[fic] sherlock - renegades (9/12)
“You’re supposed to be dead,” John says.
“Please John,” Irene replies, “You’ve already fallen for that trick once. As far as the world is concerned, Irene is dead. I mostly go by Victoria these days.”
“I see Moriarty’s made you a full agent,” Sherlock says.
“Hang on,” John interrupts, “You knew she was alive?”
“We’ve kept in touch,” Irene says, “Or we had until these last four months.”
“I switched handles,” Sherlock says.
“Was that you in Philadelphia?”
“Did you recognize my style?”
“Vernet? We’ve got files on you. It comes with a sample. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in telling me who you pose as now.”
“I prefer keeping my anonymity.”
“You might be less anonymous than you think.”
“Then you wouldn’t need to ask.”
Irene leans against the desk and smiles at the two of them. “Well this has been rather more interesting than I thought it would be.”
“You’re here for a reason,” John prompts. Irene looks at him.
“Recruitment,” Irene says, “But I’m not sure if that would be in the best interests of our organization any more.”
John doesn’t let the panic and disappointment show on his face. Irene could be convinced.
Sherlock steps forward, eyes on her face. And he says, “You owe me.”
_____
“Do you trust her?” John asks when she’s left.
Sherlock looks at the airplane tickets in his hand. “No.”
_____
It’s a fifteen hour flight from Los Angeles to Hong Kong. John feels well enough to take the bandages off but he keeps looking down to check that he hasn’t bled through his shirt.
Sherlock leans his head against the window and falls asleep. John sits in the middle, hands on the armrests, and wishes he had bought a book at the airport newsstand. Irene plays Sudoku on her phone.
“He told me you lied to him about me,” Irene says, not taking her eyes off her phone, “Noble. Misguided, but noble.”
“And now you’re working for Moriarty.”
Irene looks at him, “Does that really surprise you?”
“No.” And, “I don’t trust you.”
“You would be a fool to, Dr. Watson,” she looks past him, at Sherlock, “You can’t trust anybody in this business.”
John doesn’t take the bait. “Why Moriarty?”
“He gave me an opportunity. I stayed because I enjoyed the work. You wouldn’t know, but Moriarty’s name opens a lot of doors in our world. He’s got quite the prestigious reputation.”
John looks at the back of the seat in front of him.
“Careful, John,” Irene says, “We operate on an entirely different level than what you’ve seen so far.”
_____
John is half asleep in his seat when he hears Irene whisper, “Have you figured it out yet?”
Sherlock’s voice is low, “Have I figured what out yet?”
“You and John.”
Silence.
“You remember our agreement,” Irene says.
“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, and they fall silent again.
_____
Sherlock taps his fingers against the armrest he shares with John, looking out the tiny window at the sea of clouds below. They’re flying west, chasing the sun.
On impulse, John slides his hand below Sherlock’s wrist and fits his fingers between Sherlock’s. Sherlock stills and glances down. John squeezes and keeps looking forward.
Sherlock glances at him. His lips twitch before he looks back out at the clouds.
_____
“I hope the accommodations will be adequate,” Irene says as they stand in the elevator to get to the twenty-fourth floor of the residential high-rise, “I think one of the bedrooms is currently in use as a study-” she glances at John as she says this, “-but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to convert it into a second bedroom if you need it. I’ll give you a forwarding address for your bills. We’ll pay for everything, as long as you keep reporting back.”
“What’s the mission then?” John asks.
Irene just smiles at him as she unlocks the door to the flat. It’s modern. The furniture is polygonal. Abstract art lines the walls and a metal sculpture sits in a pot next to the island counter in the kitchen. Granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. John doesn’t want to think how much this place costs.
Irene picks up a manila folder from the coffee table in the living room. One wall is a window that looks out at the skyscrapers of Hong Kong. John steps towards it as Irene hands the documents to Sherlock.
“This is the only copy of instructions you will receive. Memorize and destroy it. You are expected to work independently for the next three months. Beyond living expenses, we will not assist you. At the end of three months, we will assess the results you’ve obtained and the efficiency of the techniques you used to get them. If we decide you’ve adequately met the standards, you will be asked to join the core team.”
John turns, “And if we don’t meet the standards?”
Irene keeps smiling, “What do you think, John?”
