The Dangerous Edge of Things aka Sherlock Holmes has a Boyfriend who lives in Canada Part 2 (3/4)
Alright my darlings. One more part after this, and then we're good! Thanks for reading so far - may the Tims be with you. Not beta'd or brit-picked, but oh well.
A risk, others might say. A calculated outcome, Sherlock asserts. That is, John is perfect. Unassuming, small. 160 pounds, 5’7, soft in the face. Then there’s his limp - like blood in the water. Of course, John doesn’t know this - how could he? He’s too used to looking over his shoulder, certain in the strength of his hands - even if his leg is unreliable.
No, Sherlock knows that John is perfect, or at least for this, he’s perfect enough.
Two hours later, and it starts to rain. The air turns chill and on the marble steps John invents curse words. Inscribes them in his mind so might use them again later when Sherlock returns. If.
“Right freezing, innit?” The museum worker pauses at the base of the steps, his smile affable, hands tucked in his pockets.
“Damn cold. Nothing like back home but still.”
John’s not used to the humidity, the way that the cold curls in to all his joints. That’s for the Quebec kind, or the Vancouverites. Not his prairie bones, desert heart, although his Toronto skin is familiar with the muggy heat.
The man peers up at John from the steps, “where’s the bloke that was with you?”
John shrugs. “I’m just visiting and got swept up in his investigation. No idea where he is now.”
The museum worker stands for a few minutes more and John feels his muscles tense.
“Wanna go for a pint? I know a nice place close by, we can talk more about the girl. You can tell your friend where you went.”
John looks around, sees no sign of Sherlock. His realises that his toes have lost feeling and his jacket clings to him. Damn, he’s cold.
“Yeah, let’s go.” He pushes up from the marble steps, and rubs his hand on his jacket, and takes out his phone.
He flips the screen open and finds that there are now only five numbers in his phone book, four of which are labelled Not Sherlock. John wants to punch Sherlock and laugh at the same time. He settles for texting the man and following the other fellow through the crowd.
“What’s your name?” John asks
“Peter. Peter Steiler.”
The pub is hidden in twisting streets with looming windows. John feels like if he stretches out his hands he'd be able to touch both sides of the street. The door is painted green, chipped and peeling, and when Peter lugs the door open by the spiraling brass handle, John feels a moment of unease at the dark beyond.
Squaring his shoulders he steps into the warmth beyond. His eyes need a minute to adjust and only after they've settled at a small table in the corner of the pub is he able to look around. Some man slumped at the bar, two others gathered around a darts board. A man and a woman converse in carrying tones about the Lib Dems, while the bartender shoots annoyed glasses at everyone and everything. John is glad that the cloth used to wipe down the bar is wet or else the bartender would have burnt a hole in the wood with the furious circles he's making.
Peter clears his throat and John looks back to his companion.
"I'll go get us some drinks, shall I?" Peter offers, hands brushing the wood of their table in an absent gesture
When Peter comes back, a mug of pale ale in each hand, John thanks him and starts in on the small talk.
“So how’d you get to working in the museum? What do you even do?”
“I used to work at a hotel but that just didn’t work out for me. Another Pint?”
“Oh, sure.”
John takes another swig, smiles at Peter. Smiles at how after his second pint Peter’s hands are unsteady, his voice slurred. John feels like water might be stronger than the beer Peter is ordering. Still, a drink is a drink.
“Shit,” Peter curses as his unsteady hand knocks his mobile to the ground. John hops off his stool and grabs the phone.
“Cheers mate.”
John shrugs, “No worries.”
Peter’s hands tighten on his mug, and John presses down a grin. John’s careful to lift the glass to his lips. Move his throat like he’s taking a long swallow. After three of these gestures his mouth feels paste-like. John fiddles with his phone, sends off a text, and then returns his attention to Peter.
“Sorry, just asking my friend where he is. Think I’m getting a bit drunk.”
Peter smiles.
“I can give you a ride home if you want.”
“You’ve got a car?”
“Well, not exactly. More like I’ll help you find your way home.”
John laughs. “Is it that obvious that your trains system is confusing?”
Peter shrugs. “I’ve heard that from a lot of people.”
And when later, John stumbles from the pub, arm slung around Peter’s neck, he doesn’t waste time checking his phone.
When they’ve walked two blocks past a tube station, John tilts his head.
“You’re not taking me home, are you?”
Peter smiles, and John sees cat teeth and needles.
John sighs. “So why Canadians?” Peter doesn’t even blink, doesn’t wonder at John’s lucidity. The rest of the drug will hit him fast enough, he reckons.
“You’re convenient. Think that once people learn you’re not American tourists the world is going to just spread its arms for you. Ha. Too easy.”
“I think you’ll find that not all Canadians are easy.”
John draws his head up, the limp limbs regaining their earlier co-ordination. The arm that was slung around Peter’s neck becomes a vice.
John scoffs. “It was either the army or the RCMP. I’m not stupid enough to trust my drink alone with a suspect in a murder investigation.”
Peter pushes against John hard, slamming him into a tall fence. The wrought iron catches John’s shoulder and he hisses, dropping his arm down.
“Son of a bitch,” John growls, lunging for Peter. Wide eyed, Peter spins around and breaks into a run.
“Come on,” A figure rushes past John, clutches at his elbow. John lunges forward, pulled as if on a string.
“Sherlock?”
“Talk later.”
There’s a rhythm in his body that John remembers. The gasp of breath and pounding of his heart - the ache in his limbs as they stretch and fight gravity, propelling him towards the dark oblivion that he’s always sought. Either in sand swept fields before the sun has dared touch the sky, or in his little apartment in Toronto when he wakes up feeling alive and ready, and oh god please yes. And there the beat comes again, thrumming in his mind and the ground beneath him until he can feel the echoes in his bones like a passing train.