(Sherlock/White Collar) Artisan of Fortune Part 1 for daymarket
Title: Artisan of Fortune (1/2)
Authors: shinychimera and yeomanrand
Fandoms: Sherlock BBC and White Collar
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade, mention of Mycroft; Caffrey, mention of Kate and Peter
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 12,516
Spoilers: Pre-series events for both shows, spoilers for White Collar S02x11 "Forging Bonds"
Warnings: Injury, illegal drug use
Disclaimer: Sherlock and White Collar belong to their respective creators
Authors' Notes: Please hover over non-English words for a translation.
Thanks to perdiccas and thesmallhobbit for making sure Sherlock sounded like Sherlock, and helping us dodge unnecessary Americanisms; thanks to sangueuk for doing the same and also providing beta support; thanks to auctorial for beta-reading this behemoth, and especial thanks to daymarket for the prompt! (We've made edits since initial beta; any errors are ours alone and concrit always welcome.)
Thank you also to LL at deviantart for use of this stock image.
Summary: Twenty-year-old Sherlock Holmes may have many reasons for living rough on the streets of London, but if he thought it would expose him to a less predictable variety of humankind, he had been sorely disappointed - until the day he encounters charming American visitor Neal Caffrey. Unravelling why Neal's sterling mannerisms don't quite mesh with his counterfeit style might be even more exhilarating for Sherlock than combining their talents to escape a spot of international trouble. The two young men teach each other many things during their adventure - including subtle lessons that take some time to sink in.
London, 1996
A heartless autumn wind played cat-and-mouse with the clouds, and Sherlock itched to be moving again. But restless hungers required feeding and he'd found excellent pickings in the traffic-hemmed square, so the lanky youth forced himself to remain: sprawled carelessly on a bench with his long ratty greatcoat buttoned up against the late afternoon chill, sizing up the passersby.
"Tell your fortune," he called to the merchant scuttling along with the shoulder bag he really shouldn't be hugging so assiduously - not expecting a response, but advertising instead to the wives ambling behind him with their shopping bags. He inhaled the cold air and smiled for them. "Tell your fortune for a sandwich."
They laughed into each other's shoulders, weighing the idea, but Sherlock looked on to the next fine suit, already knowing they'd talk each other out of it. He shrugged one shoulder, nudging over-long curls closer and warmer around his windward ear.
"Tell your fortune for a quid," he sing-songed to no one in particular, watching the young man with the Gene Kelly stride approaching along the white railing. He was headed briskly towards the row of hotels, eager to relax after a good day's work. "Tell your fortune for some fish and chips, tell your fortune for a pint."
The man didn't look his way, but smiled gently to himself beneath the brim of his hat, umbrella tip clicking on the pavement. Cheerful, wealthy, well-put-together and... lithe as a cat, far too alert to the flow of foot and vehicle traffic around him. Sherlock sat up, tugging his gloves down over his wrists, tongue probing along the inside of his teeth.
"Tell your fortune? 'Ey, you, high-roller, American, want your fortune told?"
The tapping paused, and the fedora tilted, unshadowing a considering look overlaid by fascinatingly bland curiosity in blue eyes not quite as pale as his own. Dark-haired, clean-cut; keenly handsome, probably, to the girls or boys who cared about that sort of thing. The suit was new and custom made, the tie European, the shoes old and American, obviously, but finely polished and well-cared for, re-soled more than once. A fidgety flip of the umbrella almost reminded Sherlock of the neurotic habits of a certain sibling, before he turned his thoughts away from trenchant paths long since blockaded by blue-and-white 'Do Not Cross' tape.
"All right," the American said, in practised but oh-so-casual Mid-Atlantic English. "Tell me my fortune, o fakir."
Sherlock grinned, unfolding himself from the bench. "Happy to, good sir. Your name?"
The habitual friendly curl of the young man's lips broadened, but he was still so very aware, blade-sharp attention divided neatly between Sherlock and their surroundings. "George Devore."
Oh, you were never a George, Sherlock thought, nodding. He could hardly protest; he hadn't used his own far-too-distinctive name since walking away from uni. "Sean, Sean Holcombe."
He pulled off his gloves and proffered a handshake, needing as much information as he could get on this sleek patchwork of a gentleman before he offered an answer - Sherlock was enthralled by the way the man's conscious lies and inadvertent truths almost fit together, but not quite; near-invisible seams burnished by careful attention, like the repairs to a cherished heirloom. George's stance was relaxed, his handclasp civilised, but he never gave up a useful defensive grip on the umbrella, nor did he allow Sherlock's fingers near his expensive watch. His hands were warm but dry, no signs of nerves, and only the sanded remnants of unusual calluses on fingertips and palm marred his smooth skin.
Sherlock released the hand at the appropriate moment, and his mind considered and rejected a good hundred possible explanations in the time it took him to cast his eyes down and fold his gloves together into his pocket. But George's wariness was about to resolve into impatience - streetwise enough to realize Sherlock might be a pickpocket's distraction, or worse. He was only waiting because Sherlock had said something unusual, something to make the man think he might be a messenger, or... a contact.
Ah. A member of the criminal classes, then. One who relied on brains, rather than brutality. Clever enough to have made a bit of money when he was very young: certainly no older than twenty-five, and quite possibly no more than twenty-ish, like Sherlock himself.
Sherlock lifted his chin, a dozen more misconstrued details leaping to his attention, and looked the man squarely in the eye.
"You're enjoying the fruits of your exacting labours, but making is easier than selling and there's quicksand ahead," Sherlock said, observing narrowed eyes and a caught breath quickly hidden. "The business deal you're pursuing is more risky than you think."
"Aren't they all?" the man replied easily, a lie of amused skepticism in the pinch of his mouth, the tilt of his shoulders; his mind racing down some other channel altogether. Definitely a cryptogram Sherlock needed more time to decipher, but George was already retreating beneath his hat, dipping a hand into his breast pocket and speaking quietly to the pavement. "I suppose the real question is whether it's riskier at this point to back out, or see it through."
"Depends on who you're dealing with," Sherlock murmured, stalling for one more moment, ignoring the proffered fiver and jittering with frustration at the thought of losing this enigma into the anonymous crowds of London. A cloud of pigeons burst into the air beyond George's left shoulder - a warning from a fellow street denizen - and Sherlock's mind abruptly shifted gears. His gaze darted to the shop window with the most useful indirect reflection, absorbed the implications of a stance, bulk, haircut, and shoes that he recognized instantly, along with a face that he didn't. "But I think I can guess, if you planned to meet the man at your five o'clock, da, moĭ fal'shivomonetchik?"
George looked up, face gone perfectly still, making it frustratingly difficult to tell if he understood the damning word or just recognised the language. His smothered reaction was easy to interpret, though: sheer bloody terror, expressed in exactly the same way Sherlock would express it if he'd just discovered that he'd drawn the interest of the Russian Mafiya.
Bloody hell.
Memories, meanings, maps and more flicked through Sherlock's adrenaline-charged consciousness - heightened sensory input, rapid decisions, a euphoric excitement better than any cocaine high.
Before more variables had a chance to enter the equation, Sherlock stepped forward, altering his body language. He stroked his long fingers around George's hand, transferring the folded bank note smoothly to his own palm and concealing its colour. He tilted his head invitingly.
George looked at him blankly, almost too long, before breaking the surface of his cold shock and recognising the escape route Sherlock was offering him. The smile returned to his face without touching his eyes, and he echoed the head-tilt: lead on.
Sherlock pivoted away from the watchful thug, not bothering to hide his face - although things were going to get very ugly with his dealer if rumour ever got back to Viktor that "Sean" would turn tricks after all. But he made an attempt to keep George's face out of line of sight as they strolled towards the row of shops, arms brushing intimately. George cooperated, keeping the sheltering brim of his hat low, giving him several quick sideways looks within an awareness of their surroundings Sherlock hadn't thought could get any sharper.
"Sean," George said, something low and warning in his voice, his gaze catching on something - someone - to Sherlock's left.
Sherlock kept walking without looking. "You exercise, yes? Make good time on the track? Do you care about the hat?"
"Not a bit," George lied.
"Through the next shop then, exit's at the - " Heavy footsteps pounded behind them and they bolted together through the open shop door " - back left."
They dodged dress racks and the counter to burst through to the rear store room; George dropped the umbrella and hat into a bin along the way, and loosened the buttons of the suit jacket. The shopkeeper's shouts gave way to voices in Russian and Sherlock shoved George to the right as soon as they emerged into the alleyway at the back.
"Up, up," he said, clambering up onto the edge of a skip, heart pounding, already trying to decide which way to go off the roof.
"Left," George said, hitching himself up the wall's handholds on Sherlock's heels. "You want to go right, they'll expect you to go right."
"Only sane option to the left," he panted, "is down the drainpipe and a sprint to the tube station. Have to be fast, very fast."
"And the insane option?"
Sherlock laughed with the thrill. They could both hear the scuff and clang of men with metal in their hands climbing behind them. "Sheer three-storey drop into the off-license's skip, hope they’re throwing away cardboard from Thursday’s deliveries like they should be, and not glass..."
"I'll hope."
Sherlock grinned, and led him running across the connected rooftops, prioritising getting out of line-of-sight of the now-silent thugs behind them. He turned the corner of a lift shaft and pressed his back up against the wall, dragging in deep breaths.
"You need to quit smoking," Neal said.
Sherlock glared at him, pointed at the far edge of the roof. "Dodge to there, swing down under the cornice until we can see the recycling skip and position ourselves - between the dangle and the rubbish, total drop will be about twenty feet. Still game?"
"I'm not tired yet. You?" George said, head up, listening.
Sherlock heard them too. "Never. Let's go."
He took off running. George swore at him, but wasn't more than a step or two behind. Odds were in their favour for a reasonably soft landing but still, trusting his life, someone else's life, to anything less than certainty...
Sherlock slithered over the parapet feet first, coat buttons catching on the edge, suppressing thought and fear and letting illusory confidence carry his momentum across the underslung gap between the cornice and the reed moulding that provided scant space for his fingertips.
Heart pounding, fingers already shaking, Sherlock glanced down between his feet, snapped at George.
"To my left."
With the same balance of hurry and caution and terrified exhilaration, George slid over the edge, going deathly pale as he caught his weight on the narrow projection. He had a straight drop, and Sherlock was less than a yard off target - and the skip was full of jumbled piles of half-collapsed cardboard boxes, best he could have hoped for.