“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, flicking through the papers.
Irene plucks a piece of paper from the folder that Sherlock is holding and finds a pen. She scribbles down a number and slips it back into the folder.
“This is where I leave you,” Irene says. Her hand lingers on Sherlock’s wrist. “You know how to contact me.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, lifting his eyes from the pages.
She steps away and nods at John, “Good luck, Martin.” She turns and smiles over her shoulder, “Benedict.”
The door closes after her.
_____
“It’s all intel gathering,” Sherlock says as they sit at the kitchen table and John starts to sort through the papers in the file.
John shakes his head and flips to a new page.
Sherlock gets up and opens the door to the balcony. He lights a cigarette and steps outside. John glances over the few papers that are left before joining Sherlock outside.
“Three months?”
Sherlock taps the cigarette against the railing he’s leaning against. “Three months, maybe less. I haven’t decided if I want to play their game yet.”
“What other choice do we have?”
“If they’re assessing us, then there’s a contingent of them here in this city watching us. The only people competent enough to asses recruits for the core team are members of the core team themselves. Figure out who they are and I’m sure we could convince them to lead us back to their headquarters.”
“Convince,” John repeats.
“In times of desperation,” Sherlock says, “Perhaps it’d be in our best interests to adopt a lax attitude about morality.”
_____
There’s a washer and a dryer in a closet off the main hallway. John pulls the clean sheets from the dryer and proceeds to make the bed. Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, hair still wet.
“You should redye your hair,” John says.
Sherlock pauses to examine himself in the mirror over the dresser. His roots are obvious despite the overall darkness of his wet hair. “Maybe I’ll revert back to black.”
“You could get it done professionally.”
Sherlock runs the towel over his hair, “Waste of time.”
John straightens the corners of the sheet. Sherlock flings the towel onto the modern-looking armchair in the corner of the room and climbs onto the bed just as John flings pillows onto it. Sherlock grabs one and puts it behind his head. He lays on his back and folds his hands over his stomach. John tosses him the blanket and goes to brush his teeth.
When he returns, the lights are off but the wall of window is wide open. The lights of night-time Hong Kong are reflected in the watery gleam of the harbour. John stands in front of the window and stares.
“John,” Sherlock says. John turns back towards the bed and moves to kneel on the clean sheets.
“I miss London,” John admits quietly.
Sherlock watches him with half closed eyes.
“I miss our flat,” John says. He lays down, careful of his shoulder. “I miss having to yell at you about putting blood in the kettle. I miss-” John stops there. It doesn’t help to think about the past.
“Do you regret it?” Sherlock whispers, “Coming with me.”
“No,” John says, “Never.”
Sherlock shifts so that he’s on his side. John turns his head to look at Sherlock. He’s so close that John thinks that he can make out the corona of gold in Sherlock’s blue eyes even in the dim light. Sherlock touches the inside of his upper arm, a minute pressure against his elbow. He licks his lips and looks at John.
Inevitable.
“Will this change anything?” Sherlock whispers.
Quiet exhale, “No.”
Sherlock moves forward and presses his closed mouth against John’s lips. Neither of them move, they just breathe in the shared space. And then Sherlock’s hand moves, fingertips trailing up along John’s neck before settling on his jaw. John opens his mouth a little and Sherlock tentatively touches his tongue to John’s lower lip, a sweep of soft pressure. Sherlock moves closer, drags his fingertips across John’s neck until he’s got his hand in John’s hair, at the back of his head, and pulls John gently towards him. It’s familiar and novel all at once-a natural extension of what they have been and what they will become.
Sherlock’s other hand touches his stomach through the cotton shirt, slides down and lightly palms John’s cock through his boxers. John takes a shuddering breath and turns his head, “Are you-”
Sherlock climbs over him, knees around John’s hips as he steadies himself with one hand, other still at the back of John’s head. He kisses John again, a smooth slide of their tongues against each other, his teeth grazing the inside of John’s lower lip-and when he pulls back he whispers, “I have never been so sure in my life.” He touches his mouth to John’s jaw and traces John’s jugular with his tongue. John sinks his hands into Sherlock’s hair and gasps quietly when Sherlock finds a sensitive spot on the side of his neck. Sherlock runs his tongue over it and sucks lightly.
