a laugh. He bent over, hands braced on his knees, and his shoulders shook. Sherlock took a step towards John, but John held up a hand. He looked up, face red, and his voice was almost fond when he said, “You idiot.”
David knew he was missing something big, and looked to Irene for a hint. Irene saw him looking, and her smile faded into something he was more used to, but he could see the shadows of that harder woman underneath. He had a feeling he always would, now.
“So,” he said. “I take it you know each other?”
“It’s ancient history,” Irene said. “Sherlock helped me out of a bad situation.”
“By faking your death,” David said. “You know, if it were anyone else, Irene, I would be surprised.”
Irene raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. David heard murmuring behind him, and when he turned to look, he saw John and Sherlock whispering to each other. He looked back to Irene, and saw hew smiling indulgently at them, and David nodded towards her desk. “We need a list of company clients, none that were Tim’s.” He thought for a moment. “Separate them by big boss, then by sport. And put Rich’s at the top. They’d be the one Tim’s most likely to have met.”
Irene nodded and sat at her desk, fingernails clacking against the keyboard. She looked up as the data compiled, her eyes coming to rest, once again, on Sherlock and John. “They’re very sweet, together.”
David looked over. John looked ready to beat Sherlock’s skull in, but his hands, where they were twisted in Sherlock’s scarf, were gentle. Likewise, Sherlock’s hands grasped at John like he was afraid John would disappear, belying his scowl. Irene was right; it was a surprisingly tender sight.
“And good on John,” Irene continues, her fingers flying once more.
“Oh?” David asked, not wanting to be seen prying when the subjects were right over there, but desperate to know just how they happened.
Irene’s look said, “you’re not fooling me,” but she answered as she hit “print,” letting the noise of the machine help cover their voices. “When I first met them, they had been roommates, and partners in crime fighting, for little over a year. They were already the other half of each other; a couple, a unit--even though Sherlock didn’t consider himself a sexual being, and John was clinging to heterosexuality in that way men do when they’re just about ready to admit that, just maybe, they aren’t as straight as all that.” She paused. “I’m actually surprised anything did happen; they were solid before, they didn’t need sex to solidify anything. Something must have happened that made John realize he was already in love.”
“John?” David asked. “Not Sherlock?”
“Look at them,” Irene said. “Do you really think Sherlock would go anywhere that John didn’t lead?”
David saw what she meant. For all that Sherlock had taken the lead on this case, it was clear to see that John was his anchor; it was because of John that Sherlock could take off into flights of deduction.
The list finished printing and Irene collected it from the printer tray. She handed it to David, and he flipped through it briefly. He frowned at what he saw.
Each agent specialized in a particular sport and division. Rich worked with the NASL, and provided agents for the top soccer players. Soccer player, huh Tim? David thought, and his mind flashed to Kacy, who could barely kick a ball in a straight line. Whatever floats your boat.
He turned back to Sherlock and John. It was time to talk to Rich.
***
John knew, from long years of experience, that he would never actually strangle Sherlock. He’d miss him too much, never mind the mess and the questions. Still, at times like this, it was bloody tempting.
“I thought we were past the part where we kept secrets from each other,” John said, and it only hurts a little. John had so few secrets before The Hiatus, Sherlock plucking them from the air like he was wont to do, that he had coveted the ones he had been able to keep. That ended, and as did Sherlock’s deliberate inscrutability for John, with Sherlock’s return. Now, Sherlock’s wrapped around him--He’s wrapped around Sherlock--they’re wrapped around each other in a way they rarely do outside the sanctity of their flat.
“Not my secret,” Sherlock said, and there’s hurt in his eyes like gets sometimes when he doesn’t believe John’s really forgiven him for The Hiatus. To be fair, John’s not really sure he’s completely forgiven Sherlock, but he’s lived in a world-without-Sherlock and, if there’s one thing he learned, it’s that it wasn’t really *living* without Sherlock there. He needs him, just as much as Sherlock needs him, and at the end of the day, Sherlock is there, alive and breathing, and really--that’s all that matters.
John nodded, and pushed the issue aside--they had a case. “We should get that list,” he said. He tried to pull back, but Sherlock tightened his grip.
“In a moment,” Sherlock said, and John narrowed his eyes.