George looked down, adjusted slightly to the left, and let go, and Sherlock's attention focused wholly down to aching fingers on gritty concrete, and closing that one-yard gap by swinging his weight and shifting his hands three times before he couldn't grip anymore.
He sucked in one panicked gasp - the skip was under him and George wasn't but the boxes collapsed the wrong way and then his leg collapsed the wrong way and then it was all about keeping his mouth clamped shut with the world going red around him, because there were still villains with guns up there and vanishing into thin air was more important than pain, only pain, mere pain.
Hands around his shoulders, an urgent whisper. George hauling him backward, toward the edge of the skip. Arms helping him to the ground through a haze of torment. Dragging him into a tight space between cold yellow steel and rough brick, under a skewed slab of cardboard. George kneeling behind him, one hand ready to clamp over Sherlock's cries if it came to that.
It didn't. Quite.
Their mingled panting sounded loud in the confined space, but it was drowned out by the harsh, confused shouts from above. Sherlock struggled to push aside the nauseating pain, understand the words, identify the dialect - Novgorod, maybe? George's legs were tense where Sherlock leaned on them, his eyes locked on a wedge of fading daylight alongside the box that made their makeshift roof.
They waited until the voices had retreated in frustration, and then waited longer yet.
"I think they're gone," George said softly, at last, and leaned forward so he could peel Sherlock's coat open below the lowest button. "Let me have a look at your leg."
"You look. I'd just as soon not."
George moved his limb only minutely, but he might as well be manipulating it with pincers of fire; Sherlock had to squeeze eyes and jaw tightly shut, retreating into a cloud of medical Latin.
"You're not bleeding, and I don't feel any breaks, if that makes you feel any better," George said after a moment.
Sherlock grimaced and let George manhandle him to his feet - helping in any way at all sent agony shrieking through his knee, bits of the joint sliding in decidedly unnatural ways. He braced against the corner of the skip, keeping all his weight off the right leg, and jerked his chin toward the gate.
"Was planning to climb over... don't suppose you can pick a lock?"
George gave him a look more eloquent than words. "Workers?"
"Only in...the shop, this time of day."
A considering look between Sherlock and the gate, then George stripped off his jacket and his linen shirt, with a wince, to reveal a white vest and pale arms more muscular than Sherlock might have guessed.
"You should have stayed hidden on the roof. They were after me," he scolded, depositing the clothing in Sherlock's arms, pocketing his watch and a narrow leather case before mussing his own dark curls further. Sherlock snorted. Oh yes, they'd have just asked me a couple of polite questions and then let me go.
He watched George turn and survey the enclosed yard - barely room for the skip and the sadly absent Vespa usually parked there, and for the skip lorry and delivery vans to load and unload.
George slouched across to the gate; still graceful, but not as out-of-place in their environment as he'd been moments before. Also favouring his right shoulder, though Sherlock doubted anyone else would notice; he suppressed a perverse relief that he hadn't been singularly unlucky.
Resisting the urge to close his eyes, Sherlock instead rationed his attention between working out what had to happen once they were past this obstacle, and watching this new facet of George at work. He was startled by how smoothly George opened the lock; just a blink or two before the tools were winking back into their case and the man turned back, frowned and returned to his side.
He laid a hand on Sherlock's cheek, searching his eyes; Sherlock shrugged irritably.
"I'm fine," he snapped. "Injury to the knee is unlikely to be fatal."
"No. You are in shock, though," George countered, slipping back into but not bothering to button shirt and jacket. His speech was now wholly American, casual and cosmopolitan with tantalising almost-scrubbed hints of southern vowels. "Also not fatal, unless you pass out and we get caught. But not much we can do about it here."
"Acute stress reaction at most." Sherlock put extra effort into speaking crisply to demonstrate his brain had hardly been wasting time in shock, glowering at George. "We need to get you out of sight. They know your face, and possibly mine too now. And I know for a fact they've got fingers in at least some of the hospitals and surgeries around here - I assume you know the Russian Mafiya are well-established in London since the collapse of the Soviet Union?"
"I'd heard rumours," George answered, weary but not dismissive. "Come on, then, you've already got a plan in your head."
Mollified, Sherlock gestured past the gate. "You'll get us out to the high street where there will be taxis, stay at my humble abode tonight, leave in the morning. Humble being a gross exaggeration in this case, but it's well-hidden."
"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that." He slipped under Sherlock's arm, taking his weight again despite the pain the kindness had to be causing him. No arguing with necessity, though, since George obviously didn't intend to leave him behind.
"Do you...ever stop trying to...charm people?" A couple of even breaths eased his lightheadedness, and Sherlock found a rhythm of leaning and hopping that wouldn't hinder George much as they approached the gate. "You'll do the walking, I'll do the watching, fair?"
"Sounds perfect. And it depends."
Hold that thought, Sherlock told himself as they paused at the gate; sharpening into full observation mode, scanning the alley, the rooftops, the vehicles, the sewer grates, every detail of their surroundings.
"Go," he whispered, trusting his body to George's care, the pain and their awkward progress distant as his senses raked the environment for any clue that their pursuers were near, or had been. Without being asked, George paused where the busier traffic became visible, and Sherlock studied the scene carefully before giving a terse nod; for good measure, he picked out the taxi George was likely to flag down, was reasonably sure it was a driver who would take them into the urban wilderness without complaint.
He gave their destination in Tower Hamlets to the cabbie evenly enough, but the last vestiges of his concentration shattered with the agony of folding into the back seat, despite George's best efforts to manoeuver them in gently. He bit down hard on the undignified noise that escaped him, pushing back against the seat looking for an angle that made his knee, grossly swollen against the denim of his jeans, throb slightly less viciously with the motion of the car.
George's hands took hold again, unasked, pulling Sherlock sideways so that his leg was propped diagonally across the seat, and a half-dozen peevish interjections and reminders bounced through his skull - was George watching for cars or cabs following, now that he was no longer walking for both of them? - but somehow they never made it out of his mouth. Instead he found himself leaning on George's side, his face pressed against the loose linen shirt, letting it absorb his ragged breathing as the trip blurred by.
His mind wandered, picking apart the man's complex scent as a means of avoiding the pain. The fresh sweat of exertion, of course, strong but not unpleasant on its own, tainted by acrid fear. A touch of blood - had he cut himself on the cardboard? Bland hotel soap - was it possible to figure which hotel, he wondered fitfully, or did they all use the same brands? And an elusive wisp of something else, sharp and oily...acetone? turpentine? No, a turpenoid, mineral based...
They both braced against the slowing of the taxi; George murmured "We're clear. You stay put."
His warmth slid out from under Sherlock. He listened to George's quick, almost flirtatious exchange with the cabbie, pleased to note he'd dropped a hint of East End into his spurious accent. He wasn't surprised when both taxi doors opened and two pair of hands did their best to gentle him out into the twilight gloom.
Enough, he told himself, opening his senses to the dingy rows of red-brick buildings, the near-deserted streets flecked with litter and graffiti. Pain's just a signal about damage; message received.
He gritted his teeth, wanting to cut short George's banter about his unlucky brother, but they were going to be memorable to the cabbie whether or not an explanation was offered, whether or not George overtipped for the ride. No help for any of it now besides getting inside to his stash.
Once the taxi was gone, he wearily gestured to the paint-patched warehouse door almost hidden behind the bins of the Forge and Compass, a pub that was probably already cheap and tacky a hundred years ago when these buildings had been wool storehouses for the docks.
"Key?" George asked.
"You only lock a door when there's something worth protecting inside. Just open it."
George pulled him through and picked up the camping lamp Sherlock pointed out, switched it on and closed the door firmly behind them. Light bobbing, they manoeuvred through the trashed remains of a repair shop, into the small office with newer-than-they-looked blinds covering the wrap-around windows. Sherlock had shoved the desk against the wall near the door, blacked out the tiny external window, and dragged a futon mattress into a vaguely couch-like configuration against the ancient iron filing cabinets, but the dusty, abandoned place was otherwise unchanged since it had last been ransacked for saleables.
"Homey," George said dryly, setting the lantern down on the desk.
"I warned you." Sherlock forestalled their movement toward the mattress, leaning down to release the catch that made it look like the overstuffed bottom desk drawer was simply jammed and not locked. He pulled out a file folder from the back, oil-grimed and overflowing with invoices like all the rest.
"Don't exceed your usual dose," George warned, nothing of charm or grace colouring the statement. "I don't care how much pain you're in."
Sherlock flicked a glance at him, disliking the disdain he perceived in the flat American voice. He leaned heavily on the desk, freeing George from holding him up, and fished a slender leather pen case from between the papers, about the same size as the one George used for his lockpicks. His heart beat faster just holding it.
"Cocaine isn't much of a painkiller. But I will make do with what I have on hand." He hated how brittle his voice sounded; how much he wanted the hit.
George brought his hand up and then grimaced, aborting the gesture. "Either way, we're both going to need some ice. And I need to eat. You?"
"Not hungry now. But I will be sooner or later. You're paying?" Pointless to cushion the request, but his ears warmed a bit anyway.
George's stance softened. "You just saved my life. I think I can cover a meal or two. Pub decent?"
"Tolerable. Barely."
"Lend me your coat, then?" George asked, stripping stiffly out of shirt and suit jacket again.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, and lifted a hand to the buttons of his greatcoat. George was staying ahead of him, at least as far as remaining anonymous.
"Don't worry - you're not at your best," he said with a smile. His arms were beginning to sport a couple of linear bruises, faintly wavy and speckled with blood; too easy to visualise his rough contact with the cardboard. "I promise not to hold it against you."
Back to charming, then. The suspended question of whether or when he ever dropped his winning ways lingered: dependent on what?
Sherlock shifted his weight on his good leg to unwrap the sleeves from his arms and the coat from his rake-thin body. The chill in the shop air bit through the "Nirvana" concert t-shirt he wore underneath; camouflage, amongst the other street kids, and the warmest he'd managed to find, but still faintly clammy with his sweat.
"Let's get you settled."
His makeshift bed had never looked so good; with fraying endurance Sherlock allowed George to ease him down onto his back and prop an overturned bin beneath the futon under his calf.
"Okay?" He waited for Sherlock to nod, once the agony of movement had receded back to mere searing pain. "I'll be quick."
Sherlock controlled his harsh breathing, and watched the man transfer a few notes out of his money clip to the coat's inner pocket; then he turned up the collar and tried on Sherlock's gloves and a different persona at the same time. His receding stride even sounded different: heavier, more workman-like. Remarkable...
