Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 1)
Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York
Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use
Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your goggles on)
Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.
Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.
Wordcount: 24,400
Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.
Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia , herovillian , brewsternorth , marshmellowed
Author's Notes:
Many thanks to my betas/ britpickers for going over this with a fine-tooth comb, with extra-special thanks to pantropia for pointing out tropes, inconsistencies, and plain old bad writing, and making my opening paragraph a million times better. Anything that sounds wonky is all my fault. I imagined Bryce Dallas Howard as Irene, (a young) Colin Morgan as Nero, and Lance Reddick as Lafferty. I wanted more slash, I really did, but I just couldn't get from here to there. Thanks for reading!
******************************************************************
17 September 2010
John had never flown anything other than Economy on the handful of commercial flights he'd taken. They'd only taken one holiday abroad as a family because Mum had turned out to be terrified of flying. After that they'd mostly gone to the Lake District. Once he was old enough to go on holiday alone he'd usually been either too skint or too busy to get away but he'd been to a surprisingly dull stag do in Amsterdam and taken a few supposedly-romantic holidays with girlfriends. One of those trips had been what finally ended the relationship and not long after that mess, he'd signed up.
It had irked him that Sherlock had booked the flight without his input, since the £200 price difference between Economy and Premium meant he'd had to badger Sarah for a few extra hours at the surgery and cut out any non-essential spending that month. OK, so Premium had more leg and elbow room, better food with metal cutlery (which presumably was somehow less dangerous than nail-clippers) and a couple of free drinks, but army life had shifted his views on how necessary it was to be that little bit more comfortable for the few short hours the flight would take. The dedicated check-in reduced the amount of time he had to put up with Sherlock grumbling about the queue, but that just meant more time waiting in the departure lounge where Sherlock was still bored. It really didn't seem worth the extra money. Still, he didn't have to deal with screaming children or, more importantly, Sherlock trying to deal with screaming children. What Sherlock might have done if he'd had someone's little darling kicking his seat-back didn't bear thinking about. John pulled one of the medical journals he'd been meaning to read from his hand luggage and settled in. Sherlock was already restless next to him, subtly craning his neck to study the other passengers.
“Would you like the aisle instead?”
“Not necessary,” Sherlock replied, leaning a little farther into John's personal space. “Two rows up and second seat in,” he began quietly. “Professional but nondescript suit, holding a briefcase. The suit is of a mid-range quality, fitted, but loose enough to allow full range of movement and concealment of a shoulder holster, which he has forgone today.”
“Mafia?”
“No. No jewellery save for a four year old Seiko, no wedding ring, tie is a very drab shade of blue, bland haircut. Though not as flash as American cinema would lead you to believe, members of organized crime syndicates do display a sense of personal style.” Sherlock shifted in his seat as the flight attendant came by to check that their seatbelts were fastened and all electronic devices were switched off. When she had passed, he leaned back into John and continued, “The case itself is new, and he isn't used to carrying one on a regular basis. He's kept it in his lap, but hasn't opened it. A businessman would have either stowed it overhead or at his feet. Irregular tan line running from the right ear into the collar and along the temples and upper cheeks, indicating time spent in the sun with sunglasses and an earpiece. His posture is relaxed but ready-”
“Sherlock, if you get us kicked off this plane because you think one of Mycroft's people is following us...”
“Not at all. He's U.S. Secret Service. Most likely the briefcase holds some document of minor import to the American government. Not a matter of national security, since he wouldn't be on a commercial flight in the first place. Possibly legal or medical documents for a member of the Cabinet. No use in speculating.”
“So why is he important then?”
“He's going to be sick the first time we hit turbulence, about two hours into the flight. Since the toilet is right behind us, I thought you should be aware, in case he misjudges the time it takes him to get there before he vomits.” He sat back, looking self-satisfied.
“Thanks for the warning then.” John shook his head. He didn't bother to ask how Sherlock got airsickness from Secret Service, or how he knew the man wouldn't use the sick bag provided. He just shifted in his seat until he was comfortable and flicked through his journal. To his surprise, Sherlock didn't fidget or bother looking at any more passengers. He just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. Whether he would actually sleep was yet to be seen, but John knew to leave well enough alone.
As predicted, the Secret Service agent sprang up from his seat and lurched down the aisle through the first patch of turbulence. To John's relief, the man made it safely into the loo. He did notice Sherlock cringe a little at the muffled sounds of the man being violently sick. It felt nice to know that something so mundane actually bothered a man who didn't bat an eyelid at evisceration.