“Sherlock,” John whispers, shifting his hips. Sherlock responds with just the briefest hint of teeth before he pulls away and presses his nose against the crook of John’s neck. The hand in John’s hair loosens and Sherlock touches cool lips to the still-inflamed skin on John’s shoulder.
John brushes a thumb over Sherlock’s ear and strokes his hand down the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock keeps moving. He pushes John’s shirt up and places butterfly kisses over the ugly lines of red on John’s stomach. John tilts his head back and says, “Sherlock,” shakily when Sherlock pulls down John’s boxers and drops them onto the floor. John’s half-hard and he can’t stop the stupid tremor in his leg because Sherlock. Sherlock strokes his fingertips across John’s hipbone, his inner thigh, the top of his knee, and then he lowers his head and fits his hand around the base of John’s cock, nuzzling the tip with his lips. John stifles a groan into a shaky exhale. He wants to raise himself on his elbows at least to watch, but his shoulder can’t yet fully take his weight.
Sherlock runs his tongue over the underside of John’s cock. John spreads his legs and his hips inch up until Sherlock pins him back down. Sherlock tilts his head and mouths at the side of it, his hair brushing up against the inside of John’s thigh. He slides his tongue under the foreskin and closes his mouth around John, fingers tightening at the base. John tilts his head back against the pillow and god, Sherlock’s mouth. Pressure and warmth, Sherlock’s tongue pressing up against the slit over and over as his hand tightens and moves.
The pleasure collects low and John hasn’t felt like this in a long time, hasn’t wanted to writhe with the sensations, hips bucking rhythmically against the strength of Sherlock’s weight pressing him down. He makes a strangled sound to warn Sherlock that he’s about to come and then he does, his entire body tensing with the pleasure and Sherlock.
When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. John strokes at his shoulder. Sherlock lifts his weight off John’s hips and stays there for a moment with his arms caging John’s torso and head bowed. John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and murmurs, “Sherlock?”
Sherlock pushes himself back. He drops a kiss on the side of John’s knee and slips off the bed, padding into the bathroom.
A spike of panic cuts through John’s post-coital haze. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed and follows Sherlock into the bathroom. Sherlock leans against the bathroom counter, palms down and he’s staring into the sink. John hates it-hates himself-and he hates the way his voice breaks when he asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, so quietly that John barely hears it, “Go back to bed. I’ll be back in a second.”
John wants to say no. John wants to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist, wants to put his face into the space between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, wants to take away every bad memory that Sherlock’s ever had. He wants to press himself into Sherlock until they bleed together, until Sherlock has conclusive evidence of how much he fills the empty spaces inside John.
Love is not a strong enough word.
“Okay,” John says and it hurts him more than anything but he turns around and slips back under the covers because it’s what Sherlock needs.
Later, Sherlock climbs into bed. He turns on his side so that he’s facing John. John turns his head to look at him, but Sherlock’s already closed his eyes.
John reaches into the space between them and fits his hand into Sherlock’s. Sherlock strokes the side of John's pinkie with his own. John closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
_____
Morning illuminates the room, direct sunlight shining past the curtains and landing on Sherlock’s outstretched calf. Sherlock is still asleep when John wakes up. He lies on his back, sheets twisted across his waist and John’s good arm is numb from where he’s lying on it. John carefully extracts himself and works the feeling back into his fingertips again.
Sherlock’s eyes move under his eyelids but he doesn’t wake. John turns onto his front and touches the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones. He follows the sweep of the bone up to Sherlock’s shoulder: smooth skin, pale against the tanned tone of John’s fingers. He spreads his fingers and drags light fingertips down the span of Sherlock’s arm, settling at the delicate skin inside his elbow. Goosebumps trail in the wake. John bends his head and kisses the inside of Sherlock’s wrist.
When he looks up again, Sherlock’s eyes are open. John kisses the wrist again, tongue sliding against the tendons, before he moves his lips to Sherlock’s palm, tracing his lifeline with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock just watches him, breathing steadily.
John slips one of Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth, and watches the way that Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, lips parting. John smiles around the finger and trails his tongue along the sensitive pad. Sherlock rolls toward him and drops a hand on the back of his neck. John lets the finger go. A moment later, Sherlock is kissing him.
