Cold Storage (Working Title)

Chapter Two

"How did it go?" Sherlock asked as John returned to the apartment. "Did you tell her you needed time, and did she respond the two of you can still see eachother as friends in the meantime?"


"No, actually," John picked up a stray glass an escorted it to the kitchen. "I told her I had important puddings to see to and then we all went and fed some cake to the ducks. Speaking of," he poured himself a fresh glass of juice, "how is the case?"


In fact, his conversation with Sarah had been almost painless. She had assumed it was all due to his experiences in Afghanistan, and he had hidden his complete and utter confusion reasonably well. After all, he believed what he said. Everything would be fine with some time.


"Our corpse is a mister Derek Finch, house painter and amateur artist, brother of an Alice Finch, who we have both already met." Sherlock set his laptop down and started pacing the room. "I believe she told us to get out and stop ruining a perfectly good crime scene."


"Oh," said John. "I don't suppose she'll want to work with us, then."


"I left her a message," Sherlock said. "We shall see what she decides to do. Any course of action is telling enough."


John nodded. "So how did the house painter end up in..."


"Candyland?" Sherlock grinned happily. "I have no idea. The sculpture was meant for a grand dinner on occasion of Janice Milborrow's engagement. She is the daughter of the hotel's owner."


"Where the crime scene is." John set down his glass and promptly forgot about it.


"In their cold storage, yes." Sherlock reached the end of the roon and turned around to keep pacing. "Now, there seems to be absolutely no connection between the painter, the hotel and the murder, apart from the obvious, of course. There are any number of questions we could ask at this point." He looked at John expectantly.


"Er," John said, and ventured: "Was the painter killed for something he had, or for what it could do to the hotel?"


Sherlock cocked his head. "Yes," he said, "though I was thinking more in the direction of; why did the painter land where he did, with paint still on his shoes and no tracks to prove it?"


"He was dumped," said John. "He was already dead when they, whoever they are, brought him into the storage room."


"And in that case, surely there must be tracks." Sherlock grinned at John. "I believe we owe miss Finch a word of thanks." He turned the laptop to face John. On the screen was a picture of the crime scene. Sherlock zoomed in on a part of the wall behind the body. The resolution of the photograph was ridiculously high, and in the harsh flash of camera, rendering the ice crusted on the walls of the room nearly translucent, was a definite anomaly.


"I did notice something when we visited the site," said Sherlock, "but I had no chance of a closer inspection before we were thrown out."


John leaned closer to the screen. "Is that hair?" he said.

---

John shuffled back to the living room with a fresh pot of coffee. It was well into the night by now, and to his frustration there had been no more breakthroughs. Sherlock was resolved to sneak back into the hotel the following morning, and in the meantime, he seemed unable to wait out the rest of the night quietly. The coffee, therefore, was for John Watson himself. He sipped at it as he watched Sherlock nervously messing around with his most beloved gagdet; his smartphone.


For some reason John could not bring himself to be annoyed about his housemate's jittery behaviour. He settled down in what seemed to have become his regular chair and found himself the recipient of Sherlock's penetrating gaze within about a minute.


"There has to be something we are missing, John, it's probably right there, staring us in the face," said Sherlock. He tapped his foot, turned a half circle and wheeled back towards John. "What are we missing?"
John sipped his coffee as if the only consulting detective wasn't staring him in the face with the intensity of an open flame. "We've gone over the photos a dozen times. The best thing you can do now is to take a break and start again in the morning."


Sherlock leaned closer. "But I know it is there, it is just a matter of finding it." He threw up his hands, nearly knocking John's coffee out of his hands. "I know it's there! If I let go of it now, I might lose it."
John carefully placed his cup on the side table. "You need to relax. Nothing new is going to appear on those pictures if you work yourself into an aneurysm."


With a sigh, Sherlock leaned on the arm rests of John's chair. "I appreciate your concern," he said, icily, "but this is more frustrating than you can imagine."


"Undoubtably," said John. "Since meeting you, I've learned there is a lot I can't imagine. Why you do what you do, for example."


"Nonsense." Sherlock looked him in the eyes, and actually smiled, though it was a rather sly smile. "You know exacly why we," he emphasised that word, we, by leaning forward, bringing him and John nearly nose to nose, "do what we do."


"Mhm," John replied, aware that this was not the most philosophical of statements.