“How much of this is performing for Irene?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, (really, John? Jealousy? Dull.) and John raised both of his in return (I can see right past your bullshit, so don’t even try it). John had a lot of time to think about Sherlock and Irene. He had teased them, then, about what had appeared to be growing sexual tension, had even offered up his middle name for their kid, because he knew the archaic Hamish would appeal to Sherlock’s aesthetic and his link to John, as well as piss Irene off. Irene, however, had taken it for the warning he didn’t know he was trying to send; back off, he’s mine.
In hindsight, it was easy to see the signs of attraction as what they were - performance - on both their ends. Neither had desired the other sexually, they were just playing the game. They had everybody fooled, including each other, briefly. Sherlock always did have a weakness for playmates who would play at his level.
John didn’t count. He and Sherlock played at a level all their own.
Sherlock pulled away after a moment, just as David approached them with the list of players.
“Here’s the list,” David said, and held it out. Sherlock took it, eyes scanning over the page, before he nodded and handed it to John. John looked but, not really know what Sherlock was looking for, could see nothing. He repressed a sigh.
David continued. “Rich should still be in his office,” he said. “It’s this way.” He lead them across to the other side of the floor, and over to another secretary. John looked at the young woman. Highly polished, like shining plastic, she was a cheap imitation of what Irene naturally exuded. Dyed hair. Too much, if well crafted, make up. Fake breasts, if John was any judge. Clothes well made, but too tight. She was one step away from snapping her gum. John smiled, and she blinked at him. John nudged Sherlock, who pasted on a grin of his own, and she startled, surprised and slightly flustered. Tosser.
“Susan, these are the men looking into Tim’s absence. They need to talk to Rich.”
Susan barely glanced at David, focusing on Sherlock’s cheekbones. John almost felt sorry for her, like he did for anyone getting suckered in by Sherlock’s “charming man” act. He would have, if he hadn’t seen the look on David’s face, the one that said this was not a new snub, that this woman looked down on David, and that David knew. John had a feeling that she took her cues from her boss, and that they were about the meet the American version of Sebastian Wilkes.
The secretary hit the intercom, and said, “Sir, Mr. Karofsky is here with some police to speak with you.”
John felt Sherlock stiffen. He hated being called “police.”
“What?” This Rich bloke’s voice sounded tinny through the intercom. “Well don’t keep them waiting, send them in!”
The secretary smiled at them, fake for John and David, smarmy for Sherlock, and gestured to the door. “Go on in.”
Rich turned out to be an older man, grey at the temples, and in rather good form. He, like David, had an air of ex-athlete about him, and quite a bit more “boys-club”. He greeted Sherlock and John with the typical American over-enthusiasm, saying inane greetings and finally, “I’m always happy to help the boys in blue.”
“We’re not police,” Sherlock said. “We’re working with the police. I’m a private consultant. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Doctor Watson.”
John smiled at the way Rich twitched. “Partner” was a common enough word for lovers in the states that he could see Rich connect them with David and get the--erroneous but still correct--answer. And he saw how it made Rick pull back, uncomfortable. That, plus the secretary, made John smirk.
He must hate Irene.
Sherlock was looking around the room, eyes not settling on anything. “When was the last time you spoke with Tim?”
“His last performance review. Two months ago.” The answer was given quickly, too quickly not to have been prepared for.
“And how long has he known that you’re cheating on your wife?” John looked at Sherlock sharply, but Sherlock was looking at the wall of newspaper clipping that had been framed and hung on the wall.
“Wha-what?” Rich sputtered. “I’m not--!”
“Of course you are,” Sherlock cut him off. “With that excuse for a secretary you have. She certainly didn’t get her job for her work ethic, or her typing speed, not with those nails. So she obviously got it for her willingness to show of her chest--as recent acquisition too, if I’m not mistaken.”
Rich was spluttering. “Get out!”
“Gladly.” Sherlock said, and swooped from the room. John hot to follow. He heard David close the door behind them.
“Sherlock! What the hell?”
“Relax, John. He’s scum, but he had nothing to do with this. Besides, now David has something to use the next time Rich, or that thing at his front desk, act like the bigots they are.” He sniffed. “I can’t abide bigots.”
John looked back to apologize to David, knowing that Sherlock rarely thought through having to work with someone after something like this. But David was grinning.
“That was amazing.”
Chapter 4
Chapter 6