The outer door closed, and Sherlock's attention boomeranged back to the case still clamped between his fingers. He argued with himself about whether taking a hit would actually help while he methodically unpacked his emergency stash: a plastic-wrapped syringe, a vial of sterile water, a tiny packet of high-grade cocaine. The drug wouldn't touch the pain, didn't bind with opiate receptors at all, but the high would make it easier to ride through it, disregard it, face necessities like getting his trousers off in one piece. And the temporary energy and alertness would help him to focus on solving the problems he and George had brought upon each other.
Or was his incipient addiction providing useful rationalizations?
The answer was, perhaps, evident in unsteady fingers already measuring a fraction of a gram into the vial and shaking it until the solution was fully dissolved. He realized he was hurrying, inexplicably wanting to have his works packed away before George returned, and forced himself to take his usual deliberate care in tucking a filter into the top of the vial and loading and checking the syringe - more so, because he'd never done it while lying flat on his back before. Finally he was ready to pump his fist to raise the vein in his elbow.
The world narrowed to the point of the needle entering his thin arm, and then flared explosively to life around him again, saturating his tongue and bringing every detail of the cluttered room into brilliant relief.
He sighed and set the syringe aside; felt the chaotic threads of the situation settle within his control again, solutions within reach.
Sherlock wasn't un-aware of George returning with a bag of greasy odors, but the man's actions were blissfully unimportant for the next few minutes, his movements casting fascinating shadows around the room. Gradually, Sherlock's heart rate settled, and he registered icy cold numbing his knee, radiating through his trouser leg from a lumpy plastic bag; and his precious coat had been returned, spread over him like a blanket. He started and groped for the remaining cocaine - still on the mattress, right where he'd left it. Licking dry lips, he disjointedly tucked everything back in the case, made a mental note to replace the syringe later.
George sat on the desk next to the lantern, studying Sherlock with enervated patience, one knee drawn up to his chest and his own bag of ice held to his wounded shoulder. He'd not put his shirt or jacket back on despite the chill. Even in the flat and unromantic light, his silent presence glowed like a film noir leading man, like Delacroix's Hamlet, like a Raphaelite saint. A remote beauty, a work of art to be admired but not desired.
"I don't think I said thank you," George said after another few moments' inscrutable silence. "So, thank you."
"You're welcome." The running, the fear, the thrill, it had all been worth it.
"This is going to sound all sorts of lewd that I don't intend, but are you ready to get your pants off?"
The spell broke, and an earthy snicker escaped Sherlock; at any other time his reaction might have been a simple twitch of the lips, but the disconcerted look on George's face only made the euphoric amusement worse.
"What?"
"Oh, oh, you were doing so well with your Americanisms...."
"I don't follow." Just a man again, frowning, focused inward, clearly running back through what he'd said. "Pants?"
"You may take my trousers off. But the pants underneath stay firmly in place."
"Ah," George said, and the exhalation was light but careful: he was afraid to start laughing. "Definitely lewder than I intended."
He unfolded from the desk, set aside his ice pack and came around to stand at Sherlock's feet, considering the puzzle in front of him. He finally crouched and made quick work of removing Sherlock's shoes - but not his socks, which set Sherlock to grinning again. He at least had the sense to unfasten his own belt and flies, beneath the coat, but thinking of it as a mercy to George's tender sensibilities brought on another storm of helpless giggles.
George lifted the bag of ice from his knee, eyebrows raised, and held it high for just a moment - a flicker of threatening mischief in his blue eyes - before setting it carefully to the side of the futon. He didn't waste time asking again if Sherlock was ready, just worked his jeans off carefully and quickly, cradling his calf to keep the swollen leg as immobile as he could. The coat remained largely undisturbed.
His fingertips were cold with the ice he'd been holding; his deft touch travelled up Sherlock's shin to his knee, probing gently enough, but it still hurt, even numbed up a bit. His muscles jumped with tension.
"I'm no expert, but I'm more sure than I was that there's no break. You need to see a proper doctor, though; I don't imagine a permanent limp would do you any good."
"I will. Tomorrow. When I've sorted the best place to go. But. Day shouldn't make a difference to a torn anterior cruciate ligament, they'd elevate and ice the swelling - well, they'd have better painkillers. But." He blinked at the ceiling, veering away from an unwanted train of thought. "The patella's all right?"
"Seems to be. The anterior..." George shook his head, chuckling; the usual blend of amazement and disbelief. Sherlock's pain wasn't retreating back beneath the veil of pleasure. "You're an autodidact?"
For that, Sherlock lifted his head and smiled at George, delighted not to be the only self-taught student in the room worth being proud of; grateful for the distraction. "One of my favorite words. And no one ever knows what it means."
"Surprise."
"You are full of surprises. Are you going to tell me what all this is about?"
George set the ice back on Sherlock's bare, bruised knee and sat back on his heels, considering. "Were you planning to tell me why you saved my neck out there?"
"So few people are." Surprising. Interesting. Anything other than depressingly predictable. Sherlock let his head fall back onto the makeshift pillow - George's folded jacket, he realized - and began to shiver.
George's snort was nearly inaudible. "There are worse ways to draw someone's attention. Obviously."
"Obviously." The shivering intensified, the dregs of his artificial elation beginning to evaporate and leaving behind a restive tension; dynamic but disagreeable. He counted off the good reasons to be cold: ice pack, unheated room, night falling (or fallen? he didn't like not being sure), but he always worried that cocaine's hyperthermic properties might be getting the better of him. George was still hesitating over what to reveal, and a little comfort was in order.
"Fetch us a blanket? Top left file drawer, there."
"Is that under 'b' for blanket, or do you use some more esoteric system?" George asked, opening the drawer in question.
"Esoteric? No - hidden from visitors hunting for signs of life, easy to reach while standing, not behind the blasted heavy futon, away from the worst of the insects and rats."
"Aha. Perfectly logical, then." Even in the dim light, Sherlock could see amusement brighten George's mobile smile. He spread the heavy synthetic fleece blanket over the top of the coat; a prize for someone in Sherlock's position, tossed in the 50p bin at the charity shop as much for being violently pink as for the saucer-sized hole in one corner. George ran an appreciative hand over the thick, insulated pile, and Sherlock was suddenly certain the position was one George had encountered himself, somewhere in his murky past.
Sherlock steeled himself, braced his good leg and arched his back, inched himself closer to the wall of filing cabinets. The throb in his knee flared and subsided again, and he repositioned the sliding bag of ice with a wince before he looked up and patted the mattress. "Sit, eat, I'll save us both time and tell you what I've already deduced about you."
That faint narrowing of the eyes again, before the covering smile reappeared. George retrieved the bag and lantern from the desk, and settled cross-legged on the futon next to Sherlock to unpack the food. He set a plastic box with a sorry-looking cheese and pickle sandwich on the floor, then unwrapped a warm imitation Cornish pasty, still in the microwave sleeve.
"I'll hazard you're still not hungry," he said, with simple resignation.
Sherlock shook his head. "Your shoes."
George took a tidy bite, arching an eyebrow at him.
"They're handmade Aldens, a brand only made in America, and you've had them a long time. They told me you were on your guard for some reason, didn't want to be taking a chance on new shoes when you might need your agility."
Sherlock scratched at his ribs beneath the coat, warming to the recitation, watching George's face.
"But your suit is brand new, made here in London, still a smudge of tailor's chalk on the cuff, so you had someone you wanted to impress, a new client, a dangerous client, hence: risky business deal. What business? Not something ordinary, you don't have a briefcase callus; no, something else, something odd - calluses left by a tool held and pushed in the palm."
George chewed slowly, carefully, but it wasn't fear holding his tongue: no excessive dilation of the pupils, no acceleration in his breathing, and he'd not been put off his meal yet. He watched Sherlock in return, waiting.
Sherlock continued, making an effort not to speak too quickly.
"That took some serious thought, to recall the burin, used only by engravers, really, and not even by all of them. So many modern, electric tools; one would only use an old-fashioned technique if one wanted to emulate the old masters. Or, of course, work on currency plates."
He'd read that correctly: George couldn't quite conceal a sharp flare of the nostrils; fleeting, but there.
"But government engraving's a narrow, secretive field, an old man's field. Highly unlikely a man as young as you could gain entry, and even if you did, you wouldn't make enough money to dress as you do, tell time as you do, stay in the hotel you're staying in."
Another mild twitch - obviously wondering if Sherlock was guessing, based on the street where they'd met, or if he had somehow deduced the precise hotel. The truth was neither, but that bit of the puzzle didn't matter.
"So. A young artist, already with some success under his belt, trying to break into a difficult business with some unsavoury characters. You'd need a mentor, a master. But the calluses aren't all that recent, and you've taken pains to minimize them. The apprenticeship is over, you've learned all you can of the art, now it's time to prove yourself, win the trust of your mentor's connections. You've been sent to London on some kind of errand, and have either been warned to avoid the Mafiya, or been left ignorant of their interest in the people you're meant to contact. Which?"
George's mind was racing again, behind a somber face this time; weighing and measuring every word he might speak and their possibilities.
"I should deny most of that, you realize."
"Consider the entire story 'alleged'. Or 'allegorical'."
"If I'd had a mentor, he might have been a perebezhchik, so the Mafiya naturally would have been a concern for him."
Sherlock nodded, holding in a grin. A defector, a shady engraver on the run from the Soviet government and criminals both - that fit, it all fit beautifully, and he savoured the zing of satisfaction layered over his settling high.
Frowning in concentration, George wiped an escaped dollop of plastic cheese off the side of his hand. "But...I don-wouldn't know how they'd gotten involved. Or how they'd have recognized me."
"Whoever you dealt with on this end. A weak link. Somewhere. Hardly matters. If they're after someone they'd lost track of, and you're their first clue, they'd be very eager to ask you questions. Uncomfortable ones. Obviously."
"And then make me an offer I couldn't refuse, I'm sure." George ran one hand over his face with a sigh; honest, heartfelt, not acted. He balled up the wrapper for his miserable meal and dropped it back in the bag. "Mind if I lie down?"
"Not at all."
George toed off his telltale shoes and stretched out beneath the blanket alongside him, gingerly settling his weight onto his uninjured side. Still watching; Sherlock turned his head to the side to return the gaze without shifting off his back. With the lantern on the floor behind George's head, Sherlock could only make out the faintest of challenges in his eyes, a glow like banked blue embers.
His voice was like honey. "I'm nowhere near your league."
"So few people are," Sherlock said, with a mocking grin. "But?"