After another moment of staring him in the eyes, Sherlock said: "John?"


"Mhm?" was the answer.


"Remember when I said I'd ask you three times?"


A sense of hilarity came bubbling up in John's mind again, and he raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" he asked. Sherlock simply watched him. John tried again with: "You think now is the perfect time to bring that up?"
Sherlock shrugged without loosening his grip on the chair.


"You recall that I've just very possibly ended a promising relationship?"


"Well," said Sherlock, "I thought, in that context, this would be an excellent time to ask again, since evidently--"


Midway through his sentence, John reached out and matter-of-factly took hold of Sherlock's shirt collar. It was one of the blue ones, and John rubbed the fabric thoughtfully with his thumb before he noticed Sherlock had stopped talking and was now watching him intently.


"You were saying?" he said, keeping a hold of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as clear a question as anything. John smiled at him. "I was just making sure."


He pulled the other man close, painfully aware of his pounding heart, but nowhere near as close to panic as he had been when Sarah had even suggested an evening for the two of them. In fact, the pounding of said heart didn't seem to be pumping much blood to his brain at all. If it were, surely he would not have kissed his housemate, his colleague, in the middle of their living room.


In all fairness, it was awkward at first. Grabbing onto Sherlock's collar had seemed such a good idea, but now his hand was in the way. Their lips were definitely touching, but John hesitated, and against his expectations, Sherlock did not press forward, he simply lingered, until John moved his hand to the back of his neck, grabbed him by the hair in a way that must have been painful, and kissed him again. This second time was less awkward and more desperate, searching for a comfortable balance while the hunger was making itself known. John was starting to consider what a giant, embarrassing mistake this was when finally, there was a reaction from Sherlock.


It may have been on the late side, but it was a definite answer. Their second kiss went from awkward to halfway decent, and by the time tongues got involved it could definitely be called a very good kiss. John barely even noticed Sherlock pulling at his sweater until the man swore under his breath and sat squarely on his legs to wrench the layers of T-shirts from his trousers.


"Why must you wear so many clothes," Sherlock mumbled, and for good measure unbuttoned John's jeans as well.
"Generally, people do that so they don't get cold."


Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved his hand up against John's bare stomach. His fingers were cold enough to make him yelp, and Sherlock smiled smugly. "It appears that didn't work."


"Brilliant as always, Sherlock," snarled John. He tugged at the man's collar, nearly ripping the top button off. Sherlock sank down, landing a kiss on his jawbone. While not the intended result, the kisses down his neck and as far as his jumper would allow were incredibly interesting in their own right.


John also took the opportunity to loosen the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, though it was hard to get a proper view from this angle. Sherlock placed a hand on John's upper leg for support as he appeared to try and cover every available surface of John's neck, and the movement was just too much for John to pass by without a slight groan. Sherlock smiled against John's neck, or possibly grinned, it was hard to tell from feeling alone, but there was a definite amused tone to the 'hmm' John could hear right before Sherlock janked his collar down, attached his mouth to his collarbone and sucked.


"Nrh!" John managed. "I'll have to wear turtlenecks for a week!"


Sherlock sat up, the look on his face the most triumphant John had seen him since he'd solved his last case. "It's a good thing you already have an affinity for sweaters, then," he said.


John glared at him and rubbed his neck. Sherlock's hands mirrored the motion on his stomach and, frustratingly, on his leg again.


The look of satisfied triumph still on his face, Sherlock slipped off John's lap and onto his knees in front of the chair. Both hands were now on John's legs, rubbing up and down through the fabric of his trousers. For a moment, Sherlock seemed uncertain, and John pushed himself forward, tilted the angular face towards him and kissed the man on the cheekbones. Then he very nearly bit his own tongue as Sherlock started kneading his groin. Despite the fact that this was roughly two miles and three minutes farther than John had intended to go, there was no sense of panic. He felt nothing but a deep admiration for the man currently on his knees in front of him, and what he was doing to him so well.


John stared at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock looked back at him, drinking up every detail of his reaction as he unzipped his jeans and slipped out John's cock. There was a slight awkward moment as John shifted in the chair, trying to free himself from his trousers. Sherlock pulled and his jeans dropped to just above his knees, effectively exposing him to Sherlock's nimble hands.


