The American Affair: Chapter 2
The American Affair: Chapter 2
Tim had mentioned, early on, getting a great deal on an apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Apparently the landlady, Ms. Rutledge, was old and well off, and never bothered to change the prices from 1979. Tim rented the top two floors, and the landlady lived on the bottom. In exchange for such cheap rent, Tim had taken to doing chores around the building for her, changing light-bulbs, taking out the garbage, and the like. Tim had laughed when he told David this, saying the woman reminded him of his grandmother. There was pain behind the words, and David didn’t pry. Tim never talked of his family.
As David walked up to the building, he could see why Tim liked it so much. It was an older brick building, looked to have been made at the turn of the century, on a quiet residential street. There was no litter. The cars were newer and more expensive. There were sign of young children, tricycles and toys, all new and clean and waiting on porches and behind decorative wrought iron fences. The flower box (there was an honest to goodness flower box) had fresh daisies in bloom. David thought of his own apartment in a chrome and steel high-rise in Manhattan, and shook his head. He rang the doorbell.
A few moments later, David heard the sound of footsteps, a muffed curse and the screeching of a cat, and the click of a deadbolt being released. The door opened to reveal a woman in her late sixties. She was strong of posture and build, but her hair had gone stark white it was fashionably cut, and she was fashionably dressed, and she was frowning at David like he came to sell her insurance, door to door.
“Hi,” David said, suddenly nervous. “Does Tim Fielding live here?”
“Are you the police?” Ms. Rutledge asked, her voice husky from what must have been decades of smoking.
“No,” David said. “No, I’m a friend from work. He hasn’t been in--there’s been no word and I was worried.” She continued to stare at him and David didn’t fidget. “Is there need for the police?”
Ms. Rutledge sighed and opened the door. “You better come in.” She stood back and David eased his way through the door. Though he had lost some bulk when he stopped playing football after college, and hadn’t developed that spread that was all too common on ex-athletes, he would never be a small man.
Ms. Rutledge lead the way to her kitchen, gentling pushing a small orange cat out of her way with her foot. David looked around as he followed her. The first floor was obviously hers, dark wood paneling and furniture that was at least twenty years old, for all that it was very well kept. Comfortable. The place smelled clean, like fresh laundry and lemons, and David felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease.
The smell of lemon intensified when he entered the kitchen. The room itself was yellow, bright and cheery, with modern appliances and a large window that overlooked the small plot of land that served as a back garden.
“You want coffee?” Ms. Rutledge asked. David started.
“Oh. Yes. Please. Black. Thank you.”
Ms. Rutledge nodded, and started spooning grounds into her coffee pot. “Take a seat. This place is too small to stand around.”
David didn’t think the place was too small. It was cosy; He could see why Tim had jumped at the chance to live here. The cat abandoned Ms. Rutledge and jumped into David’s lap. He petted it absently and tried to figure out how to begin.
"That's his cat," Ms. Rutledge said. "He got her only a few weeks ago. She was a gift, apparently. From that boyfriend of his." She leaned back against the counter and pulled out an electronic cigarette. She smirked at David's surprised expression. "he never came out and said anything, but I'm not blind Mr. Karofsky. That boy was in love." she grinned suddenly. It took years off her face. "He bagged a looker, too."
David laughed. He could see, now that she wasn't glaring at him, what Tim saw in her. "Yeah, he's proud of that, too."
Ms. Rutledge took a drag and said, "Call me Sharon."
David smiled. "David."
"Tim hasn't been home in days," she said. She turned and grabbed mugs for the coffee. "He'd started spending more nights out, with that man of his, but he was good about checking in--getting his mail, taking out the trash. Then, of course, Tigerlilly, there." David looked down at the cat in his lap. She was chewing on the hem on his suit jacket, and he tugged it, gently, from her moth. "He doted on that cat. He wouldn't leave her in the lurch."
"If you don't mind me asking," David said. "if you're so sure something happened, why haven't you called the police?"
Sharon sighed, and placed a mug of coffee in front of David. "I keep expecting to see him walk in that door," she said. David looked away, took a sip of his coffe.
"I think we're going to have to," he said, finally. "Do you want me to...?"
"Thank you," she said. They sipped their coffee in silence. David shifted, overcome by the urge to do something.
"Tim said he used to do chores for you," he said at last. "Is there anything I can do?"
Sharon smiled. "You're sweet. But no. I let him help because I could tell he felt guilty about the rent."
Davis smiled wryly at her, and drained the coffee. He stood, gently sendi Tigerlilly to the floor. "Thank you for the coffee. I better go talk to the police."
Sharon stood and walked him to he door. He paused in the doorway. "Thanks again,” he said. “I’ll keep you updated.
“I know you will.”