Three hours into the flight, Sherlock wedged his complimentary pillow against John's shoulder and contorted himself into a Z-shape. “Must you?”
“Yes. Be quiet.”
John sighed audibly, just to make sure Sherlock noted his protest. He'd read through two articles of interest to him in the medical journal and his eyes were starting to go a bit wonky. Maybe a kip wasn't such a bad idea. He left himself drop into a comfortable doze. The flight attendant shook him gently awake to let him know the in-flight meals were about to arrive. She gave him a knowing, doe-eyed look as Sherlock blinked awake on his shoulder. He would have protested, but she'd already moved on to the row in front of him. The food was tastier than he'd expected, but still only just better than the MREs he'd eaten in Afghanistan. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had refused his meal, but stole the wrapped biscuit that came with John's coffee.
When John's tray had been cleared away, Sherlock once again propped the pillow between them, this time drawing his knee up to his chest and wedging his left arm between the seat divider and his thigh. His shoulder dug uncomfortably into John's right deltoid. He shifted to relieve the discomfort, but every subsequent position was just as bad. He gritted his teeth. The most comfortable position would just be to put his arm around Sherlock and be done with it. He knew the man wouldn't mind, since the concept of personal space between them had eroded to nothing but a vague notion less than a month after they'd been sharing the flat, and implications of them being a couple rolled off of him like Donovan's use of the word freak.
To Sherlock, John was furniture. If John was occupying any space that Sherlock felt he needed to be, he found himself more often than not physically manipulated in such a way that Sherlock also fit that space. Like nudging a kitchen chair with one's hip to make enough room to lean over the table. It was slightly annoying, because he was a person, not a thing. It was also a little comforting, in that it was very much familial. Not as gentle as his Mum manoeuvring him out of the way of the fridge when she was trying to make dinner, or Harry using his bottom as a footrest when they were watching cartoons on telly as young children, but it had the same benevolent feeling. He'd wondered many times what Sherlock's childhood had been like, and was sure it was devoid of the casual affections of a normal family. John couldn't imagine him treating Mycroft like furniture, but then again, he couldn't imagine anyone touching Mycroft in a familiar way. Or touching him at all, cold formal handshakes aside.
“Stop being so stubborn, John. These seats are uncomfortable enough as it is. We have two more hours until the plane lands. I'd like to spend that time sleeping, which is not going to happen so long as you're trying to preserve your masculinity. The stewardess is happily married, by the way.” Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow. Not sleeping, obviously, but couldn't be bothered to turn his head.
“You could just put your seat back like a normal person.”
“Not comfortable,” he dismissed.
“And every other plane you've ever been on? What did you do then?”
“I wasn't comfortable.”
In moments like these, John never knew whether to feel flattered or guilty for his annoyance with Sherlock. He was reminded that Sherlock had rarely (if ever) been close enough to another person to be this relaxed with them. It didn't excuse the liberties he took, but it did temper them. John sighed and arranged his arm lightly around Sherlock. He did always know when to pick his battles. He would never admit it to another living soul, especially not Sherlock, but it did feel nice to be able to just hold someone.
After retrieving luggage (and honestly, Sherlock hadn't even taken an overnight bag to Minsk, but now had a full suitcase and hand-luggage, in addition to commandeering space in John's own bags; John had better sense than to inquire over the contents) and exchanging currency, they took a taxi to the hotel. John stared out the windows like a perfect tourist while Sherlock texted God-only-knows-who, completely ignoring the scenery. One city did look pretty much like any other, he reckoned. He'd spent all of his adult life (barring his time in the service) in London. Aside from the small differences (road signs, traffic lights, the way phone numbers read, the way the money was all the same colour), it was more or less the same as home. Glass and chrome and old brick, delivery lorries and buses and cars and cyclists. Still, it was something new, a place he'd never been. Might be a nice place to be a tourist, not that he'd have the chance. Sherlock already had lists of establishments and people to investigate, and he wouldn't stop long enough for John to get a proper meal, let alone take in the Statue of Liberty.
It had been months of nothing, and then Sherlock had picked up a lead on Moriarty in late August. He had taken to obsessively browsing the local news of all the major cities of the world after the pool, sure that Moriarty had fled Britain. He'd picked out a pattern in New York City. There were a glut of ads offering “Ca$h 4 Gold,” at rates well above the current market value. Everyone knew the American market was tanking, and it should follow that anyone offering to buy scrap gold would be offering significantly less than market value in order to make a profit.