"You are a bundle of contradictions, Sean. You've got an aristocrat's carriage, but you've been alone on the street a long while. By stubborn choice, not by necessity. Your clothing is all second- or third-hand but well-made, even the t-shirt: carefully chosen, so you know what to look for. You've got family somewhere - at the very least, a brother you don't like - but you don't want anything to do with them. I understand."
On the wrong side of stunned, for once, Sherlock tried to backtrack through what clue could possibly have led George to that last bitter truth - but he continued to speak.
"You can't pass up a puzzle, even if it means taking a risk with your own life. Today wasn't the first time you were chased over that rooftop, but I can't tell you what happened the other time. Or times. Maybe it wasn't a chase that led you to explore the options, sane and insane, maybe you just decided you wanted to know.
"You're both an autodidact and University educated. Oxford, I think. You keep your mind organized but don't care much about your surroundings or your health. You'd like to know how I got that lock open so quickly, but you're too proud to ask. Pride gets in your way a lot, I think."
It was Sherlock's turn to stare at George. So few concrete facts, and so...vague. Sensible, in the Jane Austen sense: all about emotion. And yet he wasn't wrong in any of the particulars.
"I'd be happy to show you, by the way."
Except the pride bit, of course.
"I'd...yes. I'd like to learn that."
"See about it tomorrow, then," George smiled, but a rough edge to his voice gave away the fatigue he was trying to hide. Early, yet, but the day's adrenaline could only carry him so far, and between jet lag and nerves he probably hadn't slept much last night either. But there were still a few things Sherlock needed to know.
He hitched his shoulder in closer, trying to give George a little more room.
"We'll see if we have time for it tomorrow. Do you have a backup plan for getting out of London?" The pain was crowding close again, elbowing his satisfaction aside to make room for the inevitable sourceless melancholy of the come-down.
"Three, by air and rail. Four if you count swimming the Channel - have to be pretty desperate for that one."
"You don't have enough body fat. And they'll have people in customs at any airport in London, don't even try," he said abstractedly, breaking the gaze between them and staring up past the ceiling. His neck ached. "St Katharine Docks are about a mile from here, just this side of the Tower. Rich people and boats. If I give you the name of a trustworthy captain, can you charm your way aboard?"
"Most likely. More than a name would be helpful, though."
Necessities and unwanted facts. Options, sane and insane.
Do Not Cross.
He drew a breath; uncharacteristically, had to draw another before he could speak. "Put your fancy skin back on, and tell Mr Musgrave on the Kestrel that you're a friend of the Holmes family. A classmate of Sherlock's at Oxford."
George was silent in the dim light; Sherlock knew his mind was running its own agile course, chasing down hints and summing up details.
"All right. Two questions, if I may."
"Very well," he said, pulse beating tightly in the mandibular joints beneath his temples, throbbing through the ache in his knee. Cold drops of meltwater, accumulating beneath the ice pack, threatened to roll down his thigh.
"One: what did Sherlock study? Two: who is Mr Musgrave more likely to help? Someone in trouble, or a bored young man on walkabout?"
With a slow and silent exhalation, Sherlock released the answers to unasked questions, tilted his head back a little farther. "Chemistry. Technically. But a bit of a bloody know-all about everything. And you'll want some mild, embarrassing trouble, something requiring a little discretion to get you out to Gravesend or wherever. I trust you can get to another airport or a Channel ferry or the Tunnel from there."
"I'll come up with something. Thank you, again."
"Do you have your passport?" Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek, pondering. "Depending on how things unravel tomorrow, I might be able to get your things from the hotel room, send them on to you."
"It's in my jacket pocket. Well, one of them is. Don't worry about the rest of my kit; nothing there worth risking yourself for." He smothered a yawn with a sigh.
Sherlock shook off a chill, and irritably tugged the melting ice pack off his knee and handed it over. George was sharing a little something real, at least, paying him back for doing the same. Revealing more than they ought, both of them. But. Necessities all around.
He grimaced; being drained and wired at the same time didn't get any easier with practice, and he shifted restlessly beneath the coat and blanket, trying to think if there was anything else he should ask - Sherlock might as well continue figuring how best to use their resources after George fell to sleep. He wanted to get up and pace, and recoiled from the thought of turning the simmering throb in his knee back up to full boil. He wanted to roll over on his side, he wanted to turn the light off, he wanted to be doing anything other than lying here like an upturned turtle.
George was watching him closely, trying to decide whether to speak, which name to use.
"Sh-Sherlock?"
"George."
A soft chuckle, a little shake of the head. "George Devore is real enough, but he's an art dealer who doesn't know a thing about picking locks - I'm just Neal right now. Neal Caffrey. Pleased to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Sherlock replied, voice dropping low with the ironies. George - Neal, Neal, he thought twice, performing his mental search-and-replace - Neal was sharing a bit beyond necessities, now. "You were going to ask something?"
"I've got a logical proposal."
"That might sound lewd?" There was no other reason for Neal to hesitate. Sherlock silently slid his clenched teeth side to side, trying to work off his artificial tension without hurting his leg further.
"Probably will, but it's not. I want to wrap an arm around you. I'm sure you can work out the reasons."
He licked his lips. The horizontal portion of the mattress wasn't very wide, and it was much too late and too difficult to tug it out flat. There was no comfortable way for Neal to ease his strained shoulder lying as he was; he was going to wake up stiff and sore enough. The room would only get colder as the night wore on; Sherlock was still shivering intermittently and Neal couldn't be any warmer. Indeed, there were several logical reasons to share their space and heat more efficiently.
And Neal might not want him to try injecting himself again in the middle of the night.
Once invoked, the desire for cocaine resurged strong and sly: another hit would help stave off these irrational doldrums for another hour or so, and help him think; and it had helped with the pain, one way or another; and the solution wasn't as risky as Neal feared, not at a mere seven percent...
"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice sandpaper-dry. "I can see why that would be a good idea."
"You're sure?"
His lip twitched at the familiar, hated question but he held back the snarl; not out of consideration for Neal's feelings, but because he simply hadn't the energy a fit of temper would cost him.
"You may be a criminal, but I trust my ability to judge character. You have as little sexual interest in me as I have in you, and even if that weren't true, you wouldn't pursue it under these circumstances."
Neal exhaled. "Good. We understand each other."
I doubt that, Sherlock thought, and the ambiguity was an odd thing, frustrating and tantalising and wearying.
Neal searched his face for a long moment. Still hesitating? Looking for something? Memorising his features? Sherlock wasn't sure he could tell anymore; uncertainty felt like a personal failure at the best of times and between pain and coming down his usual detachment hung in useless tatters. He cleared his throat harshly.
As if he'd spoken, Neal nodded and rolled back, pushed the mushy ice pack and the untouched sandwich box farther from their bed, and switched off the camping lamp, enclosing the room in absolute darkness.
Blinking upwards, Sherlock anticipated an impersonal arm across the blanket, more primness, but Neal confounded Sherlock's expectations again. He inched closer, pulled the blanket up to their chins, and insinuated his arm beneath the coat until it rested across Sherlock's chest, curling his hand intimately around his ribcage and into his armpit.
Sherlock hesitated, then brought his arm down closer to warm Neal's chilly fingers, and let his hand settle against his own sternum. His other arm was gently folded between Neal's chest and his own.
"That's better," Neal sighed, and Sherlock couldn't argue. His shivering eased; his muscles began to soften into the warmth that radiated from Neal's loose embrace. He was intensely aware of every place they touched skin-to-skin, around the thin barriers of vest and t-shirt. He could feel - could almost hear - every one of the man's steady heartbeats, and he struggled to pull his senses into perspective, make Neal's touch just another element in the canvas of sounds and sensations painted on the darkness.
He concentrated on his breathing - he knew exactly how to sound relaxed, even when his mind continued to dance its tireless jig, picking apart this disconcerting reaction. It wasn't desire. He'd tried and failed to conjure that up, often enough, and he didn't want anything more than this embrace. It wasn't cowardice, either, seeking shelter in someone else's strength. He felt like he was treading water and losing ground, the heaviness of exhaustion soaking through his defences.
Too long alone, he told himself, squinting against the ache in his leg. That's all.
Human touch was never something he'd particularly needed, not the way others seemed to. The only intimacies this life lent itself to, though, were lewd or brutal. Or lewd and brutal. Sherlock had managed to avoid both with relative ease, but his successes reduced his contact with other people to a smattering of handshakes and shoulder claps over the last several months - of course being so close to another person felt bizarre, prompted contradictory urges to surrender or escape.
Sherlock swallowed a couple of times, willing himself to lie still so that Neal could sleep, and wondered what time it was. Without light or distraction it was harder to tune out the pain that leapt and flickered like an unpredictable flame, spitting occasional sparks up the back of his leg, along his sciatic nerve.
The unwanted train of thought was returning inexorably to the station.
His injury was serious, too serious to leave unattended. No comfortable way to maintain himself on the street, hobbling, and that particular ligament had no blood supply, no way to mend itself; time alone wouldn't knit up this ravelled sleeve.
Surgery and physical rehabilitation were most likely necessary, and - short of going to the Continent to avoid the NHS - it was inevitable that his damnably connected brother would discover him, assumed name or not. And Mycroft would arrive at the hospital and take over, as was his wont.
Which would be the end of all Sherlock's independent habits, until he had the strength to fight free again.
Neal stirred slightly; Sherlock forced his balled fist to relax. He hoped, if Neal were still awake, he would attribute Sherlock's sudden tension to pain.
A dozen possible plans, local and far afield, crossed his mind and were easily dismissed. However indolent he might be in exercising it, Mycroft's intellect was equal to - much as he loathed to admit it, sometimes ahead of - Sherlock's own, and he'd had several months to lay his lazy nets out and wait for his brother to stumble into them. The difficulties inherent in any attempt to out-think Mycroft far outweighed Sherlock's current energies, particularly with Neal breathing in an appealingly slow rhythm against his side.
Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing. Perhaps he could refuse to play Mycroft's little game, or at least dodge his traps by the straightforward method of walking - limping - right into the lion's den. His lips pursed, holding in a smile. There was a certain petty appeal in the idea of turning up on Mycroft's ritzy doorstep, ragged and bony and flying high on the last of his stash. Or waiting for him to answer the door and collapsing dramatically at his feet. It would probably hurt. But it might well be worth it for the delicious shock it would send through the family.