John pushes himself up and Sherlock moves so that he’s laying on his back again, head tilted, watching John through half closed eyes. He ignores his shoulder and moves so that he’s straddling Sherlock’s waist. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, burying his nose at the corner of Sherlock's jaw.
“I never thought,” John whispers.
Sherlock touches the back of his neck.
John moves to kiss Sherlock’s other shoulder, down his chest, the warm skin of his stomach. Sherlock’s muscles jump under his lips and John stops to press his tongue against each one. He keeps going until his chin is pressed against the elastic of Sherlock’s briefs and he looks up at Sherlock who is propped up on his elbows, looking like he’s still half asleep. John can feel Sherlock’s half-erection against his neck.
John traces the edge of Sherlock’s underwear with his tongue. Sherlock tenses-barely noticeable, but John can feel it-so John keeps going down, tongue pressed to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He touches the back of Sherlock’s knees with his fingertips, kisses his sun-warmed calf and pauses with his lips on Sherlock’s anklebone. They’re stilled for a moment, then Sherlock turns his foot, rubs his toes against the side of John’s neck. John laughs against Sherlock’s leg.
“Come back up here,” Sherlock says, far too lazily for it to be a demand. John goes.
Sherlock touches his face and smiles. John thinks he’ll remember this moment forever.
“Okay,” John finally says, “A lot of stuff to get done today.” He moves to the edge of the bed and is about to slip off when Sherlock catches his wrist.
“Hang on,” Sherlock says, “You don’t want to...?”
John gives Sherlock a smile over his shoulder, “You tell me when you’re ready.”
_____
Sherlock divides the pages into three piles. John drops vegetable oil into a pan and heats it before cracking in four eggs.
Sherlock is working on his laptop by the time that John sets a plate of breakfast down in front of him. He stirs sugar into Sherlock’s coffee and sets that in front of him too before taking his own seat. He picks up toast in one hand and sifts through one of the piles with the other.
“They're in order of priority,” Sherlock says without taking his eyes off his laptop, “You’re looking at the least important.”
John switches to one of the other piles. Determination of possible security breaches in the following list of buildings. Location and details about the following biohazardous materials. Extraction of personal information from the following people. Exploration of concealed routes within the city.
“What do you want me to do?”
Sherlock holds his hands out for the papers without looking at John. John puts them in his hand. Sherlock shuffles through them before picking one and setting it on the table to circle certain parts of the list. He slides it back over to John.
John eyes it. Determination of possible security breaches in the following list of buildings.
“I’ve circled all the ones that are open the public,” Sherlock says, looking back at his laptop, “It might be easier if you could find blueprints though nothing quite beats observation.”
“Okay,” John says as he scans down the list. Five buildings. With any luck, they would be close to each other. He taps at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock looks at him.
“Eat your breakfast.”
_____
John works out the mass transit system and take the Tsuen Wan Line up to the Hong Kong Museum of Art. The building looks heavy: all ninety degree angles and a complete lack of windows. Tickets cost ten dollars and John takes longer than usual with the unfamiliar money.
“Are you visiting, sir?” the receptionist asks with a smile.
“Just in for a few days,” John says, “Can you tell me what’s famous here?”
Ten minutes later, John stands in the Xubaizhi collection, looking at the calligraphy. He steps from piece to piece, wishing that he had more experience with the type of security used in housing art-or at least had stolen the laptop from Sherlock briefly to read up on it. He looks at the corners of the room and notices the security cameras painted white. There’s a fire exit at the far end of the room, opposite of where he entered.
John realizes that he really has no idea what he’s doing.
He clenches his jaw and looks at a painting of mountains. This was not the time to be useless. Focus.
If he were trapped in this room with hostile forces at each entrance, how would he get out?
He pretends to read a plaque and scans the walls for vents, raises his eyes to the ceiling to look for loose tiles and walks around the gallery until he works out how best to avoid the cameras.
It’s probably not to Sherlock’s level, but it’s a start.
_____
Sherlock hasn’t moved from his position at the kitchen table since this morning when John gets back to the flat. He’s eaten an egg and a half (sucked the yolk from the half still congealing on the plate) and one of the pieces of toast. He hasn’t gotten dressed.
“Results?” Sherlock asks without looking at him.
“I only managed to look at two of the buildings,” John says, taking off his shoes.