David blinked, cocking his head in confusion. Sharon said, smiling sadly. "You talk about him in the present tense."
David swallowed past that implication, and nodded, pulling out his cell phone as he walked away, down the block. “Hello?” He said. “I’d like to report a missing person.”
***
John settled back into his seat, folded his arms over his chest, and tilted his head back. There was commotion all around him as their plane boarded, businessmen and families and single travelers streaming past them into the back of the plane, sending envious glances their way. John smirked. It was nice of Mycroft to secure them first class tickets.
“He only did it to try and tempt us away from joining the ‘Mile High Club’.” Sherlock said, never looking away from his phone. John huffed a laugh. The knowledge his partner kept versus the information he deleted never ceased to amaze him. As in, Sherlock knew what the Mile High Club was, but not the planets in the solar system. Though, John mused, he knows know. Sherlock had learned simply because everyone else thought he wouldn't, and it enabled him to one up Anderson. Again.
Though, it did make sense for Sherlock to know about sex, regardless of what Mycroft thought, or how long Sherlock had remained a virgin himself. Sex was a great motivator of crime, up there with power and money. And if Sherlock knew anything, even as he dismissed them as dull and ordinary, it was the motivations of crime. For example, just a few weeks ago they had solved a case where a woman had killed her husband by making it look like he had choked to death in a bondage scene gone wrong, because he had visited a fetish club behind her back. Sherlock had cleared the club’s employee by proving that the methods the club employed wouldn’t have caused that particular bruising pattern, and that the death had been caused by an amateur.
And they had certainly had put that knowledge to use, after. John’s smirk grew.
“He does know that won’t stop us.”
“Of course.” Sherlock glanced at him, flashing that grin. “He just doesn’t like to think about it.”
John giggled. Mycroft’s ill ease with their relationship, John knew, had nothing to do with John, or the fact that they were both men, and everything to do with the leverage he lost when Sherlock stopped being a virgin. That was one area where Mycroft had held experience over Sherlock; Sherlock just wasn’t willing to deal with anybody like that just to one-up Mycroft. Until John came along, that is.
Then, boy they did. With gusto.
John shut his eyes. It would be a seven hour flight to New York, and he might as well get some sleep which he could. Goodness knows that he would need all the rest he could to keep up with Sherlock. He didn’t want to be jet-lagged on top of everything else. Sherlock, he knew, would be up for the whole flight, thinking, pacing when he could, and John learned long ago to sleep through Sherlock’s distemper.
The stream of passengers slowed, stopped, and the flight attendants started their pre-flight rituals. Sherlock poked at his phone, fingers flying, until the last possible second, turning it off just as the flight attendant walked towards him.
“Thank you for flying with us today,” she said, full of plastic cheer and with a smile to match. “As you can see, we’re getting ready for take off. So please turn off--”
“All electronic devices, yes, I know.” Sherlock said. “And if you were to look instead of blindly assuming, you would see that, unlike most of the passengers you get, I am not and idiot, and that my phone is, in fact, off.”
John cracked an eye open to look. The flight attendant’s smile hadn’t changed, but there was a sharp look in her eye that John was sure Sherlock saw. He just didn’t care.
“Further,” Sherlock said, “If you would just open your eyes you would see that the other attendant has been sneaking drinks from the cart, and rather poorly. Probably his first flight. Isn’t it comforting to know that your co-worker is a first-time nervous flyer?” Sherlock plucked the air-sick bag from the pouch on the seat in front of him, and held it out tot he attendant. “Here. This might come in handy.”
The attendant straightened and left, never saying a word and her smile never changing.
“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock slumped back, dramatically.
“Oh, what, John?” Sherlock said. “Sherlock, be nice?” He snorted. “I was was nice. Besides,” He flung a hand towards where the attendant was whispering and gesturing emphatically at the other attendant, who had gone pale and--yes, John noticed--glassy--eyed. “Did you really want to fly with that?”
John sighed. “No. But they’re going to delay the flight, now. And I’m really not looking forward to staying cooped up in these seats.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, pulling the blanket out from underneath his seat. “I’m sure I can find a way to make it more--tolerable--for you.”
“Sherlock,” John hissed, and he pinched his nose, but he was more amused than angry, his protests more habit than anything, and--smartaresed bastard--he knew Sherlock knew it too. “And when she comes back to find your hand in pants, what then?”
Sherlock tisked, his smile wicked. “John. Do you really thing she’s coming back? After that?”
John raised an eyebrow at him, trying for stern, but quickly failing. “You,” he said, grinning wide.