Sherlock began to contemplate the assorted branching scenarios for provoking or dealing with his family's reactions, from the impractical and amusing to the serious and difficult, and his last thought was a foggy surprise that he hadn't decided on a course of action before he drifted away, his chin settling into the crook of his shoulder, and Neal's arm a heavy warm band across his chest.
to Artisan of Fortune - Part 2
Authors: shinychimera and yeomanrand
Fandoms: Sherlock BBC and White Collar
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade, mention of Mycroft; Caffrey, mention of Kate and Peter
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 12,516
Spoilers: Pre-series events for both shows, spoilers for White Collar S02x11 "Forging Bonds"
Warnings: Injury, illegal drug use
Disclaimer: Sherlock and White Collar belong to their respective creators
Authors' Notes: Please hover over non-English words for a translation.
Thanks to perdiccas and thesmallhobbit for making sure Sherlock sounded like Sherlock, and helping us dodge unnecessary Americanisms; thanks to sangueuk for doing the same and also providing beta support; thanks to auctorial for beta-reading this behemoth, and especial thanks to daymarket for the prompt! (We've made edits since initial beta; any errors are ours alone and concrit always welcome.)
Thank you also to LL at deviantart for use of this stock image.
Summary: Twenty-year-old Sherlock Holmes may have many reasons for living rough on the streets of London, but if he thought it would expose him to a less predictable variety of humankind, he had been sorely disappointed - until the day he encounters charming American visitor Neal Caffrey. Unravelling why Neal's sterling mannerisms don't quite mesh with his counterfeit style might be even more exhilarating for Sherlock than combining their talents to escape a spot of international trouble. The two young men teach each other many things during their adventure - including subtle lessons that take some time to sink in.
London, 1996
A heartless autumn wind played cat-and-mouse with the clouds, and Sherlock itched to be moving again. But restless hungers required feeding and he'd found excellent pickings in the traffic-hemmed square, so the lanky youth forced himself to remain: sprawled carelessly on a bench with his long ratty greatcoat buttoned up against the late afternoon chill, sizing up the passersby.
"Tell your fortune," he called to the merchant scuttling along with the shoulder bag he really shouldn't be hugging so assiduously - not expecting a response, but advertising instead to the wives ambling behind him with their shopping bags. He inhaled the cold air and smiled for them. "Tell your fortune for a sandwich."
They laughed into each other's shoulders, weighing the idea, but Sherlock looked on to the next fine suit, already knowing they'd talk each other out of it. He shrugged one shoulder, nudging over-long curls closer and warmer around his windward ear.
"Tell your fortune for a quid," he sing-songed to no one in particular, watching the young man with the Gene Kelly stride approaching along the white railing. He was headed briskly towards the row of hotels, eager to relax after a good day's work. "Tell your fortune for some fish and chips, tell your fortune for a pint."
The man didn't look his way, but smiled gently to himself beneath the brim of his hat, umbrella tip clicking on the pavement. Cheerful, wealthy, well-put-together and... lithe as a cat, far too alert to the flow of foot and vehicle traffic around him. Sherlock sat up, tugging his gloves down over his wrists, tongue probing along the inside of his teeth.
"Tell your fortune? 'Ey, you, high-roller, American, want your fortune told?"
The tapping paused, and the fedora tilted, unshadowing a considering look overlaid by fascinatingly bland curiosity in blue eyes not quite as pale as his own. Dark-haired, clean-cut; keenly handsome, probably, to the girls or boys who cared about that sort of thing. The suit was new and custom made, the tie European, the shoes old and American, obviously, but finely polished and well-cared for, re-soled more than once. A fidgety flip of the umbrella almost reminded Sherlock of the neurotic habits of a certain sibling, before he turned his thoughts away from trenchant paths long since blockaded by blue-and-white 'Do Not Cross' tape.
"All right," the American said, in practised but oh-so-casual Mid-Atlantic English. "Tell me my fortune, o fakir."
Sherlock grinned, unfolding himself from the bench. "Happy to, good sir. Your name?"
The habitual friendly curl of the young man's lips broadened, but he was still so very aware, blade-sharp attention divided neatly between Sherlock and their surroundings. "George Devore."
Oh, you were never a George, Sherlock thought, nodding. He could hardly protest; he hadn't used his own far-too-distinctive name since walking away from uni. "Sean, Sean Holcombe."
He pulled off his gloves and proffered a handshake, needing as much information as he could get on this sleek patchwork of a gentleman before he offered an answer - Sherlock was enthralled by the way the man's conscious lies and inadvertent truths almost fit together, but not quite; near-invisible seams burnished by careful attention, like the repairs to a cherished heirloom. George's stance was relaxed, his handclasp civilised, but he never gave up a useful defensive grip on the umbrella, nor did he allow Sherlock's fingers near his expensive watch. His hands were warm but dry, no signs of nerves, and only the sanded remnants of unusual calluses on fingertips and palm marred his smooth skin.
Sherlock released the hand at the appropriate moment, and his mind considered and rejected a good hundred possible explanations in the time it took him to cast his eyes down and fold his gloves together into his pocket. But George's wariness was about to resolve into impatience - streetwise enough to realize Sherlock might be a pickpocket's distraction, or worse. He was only waiting because Sherlock had said something unusual, something to make the man think he might be a messenger, or... a contact.
Ah. A member of the criminal classes, then. One who relied on brains, rather than brutality. Clever enough to have made a bit of money when he was very young: certainly no older than twenty-five, and quite possibly no more than twenty-ish, like Sherlock himself.
Sherlock lifted his chin, a dozen more misconstrued details leaping to his attention, and looked the man squarely in the eye.
"You're enjoying the fruits of your exacting labours, but making is easier than selling and there's quicksand ahead," Sherlock said, observing narrowed eyes and a caught breath quickly hidden. "The business deal you're pursuing is more risky than you think."
"Aren't they all?" the man replied easily, a lie of amused skepticism in the pinch of his mouth, the tilt of his shoulders; his mind racing down some other channel altogether. Definitely a cryptogram Sherlock needed more time to decipher, but George was already retreating beneath his hat, dipping a hand into his breast pocket and speaking quietly to the pavement. "I suppose the real question is whether it's riskier at this point to back out, or see it through."
"Depends on who you're dealing with," Sherlock murmured, stalling for one more moment, ignoring the proffered fiver and jittering with frustration at the thought of losing this enigma into the anonymous crowds of London. A cloud of pigeons burst into the air beyond George's left shoulder - a warning from a fellow street denizen - and Sherlock's mind abruptly shifted gears. His gaze darted to the shop window with the most useful indirect reflection, absorbed the implications of a stance, bulk, haircut, and shoes that he recognized instantly, along with a face that he didn't. "But I think I can guess, if you planned to meet the man at your five o'clock, da, moĭ fal'shivomonetchik?"
George looked up, face gone perfectly still, making it frustratingly difficult to tell if he understood the damning word or just recognised the language. His smothered reaction was easy to interpret, though: sheer bloody terror, expressed in exactly the same way Sherlock would express it if he'd just discovered that he'd drawn the interest of the Russian Mafiya.
Bloody hell.
Memories, meanings, maps and more flicked through Sherlock's adrenaline-charged consciousness - heightened sensory input, rapid decisions, a euphoric excitement better than any cocaine high.
Before more variables had a chance to enter the equation, Sherlock stepped forward, altering his body language. He stroked his long fingers around George's hand, transferring the folded bank note smoothly to his own palm and concealing its colour. He tilted his head invitingly.
George looked at him blankly, almost too long, before breaking the surface of his cold shock and recognising the escape route Sherlock was offering him. The smile returned to his face without touching his eyes, and he echoed the head-tilt: lead on.
Sherlock pivoted away from the watchful thug, not bothering to hide his face - although things were going to get very ugly with his dealer if rumour ever got back to Viktor that "Sean" would turn tricks after all. But he made an attempt to keep George's face out of line of sight as they strolled towards the row of shops, arms brushing intimately. George cooperated, keeping the sheltering brim of his hat low, giving him several quick sideways looks within an awareness of their surroundings Sherlock hadn't thought could get any sharper.
"Sean," George said, something low and warning in his voice, his gaze catching on something - someone - to Sherlock's left.
Sherlock kept walking without looking. "You exercise, yes? Make good time on the track? Do you care about the hat?"
"Not a bit," George lied.
"Through the next shop then, exit's at the - " Heavy footsteps pounded behind them and they bolted together through the open shop door " - back left."
They dodged dress racks and the counter to burst through to the rear store room; George dropped the umbrella and hat into a bin along the way, and loosened the buttons of the suit jacket. The shopkeeper's shouts gave way to voices in Russian and Sherlock shoved George to the right as soon as they emerged into the alleyway at the back.
"Up, up," he said, clambering up onto the edge of a skip, heart pounding, already trying to decide which way to go off the roof.
"Left," George said, hitching himself up the wall's handholds on Sherlock's heels. "You want to go right, they'll expect you to go right."
"Only sane option to the left," he panted, "is down the drainpipe and a sprint to the tube station. Have to be fast, very fast."
"And the insane option?"
Sherlock laughed with the thrill. They could both hear the scuff and clang of men with metal in their hands climbing behind them. "Sheer three-storey drop into the off-license's skip, hope they’re throwing away cardboard from Thursday’s deliveries like they should be, and not glass..."
"I'll hope."
Sherlock grinned, and led him running across the connected rooftops, prioritising getting out of line-of-sight of the now-silent thugs behind them. He turned the corner of a lift shaft and pressed his back up against the wall, dragging in deep breaths.
"You need to quit smoking," Neal said.
Sherlock glared at him, pointed at the far edge of the roof. "Dodge to there, swing down under the cornice until we can see the recycling skip and position ourselves - between the dangle and the rubbish, total drop will be about twenty feet. Still game?"
"I'm not tired yet. You?" George said, head up, listening.
Sherlock heard them too. "Never. Let's go."
He took off running. George swore at him, but wasn't more than a step or two behind. Odds were in their favour for a reasonably soft landing but still, trusting his life, someone else's life, to anything less than certainty...
Sherlock slithered over the parapet feet first, coat buttons catching on the edge, suppressing thought and fear and letting illusory confidence carry his momentum across the underslung gap between the cornice and the reed moulding that provided scant space for his fingertips.
Heart pounding, fingers already shaking, Sherlock glanced down between his feet, snapped at George.
"To my left."
With the same balance of hurry and caution and terrified exhilaration, George slid over the edge, going deathly pale as he caught his weight on the narrow projection. He had a straight drop, and Sherlock was less than a yard off target - and the skip was full of jumbled piles of half-collapsed cardboard boxes, best he could have hoped for.
George looked down, adjusted slightly to the left, and let go, and Sherlock's attention focused wholly down to aching fingers on gritty concrete, and closing that one-yard gap by swinging his weight and shifting his hands three times before he couldn't grip anymore.