“It's him, I know it's him but I don't know why it's him,” Sherlock muttered, hands in his hair as he'd paced the flat. “Think! The whole world is in an economic downturn. Gold is a solid investment, but why buy it at a loss?” He'd been merciless with the violin for hours until stopping mid-screech and exclaimed, “Oh! Counterfeiting! John! He's trying to destabilize the world's gold supply!”
After that, it had been a blur of arranging travel and accommodations, with one very grudging call to Mycroft to get their visa approvals fast-tracked. John still wasn't sure what price Mycroft had demanded of Sherlock this time. Sherlock didn't deal in open-ended favours, but if the absolutely black look Sherlock had given every CCTV camera on the way to Heathrow was anything to go by, this particular payment was something along those lines.
They checked in to the hotel and were shown to their room. Thankfully, it had two beds. John knew that it wasn't a sense of propriety that led Sherlock to have a room with two beds, just that they'd have more room to spread out whatever evidence they would find. The man most likely wouldn't sleep at all, or if he did, it would be in a chair or possibly the bathtub (where John had found him many times over the course of the summer, claiming it was cooler in there and the heat made him stick to the sofa). Or he'd just flop down right on top of John and use him as a lumpy full-body pillow like an overfed cat. After the completely platonic man-cuddle on the plane, John wouldn't put it past him. And if he was completely honest with himself, he wouldn't terribly mind it. John had always been a physically affectionate person. It worked well for him in his foundation years, using simple human contact to reassure. He'd been told on numerous occasions his bedside manner was exceptional. The Army hadn't been a place for physical reassurances, so his behaviour had changed in the years he'd served. Part of readjusting to civilian life was allowing himself to be comfortable with sharing affection again.
John plopped down on the closest bed while Sherlock fiddled with his laptop. Even though he'd slept on the plane, he figured he would stock up on rest now because he didn't know when the next opportunity might be. He smiled a little to himself as Sherlock cursed the inferior American design for power outlets. A vertical arrangement opposed to side-to-side was less efficient and made using more than one adapter per outlet an 'absolute pain,' according to the grumbling coming from the other side of the room.
21 September
They'd been in New York for three days, chasing down the leads Sherlock had come up with while still back in Baker Street. They'd visited more than a dozen pawn brokers, six security guards, and (most memorably) cornered a man in the toilet of a Starbuck's who'd designed the original print ad for the newspaper. Sherlock had yet to discern a pattern or trace anything back to the source.
It was nine o'clock. John was using Sherlock's laptop, updating his blog at the detective's request. Sherlock had constructed a cover story for their trip to New York (some case involving a replica of the Koh-i-Noor) and gave instructions on what John should mention. While typing up a lament on the city's lack of proper chips (one of Sherlock's suggestions, John suspected it was some kind of code), a new email alert popped up on the screen.
“You've got an email.”
“Who is it from?” Sherlock murmured from his place on the bed. He was in his usual thinking pose, flat on his back, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed.
“Jerseygirl76@thescandal.net.”
“Hmm. Read it to me.”
John opened the email and began, “Sherlock- I know it's been a long time, but I'll cut right to the chase. Googled you a few years ago in a fit of nostalgia, and now I think you're the only one who can or will help me. My son's missing. I've filed a missing persons' report with the NYPD, but they're worthless. Teenagers run away all the time, yada yada. No ransom note or anything. I know my kid- he didn't run away. I realize you're probably busy, but this is REALLY IMPORTANT- all caps. I can arrange a plane ticket and accommodations, along with whatever fees you charge. Then it's contact information, signed Irene, no last name.”
Sherlock sprung from the bed and re-read the email over John's shoulder, his mobile already out. “Finish your blog entry and post it,” he mumbled as he sent a text. He put his shoes on while he waited for the return text. It took less than two minutes, and then he was bundling John into a light jacket and rushing him out of the room.
They hailed a taxi and Sherlock rattled an address to the driver. The urgency is in his voice was mostly an act, but there was a genuine undertone of anxiety as well.
John waited until the cab pulled away from the curb to ask, “Who's Irene then?”
“Someone I used to know,” he said, distracted, as he typed away on his phone. John peered over his shoulder as Sherlock scrolled through screen after screen, too fast to make out any information.
“Like that Wilkes bloke, then?”
“Not at all,” was his ambiguous reply.
Figuring no answers would be forthcoming, John settled back into the seat and watched the reflections of street lights on the windows.
Continued here