Sherlock grinned wide, and spread the blanket over them with a flourish. John pushed the armrest between them back, grateful that they were in the last row at least. He felt Sherlock’s fingers creep over his thigh just as the plane achieved lift, knew his grin would give them away, but couldn’t bring himself to care.
chapter 1
chapter 3
Tim had mentioned, early on, getting a great deal on an apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Apparently the landlady, Ms. Rutledge, was old and well off, and never bothered to change the prices from 1979. Tim rented the top two floors, and the landlady lived on the bottom. In exchange for such cheap rent, Tim had taken to doing chores around the building for her, changing light-bulbs, taking out the garbage, and the like. Tim had laughed when he told David this, saying the woman reminded him of his grandmother. There was pain behind the words, and David didn’t pry. Tim never talked of his family.
As David walked up to the building, he could see why Tim liked it so much. It was an older brick building, looked to have been made at the turn of the century, on a quiet residential street. There was no litter. The cars were newer and more expensive. There were sign of young children, tricycles and toys, all new and clean and waiting on porches and behind decorative wrought iron fences. The flower box (there was an honest to goodness flower box) had fresh daisies in bloom. David thought of his own apartment in a chrome and steel high-rise in Manhattan, and shook his head. He rang the doorbell.
A few moments later, David heard the sound of footsteps, a muffed curse and the screeching of a cat, and the click of a deadbolt being released. The door opened to reveal a woman in her late sixties. She was strong of posture and build, but her hair had gone stark white it was fashionably cut, and she was fashionably dressed, and she was frowning at David like he came to sell her insurance, door to door.
“Hi,” David said, suddenly nervous. “Does Tim Fielding live here?”
“Are you the police?” Ms. Rutledge asked, her voice husky from what must have been decades of smoking.
“No,” David said. “No, I’m a friend from work. He hasn’t been in--there’s been no word and I was worried.” She continued to stare at him and David didn’t fidget. “Is there need for the police?”
Ms. Rutledge sighed and opened the door. “You better come in.” She stood back and David eased his way through the door. Though he had lost some bulk when he stopped playing football after college, and hadn’t developed that spread that was all too common on ex-athletes, he would never be a small man.
Ms. Rutledge lead the way to her kitchen, gentling pushing a small orange cat out of her way with her foot. David looked around as he followed her. The first floor was obviously hers, dark wood paneling and furniture that was at least twenty years old, for all that it was very well kept. Comfortable. The place smelled clean, like fresh laundry and lemons, and David felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease.
The smell of lemon intensified when he entered the kitchen. The room itself was yellow, bright and cheery, with modern appliances and a large window that overlooked the small plot of land that served as a back garden.
“You want coffee?” Ms. Rutledge asked. David started.
“Oh. Yes. Please. Black. Thank you.”
Ms. Rutledge nodded, and started spooning grounds into her coffee pot. “Take a seat. This place is too small to stand around.”
David didn’t think the place was too small. It was cosy; He could see why Tim had jumped at the chance to live here. The cat abandoned Ms. Rutledge and jumped into David’s lap. He petted it absently and tried to figure out how to begin.
"That's his cat," Ms. Rutledge said. "He got her only a few weeks ago. She was a gift, apparently. From that boyfriend of his." She leaned back against the counter and pulled out an electronic cigarette. She smirked at David's surprised expression. "he never came out and said anything, but I'm not blind Mr. Karofsky. That boy was in love." she grinned suddenly. It took years off her face. "He bagged a looker, too."
David laughed. He could see, now that she wasn't glaring at him, what Tim saw in her. "Yeah, he's proud of that, too."
Ms. Rutledge took a drag and said, "Call me Sharon."
David smiled. "David."
"Tim hasn't been home in days," she said. She turned and grabbed mugs for the coffee. "He'd started spending more nights out, with that man of his, but he was good about checking in--getting his mail, taking out the trash. Then, of course, Tigerlilly, there." David looked down at the cat in his lap. She was chewing on the hem on his suit jacket, and he tugged it, gently, from her moth. "He doted on that cat. He wouldn't leave her in the lurch."
"If you don't mind me asking," David said. "if you're so sure something happened, why haven't you called the police?"
Sharon sighed, and placed a mug of coffee in front of David. "I keep expecting to see him walk in that door," she said. David looked away, took a sip of his coffe.
"I think we're going to have to," he said, finally. "Do you want me to...?"
"Thank you," she said. They sipped their coffee in silence. David shifted, overcome by the urge to do something.
"Tim said he used to do chores for you," he said at last. "Is there anything I can do?"
Sharon smiled. "You're sweet. But no. I let him help because I could tell he felt guilty about the rent."
Davis smiled wryly at her, and drained the coffee. He stood, gently sendi Tigerlilly to the floor. "Thank you for the coffee. I better go talk to the police."
Sharon stood and walked him to he door. He paused in the doorway. "Thanks again,” he said. “I’ll keep you updated.
“I know you will.”
David blinked, cocking his head in confusion. Sharon said, smiling sadly. "You talk about him in the present tense."