He sucked in one panicked gasp - the skip was under him and George wasn't but the boxes collapsed the wrong way and then his leg collapsed the wrong way and then it was all about keeping his mouth clamped shut with the world going red around him, because there were still villains with guns up there and vanishing into thin air was more important than pain, only pain, mere pain.
Hands around his shoulders, an urgent whisper. George hauling him backward, toward the edge of the skip. Arms helping him to the ground through a haze of torment. Dragging him into a tight space between cold yellow steel and rough brick, under a skewed slab of cardboard. George kneeling behind him, one hand ready to clamp over Sherlock's cries if it came to that.
It didn't. Quite.
Their mingled panting sounded loud in the confined space, but it was drowned out by the harsh, confused shouts from above. Sherlock struggled to push aside the nauseating pain, understand the words, identify the dialect - Novgorod, maybe? George's legs were tense where Sherlock leaned on them, his eyes locked on a wedge of fading daylight alongside the box that made their makeshift roof.
They waited until the voices had retreated in frustration, and then waited longer yet.
"I think they're gone," George said softly, at last, and leaned forward so he could peel Sherlock's coat open below the lowest button. "Let me have a look at your leg."
"You look. I'd just as soon not."
George moved his limb only minutely, but he might as well be manipulating it with pincers of fire; Sherlock had to squeeze eyes and jaw tightly shut, retreating into a cloud of medical Latin.
"You're not bleeding, and I don't feel any breaks, if that makes you feel any better," George said after a moment.
Sherlock grimaced and let George manhandle him to his feet - helping in any way at all sent agony shrieking through his knee, bits of the joint sliding in decidedly unnatural ways. He braced against the corner of the skip, keeping all his weight off the right leg, and jerked his chin toward the gate.
"Was planning to climb over... don't suppose you can pick a lock?"
George gave him a look more eloquent than words. "Workers?"
"Only in...the shop, this time of day."
A considering look between Sherlock and the gate, then George stripped off his jacket and his linen shirt, with a wince, to reveal a white vest and pale arms more muscular than Sherlock might have guessed.
"You should have stayed hidden on the roof. They were after me," he scolded, depositing the clothing in Sherlock's arms, pocketing his watch and a narrow leather case before mussing his own dark curls further. Sherlock snorted. Oh yes, they'd have just asked me a couple of polite questions and then let me go.
He watched George turn and survey the enclosed yard - barely room for the skip and the sadly absent Vespa usually parked there, and for the skip lorry and delivery vans to load and unload.
George slouched across to the gate; still graceful, but not as out-of-place in their environment as he'd been moments before. Also favouring his right shoulder, though Sherlock doubted anyone else would notice; he suppressed a perverse relief that he hadn't been singularly unlucky.
Resisting the urge to close his eyes, Sherlock instead rationed his attention between working out what had to happen once they were past this obstacle, and watching this new facet of George at work. He was startled by how smoothly George opened the lock; just a blink or two before the tools were winking back into their case and the man turned back, frowned and returned to his side.
He laid a hand on Sherlock's cheek, searching his eyes; Sherlock shrugged irritably.
"I'm fine," he snapped. "Injury to the knee is unlikely to be fatal."
"No. You are in shock, though," George countered, slipping back into but not bothering to button shirt and jacket. His speech was now wholly American, casual and cosmopolitan with tantalising almost-scrubbed hints of southern vowels. "Also not fatal, unless you pass out and we get caught. But not much we can do about it here."
"Acute stress reaction at most." Sherlock put extra effort into speaking crisply to demonstrate his brain had hardly been wasting time in shock, glowering at George. "We need to get you out of sight. They know your face, and possibly mine too now. And I know for a fact they've got fingers in at least some of the hospitals and surgeries around here - I assume you know the Russian Mafiya are well-established in London since the collapse of the Soviet Union?"
"I'd heard rumours," George answered, weary but not dismissive. "Come on, then, you've already got a plan in your head."
Mollified, Sherlock gestured past the gate. "You'll get us out to the high street where there will be taxis, stay at my humble abode tonight, leave in the morning. Humble being a gross exaggeration in this case, but it's well-hidden."
"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that." He slipped under Sherlock's arm, taking his weight again despite the pain the kindness had to be causing him. No arguing with necessity, though, since George obviously didn't intend to leave him behind.
"Do you...ever stop trying to...charm people?" A couple of even breaths eased his lightheadedness, and Sherlock found a rhythm of leaning and hopping that wouldn't hinder George much as they approached the gate. "You'll do the walking, I'll do the watching, fair?"
"Sounds perfect. And it depends."
Hold that thought, Sherlock told himself as they paused at the gate; sharpening into full observation mode, scanning the alley, the rooftops, the vehicles, the sewer grates, every detail of their surroundings.
"Go," he whispered, trusting his body to George's care, the pain and their awkward progress distant as his senses raked the environment for any clue that their pursuers were near, or had been. Without being asked, George paused where the busier traffic became visible, and Sherlock studied the scene carefully before giving a terse nod; for good measure, he picked out the taxi George was likely to flag down, was reasonably sure it was a driver who would take them into the urban wilderness without complaint.
He gave their destination in Tower Hamlets to the cabbie evenly enough, but the last vestiges of his concentration shattered with the agony of folding into the back seat, despite George's best efforts to manoeuver them in gently. He bit down hard on the undignified noise that escaped him, pushing back against the seat looking for an angle that made his knee, grossly swollen against the denim of his jeans, throb slightly less viciously with the motion of the car.
George's hands took hold again, unasked, pulling Sherlock sideways so that his leg was propped diagonally across the seat, and a half-dozen peevish interjections and reminders bounced through his skull - was George watching for cars or cabs following, now that he was no longer walking for both of them? - but somehow they never made it out of his mouth. Instead he found himself leaning on George's side, his face pressed against the loose linen shirt, letting it absorb his ragged breathing as the trip blurred by.
His mind wandered, picking apart the man's complex scent as a means of avoiding the pain. The fresh sweat of exertion, of course, strong but not unpleasant on its own, tainted by acrid fear. A touch of blood - had he cut himself on the cardboard? Bland hotel soap - was it possible to figure which hotel, he wondered fitfully, or did they all use the same brands? And an elusive wisp of something else, sharp and oily...acetone? turpentine? No, a turpenoid, mineral based...
They both braced against the slowing of the taxi; George murmured "We're clear. You stay put."
His warmth slid out from under Sherlock. He listened to George's quick, almost flirtatious exchange with the cabbie, pleased to note he'd dropped a hint of East End into his spurious accent. He wasn't surprised when both taxi doors opened and two pair of hands did their best to gentle him out into the twilight gloom.
Enough, he told himself, opening his senses to the dingy rows of red-brick buildings, the near-deserted streets flecked with litter and graffiti. Pain's just a signal about damage; message received.
He gritted his teeth, wanting to cut short George's banter about his unlucky brother, but they were going to be memorable to the cabbie whether or not an explanation was offered, whether or not George overtipped for the ride. No help for any of it now besides getting inside to his stash.
Once the taxi was gone, he wearily gestured to the paint-patched warehouse door almost hidden behind the bins of the Forge and Compass, a pub that was probably already cheap and tacky a hundred years ago when these buildings had been wool storehouses for the docks.
"Key?" George asked.
"You only lock a door when there's something worth protecting inside. Just open it."
George pulled him through and picked up the camping lamp Sherlock pointed out, switched it on and closed the door firmly behind them. Light bobbing, they manoeuvred through the trashed remains of a repair shop, into the small office with newer-than-they-looked blinds covering the wrap-around windows. Sherlock had shoved the desk against the wall near the door, blacked out the tiny external window, and dragged a futon mattress into a vaguely couch-like configuration against the ancient iron filing cabinets, but the dusty, abandoned place was otherwise unchanged since it had last been ransacked for saleables.
"Homey," George said dryly, setting the lantern down on the desk.
"I warned you." Sherlock forestalled their movement toward the mattress, leaning down to release the catch that made it look like the overstuffed bottom desk drawer was simply jammed and not locked. He pulled out a file folder from the back, oil-grimed and overflowing with invoices like all the rest.
"Don't exceed your usual dose," George warned, nothing of charm or grace colouring the statement. "I don't care how much pain you're in."
Sherlock flicked a glance at him, disliking the disdain he perceived in the flat American voice. He leaned heavily on the desk, freeing George from holding him up, and fished a slender leather pen case from between the papers, about the same size as the one George used for his lockpicks. His heart beat faster just holding it.
"Cocaine isn't much of a painkiller. But I will make do with what I have on hand." He hated how brittle his voice sounded; how much he wanted the hit.
George brought his hand up and then grimaced, aborting the gesture. "Either way, we're both going to need some ice. And I need to eat. You?"
"Not hungry now. But I will be sooner or later. You're paying?" Pointless to cushion the request, but his ears warmed a bit anyway.
George's stance softened. "You just saved my life. I think I can cover a meal or two. Pub decent?"
"Tolerable. Barely."
"Lend me your coat, then?" George asked, stripping stiffly out of shirt and suit jacket again.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, and lifted a hand to the buttons of his greatcoat. George was staying ahead of him, at least as far as remaining anonymous.
"Don't worry - you're not at your best," he said with a smile. His arms were beginning to sport a couple of linear bruises, faintly wavy and speckled with blood; too easy to visualise his rough contact with the cardboard. "I promise not to hold it against you."
Back to charming, then. The suspended question of whether or when he ever dropped his winning ways lingered: dependent on what?
Sherlock shifted his weight on his good leg to unwrap the sleeves from his arms and the coat from his rake-thin body. The chill in the shop air bit through the "Nirvana" concert t-shirt he wore underneath; camouflage, amongst the other street kids, and the warmest he'd managed to find, but still faintly clammy with his sweat.
"Let's get you settled."
His makeshift bed had never looked so good; with fraying endurance Sherlock allowed George to ease him down onto his back and prop an overturned bin beneath the futon under his calf.
"Okay?" He waited for Sherlock to nod, once the agony of movement had receded back to mere searing pain. "I'll be quick."
Sherlock controlled his harsh breathing, and watched the man transfer a few notes out of his money clip to the coat's inner pocket; then he turned up the collar and tried on Sherlock's gloves and a different persona at the same time. His receding stride even sounded different: heavier, more workman-like. Remarkable...
