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John stared contemplatively at the artfully twisted slice of lime in his gin and tonic. The drink was overpriced, even by Country house hotel standards, but it was worth it for the few minutes peace. The wedding of Dr Michael Stamford to Dr Molly Hooper had been beautiful. Lovely weather, a touching ceremony and a reception that showed every sign of being an epic piss up. John had hated every fucking second so far.
Well, that wasn't quite true.
As they'd got up after the ceremony in the cold, damp chapel John saw him for the first time. Sitting at the very back, almost behind an ornate gothic pillar. John had only noticed him because the bride had singled him out for a hug as the happy couple walked up the aisle. Like she was surprised and delighted he was there.
A guest, a guest that hadn't bothered with a tie and who could blame him, with that neck. John had then watched him loiter on the edges the whole tedious time they waited on the photos to be taken, there was no sign of a plus one.
He's unattached, like me.
John filed the thought away because if the bridesmaids were out of his league this chap was a whole other sport. Croquet or polo-one of those posh sports. He was six foot of lean angles but with an arse that John knew would fit abundantly in his hands in various compromising scenarios.
When it was time for the meal he seemed to disappear. A wise choice John had thought ruefully as he sat through the speeches and the mundane chatter at his table. He slipped away before the first dance, knowing that with Mike and Molly it would be nauseatingly treacly.
So he found himself in the main hotel bar. A nicer space to him than the faux- glitz of the ballroom it was a modern room that made a feature of the stripped back bare stone and bi-folding glass doors that opened out onto a terrace scattered with metal furniture. On a warm evening it would be a nice spot to sit with a drink but today, chilly for the end of April, it was for die hard smokers.
He nodded to two of the bridesmaids as they came back inside, shivering in too-thin pashminas. Judging by the flirtatious smile he got in return his chances had improved from earlier and he was just about to follow them back into the party when something caught his eye.
A plume of smoke in the furthest corner of the otherwise empty terrace. He looked closer. It was coming from a bundle of dark fabric. A halo of dark hair, frizzy in the damp, was just visible above an upturned collar. It was him.
John glanced, with a little regret, at the receding figure of the bridesmaid. All soft curves in slinky green satin, before grabbing the remainder of his drink and heading outside. Shutting the doors decisively behind him, he stood as if to take in the cool night air.
‘You don't smoke.’ A voice emerged from the bundle of fabric. Rich, deep, seductive - apparently without really trying.
‘Just getting some peace and quiet.’ John said, sipping his drink in a way that was supposed to be nonchalant but backfired when he somehow poured it down his shirt.
‘Have a seat if you like.’ A leg stretched out of the bundle to push out a chair and John couldn't help noticing how impossibly long and graceful it was in slim fitting navy trousers.’That’s if you feel you need to sit.’
At this the man glanced over his shoulder and swept a look over John who realised he'd left his stick propped against the bar. He cursed as it supported his therapist’s theory.
Psychosomatic.
He crossed the terrace, noting they had it to themselves, and placed his glass next to an almost untouched red wine. ‘Thanks. John Watson by the way. How do you know Mike and Molly then?’ John said conversationally. Definitely out of his league but he was going to have a bloody good try, now he was here.
The man stubbed out his cigarette, unravelling himself a little in the process. ‘Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. I know them from Barts.’
‘You work there then, you're a doctor?’ John replied. Common ground.
‘I'm not a doctor-not exactly on the staff, Molly lets me know if she's working on something interesting, lets me borrow things.’ Molly was a pathologist.Molly, as she would tell people, mostly did post mortems.
Sherlock took a sip of his wine and looked at John stonily fro a moment before a corner of his mouth turned up, apparently against his will. ‘It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm a detective. Consulting detective, the police come to me when they're out of their depth.'
‘Private detective?’ John said, imagining him trailing adulterous husbands and wives. ‘The police don't consult amateurs.’
‘No they don't.’ Sherlock took a sip of his wine and silently regarded John for a moment. Shamelessly checking him out, which John was fine with, but also something deeper. He got the sense Sherlock just saw him. It should be unnerving, it wasn't. ‘For example.’ Sherlock said finally, nodding in the direction of a side door further down the building that stood open, light spilling across the lawn. ‘Tell me what you see.’
John looked, eager to please. ‘Two waiters on a fag break. Well - one waiter, one supervisor of some sort, different jacket.’