David swallowed past that implication, and nodded, pulling out his cell phone as he walked away, down the block. “Hello?” He said. “I’d like to report a missing person.”
***
John settled back into his seat, folded his arms over his chest, and tilted his head back. There was commotion all around him as their plane boarded, businessmen and families and single travelers streaming past them into the back of the plane, sending envious glances their way. John smirked. It was nice of Mycroft to secure them first class tickets.
“He only did it to try and tempt us away from joining the ‘Mile High Club’.” Sherlock said, never looking away from his phone. John huffed a laugh. The knowledge his partner kept versus the information he deleted never ceased to amaze him. As in, Sherlock knew what the Mile High Club was, but not the planets in the solar system. Though, John mused, he knows know. Sherlock had learned simply because everyone else thought he wouldn't, and it enabled him to one up Anderson. Again.
Though, it did make sense for Sherlock to know about sex, regardless of what Mycroft thought, or how long Sherlock had remained a virgin himself. Sex was a great motivator of crime, up there with power and money. And if Sherlock knew anything, even as he dismissed them as dull and ordinary, it was the motivations of crime. For example, just a few weeks ago they had solved a case where a woman had killed her husband by making it look like he had choked to death in a bondage scene gone wrong, because he had visited a fetish club behind her back. Sherlock had cleared the club’s employee by proving that the methods the club employed wouldn’t have caused that particular bruising pattern, and that the death had been caused by an amateur.
And they had certainly had put that knowledge to use, after. John’s smirk grew.
“He does know that won’t stop us.”
“Of course.” Sherlock glanced at him, flashing that grin. “He just doesn’t like to think about it.”
John giggled. Mycroft’s ill ease with their relationship, John knew, had nothing to do with John, or the fact that they were both men, and everything to do with the leverage he lost when Sherlock stopped being a virgin. That was one area where Mycroft had held experience over Sherlock; Sherlock just wasn’t willing to deal with anybody like that just to one-up Mycroft. Until John came along, that is.
Then, boy they did. With gusto.
John shut his eyes. It would be a seven hour flight to New York, and he might as well get some sleep which he could. Goodness knows that he would need all the rest he could to keep up with Sherlock. He didn’t want to be jet-lagged on top of everything else. Sherlock, he knew, would be up for the whole flight, thinking, pacing when he could, and John learned long ago to sleep through Sherlock’s distemper.
The stream of passengers slowed, stopped, and the flight attendants started their pre-flight rituals. Sherlock poked at his phone, fingers flying, until the last possible second, turning it off just as the flight attendant walked towards him.
“Thank you for flying with us today,” she said, full of plastic cheer and with a smile to match. “As you can see, we’re getting ready for take off. So please turn off--”
“All electronic devices, yes, I know.” Sherlock said. “And if you were to look instead of blindly assuming, you would see that, unlike most of the passengers you get, I am not and idiot, and that my phone is, in fact, off.”
John cracked an eye open to look. The flight attendant’s smile hadn’t changed, but there was a sharp look in her eye that John was sure Sherlock saw. He just didn’t care.
“Further,” Sherlock said, “If you would just open your eyes you would see that the other attendant has been sneaking drinks from the cart, and rather poorly. Probably his first flight. Isn’t it comforting to know that your co-worker is a first-time nervous flyer?” Sherlock plucked the air-sick bag from the pouch on the seat in front of him, and held it out tot he attendant. “Here. This might come in handy.”
The attendant straightened and left, never saying a word and her smile never changing.
“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock slumped back, dramatically.
“Oh, what, John?” Sherlock said. “Sherlock, be nice?” He snorted. “I was was nice. Besides,” He flung a hand towards where the attendant was whispering and gesturing emphatically at the other attendant, who had gone pale and--yes, John noticed--glassy--eyed. “Did you really want to fly with that?”
John sighed. “No. But they’re going to delay the flight, now. And I’m really not looking forward to staying cooped up in these seats.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, pulling the blanket out from underneath his seat. “I’m sure I can find a way to make it more--tolerable--for you.”
“Sherlock,” John hissed, and he pinched his nose, but he was more amused than angry, his protests more habit than anything, and--smartaresed bastard--he knew Sherlock knew it too. “And when she comes back to find your hand in pants, what then?”
Sherlock tisked, his smile wicked. “John. Do you really thing she’s coming back? After that?”
John raised an eyebrow at him, trying for stern, but quickly failing. “You,” he said, grinning wide.
Sherlock grinned wide, and spread the blanket over them with a flourish. John pushed the armrest between them back, grateful that they were in the last row at least. He felt Sherlock’s fingers creep over his thigh just as the plane achieved lift, knew his grin would give them away, but couldn’t bring himself to care.
chapter 1
chapter 3