The outer door closed, and Sherlock's attention boomeranged back to the case still clamped between his fingers. He argued with himself about whether taking a hit would actually help while he methodically unpacked his emergency stash: a plastic-wrapped syringe, a vial of sterile water, a tiny packet of high-grade cocaine. The drug wouldn't touch the pain, didn't bind with opiate receptors at all, but the high would make it easier to ride through it, disregard it, face necessities like getting his trousers off in one piece. And the temporary energy and alertness would help him to focus on solving the problems he and George had brought upon each other.
Or was his incipient addiction providing useful rationalizations?
The answer was, perhaps, evident in unsteady fingers already measuring a fraction of a gram into the vial and shaking it until the solution was fully dissolved. He realized he was hurrying, inexplicably wanting to have his works packed away before George returned, and forced himself to take his usual deliberate care in tucking a filter into the top of the vial and loading and checking the syringe - more so, because he'd never done it while lying flat on his back before. Finally he was ready to pump his fist to raise the vein in his elbow.
The world narrowed to the point of the needle entering his thin arm, and then flared explosively to life around him again, saturating his tongue and bringing every detail of the cluttered room into brilliant relief.
He sighed and set the syringe aside; felt the chaotic threads of the situation settle within his control again, solutions within reach.
Sherlock wasn't un-aware of George returning with a bag of greasy odors, but the man's actions were blissfully unimportant for the next few minutes, his movements casting fascinating shadows around the room. Gradually, Sherlock's heart rate settled, and he registered icy cold numbing his knee, radiating through his trouser leg from a lumpy plastic bag; and his precious coat had been returned, spread over him like a blanket. He started and groped for the remaining cocaine - still on the mattress, right where he'd left it. Licking dry lips, he disjointedly tucked everything back in the case, made a mental note to replace the syringe later.
George sat on the desk next to the lantern, studying Sherlock with enervated patience, one knee drawn up to his chest and his own bag of ice held to his wounded shoulder. He'd not put his shirt or jacket back on despite the chill. Even in the flat and unromantic light, his silent presence glowed like a film noir leading man, like Delacroix's Hamlet, like a Raphaelite saint. A remote beauty, a work of art to be admired but not desired.
"I don't think I said thank you," George said after another few moments' inscrutable silence. "So, thank you."
"You're welcome." The running, the fear, the thrill, it had all been worth it.
"This is going to sound all sorts of lewd that I don't intend, but are you ready to get your pants off?"
The spell broke, and an earthy snicker escaped Sherlock; at any other time his reaction might have been a simple twitch of the lips, but the disconcerted look on George's face only made the euphoric amusement worse.
"What?"
"Oh, oh, you were doing so well with your Americanisms...."
"I don't follow." Just a man again, frowning, focused inward, clearly running back through what he'd said. "Pants?"
"You may take my trousers off. But the pants underneath stay firmly in place."
"Ah," George said, and the exhalation was light but careful: he was afraid to start laughing. "Definitely lewder than I intended."
He unfolded from the desk, set aside his ice pack and came around to stand at Sherlock's feet, considering the puzzle in front of him. He finally crouched and made quick work of removing Sherlock's shoes - but not his socks, which set Sherlock to grinning again. He at least had the sense to unfasten his own belt and flies, beneath the coat, but thinking of it as a mercy to George's tender sensibilities brought on another storm of helpless giggles.
George lifted the bag of ice from his knee, eyebrows raised, and held it high for just a moment - a flicker of threatening mischief in his blue eyes - before setting it carefully to the side of the futon. He didn't waste time asking again if Sherlock was ready, just worked his jeans off carefully and quickly, cradling his calf to keep the swollen leg as immobile as he could. The coat remained largely undisturbed.
His fingertips were cold with the ice he'd been holding; his deft touch travelled up Sherlock's shin to his knee, probing gently enough, but it still hurt, even numbed up a bit. His muscles jumped with tension.
"I'm no expert, but I'm more sure than I was that there's no break. You need to see a proper doctor, though; I don't imagine a permanent limp would do you any good."
"I will. Tomorrow. When I've sorted the best place to go. But. Day shouldn't make a difference to a torn anterior cruciate ligament, they'd elevate and ice the swelling - well, they'd have better painkillers. But." He blinked at the ceiling, veering away from an unwanted train of thought. "The patella's all right?"
"Seems to be. The anterior..." George shook his head, chuckling; the usual blend of amazement and disbelief. Sherlock's pain wasn't retreating back beneath the veil of pleasure. "You're an autodidact?"
For that, Sherlock lifted his head and smiled at George, delighted not to be the only self-taught student in the room worth being proud of; grateful for the distraction. "One of my favorite words. And no one ever knows what it means."
"Surprise."
"You are full of surprises. Are you going to tell me what all this is about?"
George set the ice back on Sherlock's bare, bruised knee and sat back on his heels, considering. "Were you planning to tell me why you saved my neck out there?"
"So few people are." Surprising. Interesting. Anything other than depressingly predictable. Sherlock let his head fall back onto the makeshift pillow - George's folded jacket, he realized - and began to shiver.
George's snort was nearly inaudible. "There are worse ways to draw someone's attention. Obviously."
"Obviously." The shivering intensified, the dregs of his artificial elation beginning to evaporate and leaving behind a restive tension; dynamic but disagreeable. He counted off the good reasons to be cold: ice pack, unheated room, night falling (or fallen? he didn't like not being sure), but he always worried that cocaine's hyperthermic properties might be getting the better of him. George was still hesitating over what to reveal, and a little comfort was in order.
"Fetch us a blanket? Top left file drawer, there."
"Is that under 'b' for blanket, or do you use some more esoteric system?" George asked, opening the drawer in question.
"Esoteric? No - hidden from visitors hunting for signs of life, easy to reach while standing, not behind the blasted heavy futon, away from the worst of the insects and rats."
"Aha. Perfectly logical, then." Even in the dim light, Sherlock could see amusement brighten George's mobile smile. He spread the heavy synthetic fleece blanket over the top of the coat; a prize for someone in Sherlock's position, tossed in the 50p bin at the charity shop as much for being violently pink as for the saucer-sized hole in one corner. George ran an appreciative hand over the thick, insulated pile, and Sherlock was suddenly certain the position was one George had encountered himself, somewhere in his murky past.
Sherlock steeled himself, braced his good leg and arched his back, inched himself closer to the wall of filing cabinets. The throb in his knee flared and subsided again, and he repositioned the sliding bag of ice with a wince before he looked up and patted the mattress. "Sit, eat, I'll save us both time and tell you what I've already deduced about you."
That faint narrowing of the eyes again, before the covering smile reappeared. George retrieved the bag and lantern from the desk, and settled cross-legged on the futon next to Sherlock to unpack the food. He set a plastic box with a sorry-looking cheese and pickle sandwich on the floor, then unwrapped a warm imitation Cornish pasty, still in the microwave sleeve.
"I'll hazard you're still not hungry," he said, with simple resignation.
Sherlock shook his head. "Your shoes."
George took a tidy bite, arching an eyebrow at him.
"They're handmade Aldens, a brand only made in America, and you've had them a long time. They told me you were on your guard for some reason, didn't want to be taking a chance on new shoes when you might need your agility."
Sherlock scratched at his ribs beneath the coat, warming to the recitation, watching George's face.
"But your suit is brand new, made here in London, still a smudge of tailor's chalk on the cuff, so you had someone you wanted to impress, a new client, a dangerous client, hence: risky business deal. What business? Not something ordinary, you don't have a briefcase callus; no, something else, something odd - calluses left by a tool held and pushed in the palm."
George chewed slowly, carefully, but it wasn't fear holding his tongue: no excessive dilation of the pupils, no acceleration in his breathing, and he'd not been put off his meal yet. He watched Sherlock in return, waiting.
Sherlock continued, making an effort not to speak too quickly.
"That took some serious thought, to recall the burin, used only by engravers, really, and not even by all of them. So many modern, electric tools; one would only use an old-fashioned technique if one wanted to emulate the old masters. Or, of course, work on currency plates."
He'd read that correctly: George couldn't quite conceal a sharp flare of the nostrils; fleeting, but there.
"But government engraving's a narrow, secretive field, an old man's field. Highly unlikely a man as young as you could gain entry, and even if you did, you wouldn't make enough money to dress as you do, tell time as you do, stay in the hotel you're staying in."
Another mild twitch - obviously wondering if Sherlock was guessing, based on the street where they'd met, or if he had somehow deduced the precise hotel. The truth was neither, but that bit of the puzzle didn't matter.
"So. A young artist, already with some success under his belt, trying to break into a difficult business with some unsavoury characters. You'd need a mentor, a master. But the calluses aren't all that recent, and you've taken pains to minimize them. The apprenticeship is over, you've learned all you can of the art, now it's time to prove yourself, win the trust of your mentor's connections. You've been sent to London on some kind of errand, and have either been warned to avoid the Mafiya, or been left ignorant of their interest in the people you're meant to contact. Which?"
George's mind was racing again, behind a somber face this time; weighing and measuring every word he might speak and their possibilities.
"I should deny most of that, you realize."
"Consider the entire story 'alleged'. Or 'allegorical'."
"If I'd had a mentor, he might have been a perebezhchik, so the Mafiya naturally would have been a concern for him."
Sherlock nodded, holding in a grin. A defector, a shady engraver on the run from the Soviet government and criminals both - that fit, it all fit beautifully, and he savoured the zing of satisfaction layered over his settling high.
Frowning in concentration, George wiped an escaped dollop of plastic cheese off the side of his hand. "But...I don-wouldn't know how they'd gotten involved. Or how they'd have recognized me."
"Whoever you dealt with on this end. A weak link. Somewhere. Hardly matters. If they're after someone they'd lost track of, and you're their first clue, they'd be very eager to ask you questions. Uncomfortable ones. Obviously."
"And then make me an offer I couldn't refuse, I'm sure." George ran one hand over his face with a sigh; honest, heartfelt, not acted. He balled up the wrapper for his miserable meal and dropped it back in the bag. "Mind if I lie down?"
"Not at all."
George toed off his telltale shoes and stretched out beneath the blanket alongside him, gingerly settling his weight onto his uninjured side. Still watching; Sherlock turned his head to the side to return the gaze without shifting off his back. With the lantern on the floor behind George's head, Sherlock could only make out the faintest of challenges in his eyes, a glow like banked blue embers.
His voice was like honey. "I'm nowhere near your league."
"So few people are," Sherlock said, with a mocking grin. "But?"
"You are a bundle of contradictions, Sean. You've got an aristocrat's carriage, but you've been alone on the street a long while. By stubborn choice, not by necessity. Your clothing is all second- or third-hand but well-made, even the t-shirt: carefully chosen, so you know what to look for. You've got family somewhere - at the very least, a brother you don't like - but you don't want anything to do with them. I understand."