‘Good. The unusual thing being?’ Sherlock prompted.
‘Neither of them are smoking.’ John said, pleased with himself.
‘Exactly. Little chilly to stand around outside if you don't have to.’
‘They don't want to be overheard.’ John said softly as if he might disturb them.
‘No. I looked at some online reviews for this place. Some thefts reported, always at big events like this.’
‘Surprised Mike and Molly chose it if that's the case.’
‘They met here, at a conference. Hopelessly illogical.’
‘You mean hopelessly romantic.’ John said with a smile. Sherlock shrugged, as if they were the same thing.
‘So you suspect them?’
‘Yes - but not just them. Do you mind missing a little of the party?’
‘No.’ John said, holding back his enthusiasm. It's not like Mike and Molly would miss him.
‘Excellent.’ Sherlock said, suddenly on his feet. ‘I could use a man of your skills.’
‘Planning to fall down the stairs are you?’
‘No-I don't mean medical, military. Afghanistan or Iraq by the way?’
‘Who told you that?’ John said, trying to sound flirtatious but a little thrown that someone had been talking about him. He knew doctor was a fair guess, at this do.
‘No one told me, I observed. It's the way you stand, the haircut. Growing it out though, did someone tell you the grey suits you? They were right.’ At this he turned away, awkwardly, coyly. John realises.
'Then there's the tan, doesn't go above the wrist so not on holiday, work hence the…’ He trailed off, probably because John was grinning like a fool.
‘Amazing.’ John said and Sherlock just beamed for a moment before wrestling his face back to it's previous coolness.
‘Anyway, tan fading, hair growing out, that tells me you must be discharged. There's shoulder pain, a tremor - so medical discharge. The tremor isn't at all obvious you know, I only noticed because you look for it yourself, constantly checking your grip.’ Sherlock finished with unexpected gentleness.
‘Amazing.’ John said again softly.
‘Do you know you do that out loud? Ready?’ John nodded and followed him back in through the bar and into the main lobby. John, jogging to keep up, realised that endless legs don't just look pretty, they're a bugger to keep up with.
Sherlock produced a key card and let them into a corridor marked staff only. It was quiet at this time of day,apparently some sort of storage space for the chambermaids. There was a smell of laundry detergent and piles of linen and towels lined the shelved walls.
'Borrowed this from the reception supervisor.' Sherlock brandished the card. 'Well I say borrowed...'
"Where are we going?'
'Just checking the layout. Leads back to the ballroom apparently, we're going the right way.'
The corridor was widening out and various rooms led off. As they moved further on there were offices and staffrooms, rosters pinned to the wall. Sherlock glanced in through a couple of open doors. All was quiet until the smell started to change to food as they neared the kitchens. Then they began to hear hisses and clatters, shouting.
'Getting what you came for?' John asked.
'Yes, knowing the layout is always an advantage when...'
'Oi, excuse me!'
Sherlock was interrupted by an angry voice behind them.
'You can't be back here-its dangerous with people carrying trays!'
'John felt the tension in Sherlock's body change, loosen, and he was brushed tantalisingly with a hip as the detective turned to face a flustered looking woman in chef whites.
'I'm sorry.' Sherlock giggled drunkenly and swayed a little. 'The captain and I were just looking for somewhere... quiet.' He gave John an utterly filthy look.
The woman swore under her breath before graciously showing them to a door that led into the ballroom. There Sherlock seemed to snap back into sobriety, like shedding a skin.
'Gin and tonic was it?' Sherlock said, waving to the barman as they reached the bar that overlooked the dance floor.
'Thanks. You could just have said we were lost. Not made out we were looking for somewhere to have sex.' John said with a sideways look, really trying not to let himself be flattered.
'Have sex? What do you take me for captain?' Sherlock clutched his chest in mock shock. Before they could talk further John was enveloped in a bear hug by the bride groom.
'John Watson! Glad you could come, nice to see you.' Mike patted him on the back. The happy couple were doing their rounds. John made the usual noises of congratulations and how lovely Molly looked, which she did.
'You've met Sherlock then?' Molly said glancing between them, then at her husband as if to say I told you so. 'Thought you'd have sloped off by now.' She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock.
'Wouldn't have missed it for the world Molly.'Sherlock said unconvincingly.
'You sneaked away from the engagement party for a missing koi carp.'
'That was a diplomatic matter as I explained at the time.' Sherlock said with a straight face.