“Well,” Sherlock says, “It’s your first day. I’ll let it slide.”
John clears the half eaten plate from the table and scrapes the remains into the bin, “I was thinking.”
“Good,” Sherlock answers absently.
“I was thinking-” John repeats more loudly, “-that there’s no way that this person who’s tracking us could have an eye on both of us at any given point in time, right? Unless there’s more than one person, but why would you spare two people to evaluate when it sounds like your core team is small?”
“Hm,” Sherlock says. John has no idea if he’s even listening.
“What about the cameras?” John asks, “There were cameras everywhere I went today. What if they had access?”
“Done,” Sherlock says.
“Sorry?”
“Done,” Sherlock repeats, actually looking at John this time, “I already messaged my contact who can hack into closed circuits. Right after you left this morning, in fact.”
“Oh.”
“Decent idea,” Sherlock says and looks back at his laptop, “He said he’d get back to me if he found anything unusual.”
“Um,” John says, “Do you think there are any in this flat?”
“I did a sweep yesterday while you were in the shower,” Sherlock says, “None.”
“Good,” John says a bit too quickly. Sherlock looks at him again, and John swears he's smirking.
“I’ll make dinner,” John says, and gets up.
_____
John is in the midst of cutting a pineapple when Sherlock asks, “You would prefer to be a bioethics consultant, wouldn’t you?”
“Over what?”
“Hm,” Sherlock says, “Doesn’t matter. I’ve already decided.”
“Why even ask, then?”
Sherlock swings the laptop towards him.
“Our new company. I had some help inputting it into the legitimate databases.”
John looks at the sleek logo and can’t help but smile. “So I'm a doctor again.”
_____
Sherlock climbs into bed four hours after John turns in. His arms and legs are cold as he slips in behind John. John half wakes and mumbles something under his breath when Sherlock puts a cold hand against his ribcage, long form settling against John’s back.
Sherlock’s nose presses into his hair and his thumb moves in circles against John’s side. John decides that he doesn’t mind sharing his body heat after all and goes back to sleep.
_____
Sherlock is awake before him. He has a mug of coffee on the table in front of him and he’s staring at the laptop again.
“You made coffee,” John says, reaching for the pot.
“Make more,” Sherlock replies, “I have additional locations for you today.”
“Am I abandoning yesterday’s list?”
“No, but this is more important,” Sherlock says, “My contact got back to me. He checked all the closed circuit cameras for the buildings I gave you yesterday and found that other computers had accessed the networks as well. He gave me a list of the IPs and I pinpointed them to these physical addresses.”
“Okay,” John says, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the map on the screen, “What does this mean?”
“It means that it’s possible that our tracker frequents one or more of these locations,” Sherlock says, “The experiment will have to be repeated, of course. Go to the buildings I give you today and we’ll match up the accessing IPs tomorrow against the list we get tomorrow.”
“Are we also going to these places today?” John asks, gesturing at the screen.
Sherlock taps at his lips. “No,” he decides, “We don’t want to alert him of our intentions any earlier than necessary.”
_____
“Ticket, sir?”
John rummages in his pocket and tries to look surprised and panicked as he says, “Oh, I think I left it in the restroom. Um, excuse me.”
The usher turns to the next person in line and John slips back into the crowd. A glimpse inside the auditorium gave him a good estimate of how big the basement would be. He shoves his hands back into his pockets and relocates the stairs he saw earlier. As long as he looked like he knew where he was going, he wouldn’t be stopped.
He’s walking through the basement of the concert hall, noting the layout of the practice rooms and scanning for cameras when somebody shuts a door behind him. “Are you lost?”
John turns around. The woman in front of him holds a violin.
“I thought I would surprise my girlfriend.”
“You’re not allowed down here,” she says, “You’re late anyway. You’ll have to go upstairs to see her.”
“Oh,” John tries to smile, “Okay. Thanks.”
She doesn’t move until he heads back towards the stairs. She watches him all the way until he’s back at the top.
Well. Hopefully not entirely wasted.
_____
“Two hits from the same IP,” Sherlock tells John when he gets home, “Excellent.”
“Hello to you too,” John says.
“Come here,” Sherlock demands and John does. Sherlock pulls him down and kisses him until John’s laughing against his mouth.
to part ten