On the wrong side of stunned, for once, Sherlock tried to backtrack through what clue could possibly have led George to that last bitter truth - but he continued to speak.
"You can't pass up a puzzle, even if it means taking a risk with your own life. Today wasn't the first time you were chased over that rooftop, but I can't tell you what happened the other time. Or times. Maybe it wasn't a chase that led you to explore the options, sane and insane, maybe you just decided you wanted to know.
"You're both an autodidact and University educated. Oxford, I think. You keep your mind organized but don't care much about your surroundings or your health. You'd like to know how I got that lock open so quickly, but you're too proud to ask. Pride gets in your way a lot, I think."
It was Sherlock's turn to stare at George. So few concrete facts, and so...vague. Sensible, in the Jane Austen sense: all about emotion. And yet he wasn't wrong in any of the particulars.
"I'd be happy to show you, by the way."
Except the pride bit, of course.
"I'd...yes. I'd like to learn that."
"See about it tomorrow, then," George smiled, but a rough edge to his voice gave away the fatigue he was trying to hide. Early, yet, but the day's adrenaline could only carry him so far, and between jet lag and nerves he probably hadn't slept much last night either. But there were still a few things Sherlock needed to know.
He hitched his shoulder in closer, trying to give George a little more room.
"We'll see if we have time for it tomorrow. Do you have a backup plan for getting out of London?" The pain was crowding close again, elbowing his satisfaction aside to make room for the inevitable sourceless melancholy of the come-down.
"Three, by air and rail. Four if you count swimming the Channel - have to be pretty desperate for that one."
"You don't have enough body fat. And they'll have people in customs at any airport in London, don't even try," he said abstractedly, breaking the gaze between them and staring up past the ceiling. His neck ached. "St Katharine Docks are about a mile from here, just this side of the Tower. Rich people and boats. If I give you the name of a trustworthy captain, can you charm your way aboard?"
"Most likely. More than a name would be helpful, though."
Necessities and unwanted facts. Options, sane and insane.
Do Not Cross.
He drew a breath; uncharacteristically, had to draw another before he could speak. "Put your fancy skin back on, and tell Mr Musgrave on the Kestrel that you're a friend of the Holmes family. A classmate of Sherlock's at Oxford."
George was silent in the dim light; Sherlock knew his mind was running its own agile course, chasing down hints and summing up details.
"All right. Two questions, if I may."
"Very well," he said, pulse beating tightly in the mandibular joints beneath his temples, throbbing through the ache in his knee. Cold drops of meltwater, accumulating beneath the ice pack, threatened to roll down his thigh.
"One: what did Sherlock study? Two: who is Mr Musgrave more likely to help? Someone in trouble, or a bored young man on walkabout?"
With a slow and silent exhalation, Sherlock released the answers to unasked questions, tilted his head back a little farther. "Chemistry. Technically. But a bit of a bloody know-all about everything. And you'll want some mild, embarrassing trouble, something requiring a little discretion to get you out to Gravesend or wherever. I trust you can get to another airport or a Channel ferry or the Tunnel from there."
"I'll come up with something. Thank you, again."
"Do you have your passport?" Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek, pondering. "Depending on how things unravel tomorrow, I might be able to get your things from the hotel room, send them on to you."
"It's in my jacket pocket. Well, one of them is. Don't worry about the rest of my kit; nothing there worth risking yourself for." He smothered a yawn with a sigh.
Sherlock shook off a chill, and irritably tugged the melting ice pack off his knee and handed it over. George was sharing a little something real, at least, paying him back for doing the same. Revealing more than they ought, both of them. But. Necessities all around.
He grimaced; being drained and wired at the same time didn't get any easier with practice, and he shifted restlessly beneath the coat and blanket, trying to think if there was anything else he should ask - Sherlock might as well continue figuring how best to use their resources after George fell to sleep. He wanted to get up and pace, and recoiled from the thought of turning the simmering throb in his knee back up to full boil. He wanted to roll over on his side, he wanted to turn the light off, he wanted to be doing anything other than lying here like an upturned turtle.
George was watching him closely, trying to decide whether to speak, which name to use.
"Sh-Sherlock?"
"George."
A soft chuckle, a little shake of the head. "George Devore is real enough, but he's an art dealer who doesn't know a thing about picking locks - I'm just Neal right now. Neal Caffrey. Pleased to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Sherlock replied, voice dropping low with the ironies. George - Neal, Neal, he thought twice, performing his mental search-and-replace - Neal was sharing a bit beyond necessities, now. "You were going to ask something?"
"I've got a logical proposal."
"That might sound lewd?" There was no other reason for Neal to hesitate. Sherlock silently slid his clenched teeth side to side, trying to work off his artificial tension without hurting his leg further.
"Probably will, but it's not. I want to wrap an arm around you. I'm sure you can work out the reasons."
He licked his lips. The horizontal portion of the mattress wasn't very wide, and it was much too late and too difficult to tug it out flat. There was no comfortable way for Neal to ease his strained shoulder lying as he was; he was going to wake up stiff and sore enough. The room would only get colder as the night wore on; Sherlock was still shivering intermittently and Neal couldn't be any warmer. Indeed, there were several logical reasons to share their space and heat more efficiently.
And Neal might not want him to try injecting himself again in the middle of the night.
Once invoked, the desire for cocaine resurged strong and sly: another hit would help stave off these irrational doldrums for another hour or so, and help him think; and it had helped with the pain, one way or another; and the solution wasn't as risky as Neal feared, not at a mere seven percent...
"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice sandpaper-dry. "I can see why that would be a good idea."
"You're sure?"
His lip twitched at the familiar, hated question but he held back the snarl; not out of consideration for Neal's feelings, but because he simply hadn't the energy a fit of temper would cost him.
"You may be a criminal, but I trust my ability to judge character. You have as little sexual interest in me as I have in you, and even if that weren't true, you wouldn't pursue it under these circumstances."
Neal exhaled. "Good. We understand each other."
I doubt that, Sherlock thought, and the ambiguity was an odd thing, frustrating and tantalising and wearying.
Neal searched his face for a long moment. Still hesitating? Looking for something? Memorising his features? Sherlock wasn't sure he could tell anymore; uncertainty felt like a personal failure at the best of times and between pain and coming down his usual detachment hung in useless tatters. He cleared his throat harshly.
As if he'd spoken, Neal nodded and rolled back, pushed the mushy ice pack and the untouched sandwich box farther from their bed, and switched off the camping lamp, enclosing the room in absolute darkness.
Blinking upwards, Sherlock anticipated an impersonal arm across the blanket, more primness, but Neal confounded Sherlock's expectations again. He inched closer, pulled the blanket up to their chins, and insinuated his arm beneath the coat until it rested across Sherlock's chest, curling his hand intimately around his ribcage and into his armpit.
Sherlock hesitated, then brought his arm down closer to warm Neal's chilly fingers, and let his hand settle against his own sternum. His other arm was gently folded between Neal's chest and his own.
"That's better," Neal sighed, and Sherlock couldn't argue. His shivering eased; his muscles began to soften into the warmth that radiated from Neal's loose embrace. He was intensely aware of every place they touched skin-to-skin, around the thin barriers of vest and t-shirt. He could feel - could almost hear - every one of the man's steady heartbeats, and he struggled to pull his senses into perspective, make Neal's touch just another element in the canvas of sounds and sensations painted on the darkness.
He concentrated on his breathing - he knew exactly how to sound relaxed, even when his mind continued to dance its tireless jig, picking apart this disconcerting reaction. It wasn't desire. He'd tried and failed to conjure that up, often enough, and he didn't want anything more than this embrace. It wasn't cowardice, either, seeking shelter in someone else's strength. He felt like he was treading water and losing ground, the heaviness of exhaustion soaking through his defences.
Too long alone, he told himself, squinting against the ache in his leg. That's all.
Human touch was never something he'd particularly needed, not the way others seemed to. The only intimacies this life lent itself to, though, were lewd or brutal. Or lewd and brutal. Sherlock had managed to avoid both with relative ease, but his successes reduced his contact with other people to a smattering of handshakes and shoulder claps over the last several months - of course being so close to another person felt bizarre, prompted contradictory urges to surrender or escape.
Sherlock swallowed a couple of times, willing himself to lie still so that Neal could sleep, and wondered what time it was. Without light or distraction it was harder to tune out the pain that leapt and flickered like an unpredictable flame, spitting occasional sparks up the back of his leg, along his sciatic nerve.
The unwanted train of thought was returning inexorably to the station.
His injury was serious, too serious to leave unattended. No comfortable way to maintain himself on the street, hobbling, and that particular ligament had no blood supply, no way to mend itself; time alone wouldn't knit up this ravelled sleeve.
Surgery and physical rehabilitation were most likely necessary, and - short of going to the Continent to avoid the NHS - it was inevitable that his damnably connected brother would discover him, assumed name or not. And Mycroft would arrive at the hospital and take over, as was his wont.
Which would be the end of all Sherlock's independent habits, until he had the strength to fight free again.
Neal stirred slightly; Sherlock forced his balled fist to relax. He hoped, if Neal were still awake, he would attribute Sherlock's sudden tension to pain.
A dozen possible plans, local and far afield, crossed his mind and were easily dismissed. However indolent he might be in exercising it, Mycroft's intellect was equal to - much as he loathed to admit it, sometimes ahead of - Sherlock's own, and he'd had several months to lay his lazy nets out and wait for his brother to stumble into them. The difficulties inherent in any attempt to out-think Mycroft far outweighed Sherlock's current energies, particularly with Neal breathing in an appealingly slow rhythm against his side.
Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing. Perhaps he could refuse to play Mycroft's little game, or at least dodge his traps by the straightforward method of walking - limping - right into the lion's den. His lips pursed, holding in a smile. There was a certain petty appeal in the idea of turning up on Mycroft's ritzy doorstep, ragged and bony and flying high on the last of his stash. Or waiting for him to answer the door and collapsing dramatically at his feet. It would probably hurt. But it might well be worth it for the delicious shock it would send through the family.
Sherlock began to contemplate the assorted branching scenarios for provoking or dealing with his family's reactions, from the impractical and amusing to the serious and difficult, and his last thought was a foggy surprise that he hadn't decided on a course of action before he drifted away, his chin settling into the crook of his shoulder, and Neal's arm a heavy warm band across his chest.
to Artisan of Fortune - Part 2