'Yes.' Mike said out the side of his mouth to John. 'He's always like this.'
The happy couple continued off on their circuit of the room and they fell into silence for a while. Sherlock, he assumed, watching for his thieves. John mostly watching Sherlock.
'I'm not keep you from anything?' Sherlock said after a while, a bridesmaid say?' The detective's eyes turned pointedly to an admittedly lovely redhead. John shook his head smiling. 'Don't undersell yourself captain.'
'I was hoping for a brunette.' John said boldly. Then suddenly Sherlock grabbed his wrist, squeezing. John, happy with this development, was on the point of leaning in to reciprocate when Sherlock whispered sharply.
'There. Do you see.'
John looked out across the ballroom. The waiters they'd seen earlier were clearing glasses from a table. One of the two engaging the women at the table in conversation while the other deftly removed a brooch from the lapel of a jacket on the back of a chair before dipping his hand into a bag for a folded pile of notes.
'They're stealing to order.' Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off them. Someone else, probably someone in management is overseeing this. The waiters pass on the jewellery keep the cash.
'OK a brooch but...' John looked doubtful.
'Look,' Sherlock pulled something up on his phone before pressing it into John's hand. 'It doesn't just happen here, things are stolen from rooms as well. In the rooms they take nothing else but the requested item so its not even seen as a theft sometimes. The person assumes they've lost it while drunk. The point is, the thieves are selective. They seem to have a taste for art deco and Edwardian pieces.' John skim read the review in front of him. A family heirloom necklace had been taken while a pricey gents watch sitting beside it had been left alone.
'They seem to pick on certain types of people too.' John mused noting both the woman they'd just seen robbed and the one writing the review were in their sixties.'
'You noticed, very good-youll do.' Sherlock rewarded him with an appreciative glance. 'Of course it could just be that they're the ones who have that sort of jewellery, wear it, but I suspect there's more to it. They're people who drink infrequently, are perhaps less savvy about personal security. The thieves can probably pick them out...and that is our cue.' Sherlock watched the waiters disappear through the staff door that led to the kitchens and pulled John along to follow.
'This is not how people normally enjoy weddings you know.' John said with amusement as he was dragged. Reflecting that Sherlock was stronger than he looked for his skinny frame and wondering how that would play out in more intimate circumstances.
'Isn't it? Sounds dull. How do people usually enjoy weddings?'
'Eating, drinking, dancing, getting off with people if they're lucky.'
'I'm flattered you've chosen to spend time with me then.'
Before John had a chance to bungle a smart arse reply the detective pulled him through the staff door and into the doorway of a dry goods store where they could watch the waiters move along the corridor. They waited for a few seconds until the pair disappeared into an office before quickly walking further along and ducking into the break room that adjoined it.
It was unlit but for a crack of light coming through from the door to the adjoining office. John and Sherlock stood so they could look through the ajar door. A striking dark haired woman in a tweed suit stood on the opposite side of a desk from the waiters. 'So, how did we do this evening gents.' A voice, as posh as Sherlock, bright and businesslike.
The waiters produced two brooches as well as a wad of notes.
'Very nice-and the bracelet?'
'We'll deal with it later she's well gone the amount of vodka she's had, sound asleep by midnight I reckon.'
John was suddenly aware of other voices approaching in the corridor. Before he had a chance to panic Sherlock had dragged him into a cupboard. To John's relief it was full of mismatched plates and candlesticks, dusty junk. It was unlikely they'd be disturbed in here. Two female and one male voice entered the room, chatting about some film they'd watched as they drew water from the gurgling cooler.
There was hardly any room in the cupboard and they were pushed close, face to face, in the coffin sized space. From the light that seeped in the edge of the door john could just make out the tieless collar of Sherlock's dress shirt. The buttons too strained for absolute decency. Then there was the mesmerising fug of expensive citrus aftershave. The voices in the break room departed and they let them recede along the corridor for a few moments before they moved.
Finally Sherlock opened the door, shedding bright light on how close they were standing. He paused ,hand on the door handle and looked at John hard. They could still hear the theives in the next room and neither of them moved.
Something warm and bright crept up John's spine.
Now or never.
He laid a hand softly on Sherlock's chest, giving him a chance to back away, break the moment ,but he stayed still. John reached up, actually had to go up on tip toes to press their lips together . He felt unbalanced for a moment but then it was fine because Sherlock was, leaning down, kissing him back and his feet were flat on the floor again.
Somehow the limitation of total silence made the whole thing more intense. Even though they were managing little more than the slick slide of lips and the firm pressure of hands through clothes.
After a few too brief seconds of this Sherlock broke away. Pressing a finger to his own wet, kiss-reddened lips. John nodded, holding Sherlock's gaze as the detective awkwardly took his hand and squeezed it. The gesture had a sort of innocence about it and John found himself grinning as Sherlock brought a hand to his lapel. John was leaning in for another kiss before he realised what Sherlock was actually going for, his phone. The detective fished it out of John's jacket, engaged silent mode and tapped out a text before returning it to Johns hand with a smile.
Come now, managers office. Urgent. SH
They moved, still hand in hand for a moment, to wait at the adjoining door and at the sound of a heavy, confident tread in the corridor. Sherlock moved.
'Now.' He breathed in Johns ear before swinging the door wide and stepping into the office. A man with salt and pepper hair stood in the other doorway brandishing a police warrant card.
'John, Detective Inspector Gavin Lestrade. Lestrade, Dr John Watson.'
'You bloody know its Greg and why are you bothering me with this when they're about to put out cake.' Greg had a world weary look about him but it said something, something impressive, about Sherlock that a DI came running at his command.
'Look at the table, they've all been rather sticky fingered. Haven't you?'
'These items were found and handed in, we'll be looking for their owners of course.' The woman said smoothly, smiling at Greg with amusement over the little misunderstanding.
'Even assuming i hadn't heard you talking earlier, which I did, what about the ones in the safe?' Sherlock nodded towards a small safe in one corner of the floor. 'You don't move them on that quickly do you? Not if you want to get the best price.'
'I don't know who you two are but I'm sure your police friend will tell you that you need a warrant to look in there.' She remained unflappable.
'True, unless one of you cares to open it for us. I don't think this is anyone's first offense and cooperation is looked on favourably. Perhaps my police friend could confirm?'
Greg nodded wearily.
'I pride myself on loyalty between my team and I.' She smiled and sat in her chair.
'That's not all that goes on between you and your team is it? That's quite a distinctive sliver of foil wrapper on the floor, extra sensitive I believe. Tell me, do you have to come in early or do you do the deed during your shift?' Sherlock turned to look mildly at one of the waiters. He stood red faced while the other one looked at him with disgust.
'Bastard. I thought something was going on. You know what I've got to look out for myself.' The waiter shrugged and moved to the safe. Putting in the code and opening it to reveal quite a pile of jewellery.
Lestrade, with a resigned sigh started to ask questions and took out his phone, presumably to call the local police.
'He can handle this now, more effective than he looks actually. Don't tell him I said that.' Sherlock said, stepping back out of the room.
'Won't we, have to give a statement or something?'
'Possibly.' Sherlock made a vague gesture. 'Not now though.'
'Come on then. They're playing a good song.' John held out his hand. 'Dance with me.'
Sherlock took it hesitantly, allowing himself to be led back towards the ballroom. 'This is how you should enjoy weddings then?'
'It is, though I quite enjoyed your way too.' John led him into the busy room and to the edge of the dancefloor.
'Careless Whisper, really?' Sherlock rolled his eyes but was already swaying his shoulders in time.
'Its traditional. Cheesy music.' John said sliding his hands round Sherlocks waist, perfectly gentlemanly but slow enough to promise more. Sherlock rested his hands on Johns shoulders, thumbs gently brushing his neck. Out of the corner of his eye John just caught Molly giving Sherlock a grin and a thumbs up sign. 'It looks like we've got an audience, John whispered.
'How would you like not to have? I have a room.' John met his eyes, surprised and Sherlock blushed a deep crimson. 'I don't normally do this. Which sounds like such a cliche, but I don't.'
'Ok-for the record. At one point, quite recently, I used to do this a lot...'
'In the army but also after... after your injury, your discharge. It made you feel...something-as opposed to nothing.' Sherlock drew him closer it felt protective. It was too heavy a subject for them to be dwelling on now but there was something about it having been acknowledged that let him relax. Sherlock must have felt it and he laughed a little. 'The only question now is do we sneak off or brazen it out?'
'Brazen, definitely.' John said, a heady mixture of arousal and relief stirring inside him. They slow-danced out the rest of the song like teenagers.