John felt a wash of relief at wearing clean underwear, but the urge to laugh was thankfully overpowered by the feeling of Sherlock's hand stroking his cock to full erection. Sherlock was still watching him, still with that knowing smile on his face, accompanied now by a slight blush that was anything but innocent. John closed his eyes for a moment to savour the sensation, and the next moment he felt something wet and incredibly warm press against his groin. His eyes snapped open to see Sherlock, eyes locked on his face, slowly and languidly licking him down. John shivered as the tongue passed over the head of his cock, and he could feel himself pulse against Sherlock's mouth.


Irritatingly, annoyingly, and incredibly him, Sherlock chuckled. He looked into John's eyes one more time before looking down, and taking John into his mouth. John felt as though the man would swallow him, and for a moment the intensity of feeling was painful. He squeezed his eyes shut and with one hand, held on to Sherlock's shirt in a crushing fist while the man sucked with all his skill.


Maybe it was something in the way John moved, or a sound he made, but before he reached his climax, Sherlock detatched his mouth and crawled back on his lap. Between the abrupt end of the blowjob and Sherlock locking his lips to John's again in urgent hunger, John noticed Sherlock's own trousers were undone, his penis hard and exposed.


John wrapped one arm around Sherlock in a tight grip, and with the other, reached down and between them, where it met with Sherlock's hand. The two entwined around their shared erections to provide some much-needed friction, while above, Sherlock kissed John so hard he was sure he would bruise. In retaliation, John dug his nails into Sherlock's back and was rewarded with a groan, muffled against his own lips.


He wasn't sure who had come first, but they both did, gasping and clinging to one another and when it was all over, he suddenly felt very cold. Sherlock was panting into his ear, and John loosened his grip by a fraction, worried he would draw blood. With the heat of release ebbing away, he glanced down and swore.


Sherlock turned his head, his breath now tickling against the side of his face, and said: "Mhm?"


"Look at my sweater," John mumbled, indicated the sticky mess leaking into the wool. "I'll have to wash it."


Sherlock twisted around in the chair and pulled a packet of tissues from his back pocket. "You would have to, anyway, John," he handed over a tissue, "after all, I believe it will be fine weather for turtlenecks this week."

---

John surveyed his options. He pulled out a turtleneck in a sort of mossy green and pulled it over his head. He turned to look at himself in the small mirror mounted on the inside of the closet. He looked tired, and quickly stopped frowning at himself. The bright and obvious love bite he had encountered earlier that morning was safely hidden away. He prodded at the spot under the knitted collar. His reflection looked back at him with a worried look on its face. John rolled his eyes at it and stumbled downstairs.


He got all the way to the kitchen and halfway through his second cup of morning tea when Sherlock walked in, crisply dressed and with hair like a nest of hedgehogs. He brushed past him on his way to the kettle.
"Cold weather, is it?" he said.


John finished his tea in one gulp, and nearly choked on it. "I wouldn't know, I haven't been outside yet."


"You know, John, anyone with half an ounce of sense is going to notice that sweater," Sherlock said and poured himself his breakfast. "You can't tell me you didn't see the sun is out today."


Casually, John leaned back in his chair and watched Sherlock carry his tea around the table. He watched his hands, specifically, wondering with an edge of fear if they would be equally cold as yesterday. If it wasn't for the mark on his neck, he would start doubting his own memories. As it was, he merely doubted his own wisdom. The thought that he had, well, not slept with, per se, but had definitely engaged in sexual acts with Sherlock, was bewildering, and part of him wanted anything rather than to find out what Sherlock himself thought about it, now that the light of morning had arrived. The rest of him, however, was dying to know. "You'd be surprised how distracting a giant red blotch on the neck can be," he said, and braced himself.


Sherlock sat across him and peered out of the window. He ran a hand through his hair, reducing it to its usual unruliness. "I wouldn't know, it's not my area of expertise." He sipped his tea. "It looks like that new couple across the road is having financial trouble."


"Are they?" said John, successfully confused. "Do they have bills sticking out of their letter box, then?" He looked out of the window. Across the street, a young woman was smoking out on the sidewalk. She wasn't wearing a coat, and was holding a packet of cigarettes.


Sherlock took another sip of tea and said: "She outside, the smoker, has a nearly empty packet of cigarettes. I'd wager that one is her last one. She's enjoying it because she can't afford the habit anymore, if she and her girlfriend want that first-floor window fixed." Sherlock and John watched as the smoker tossed the empty package into a bin, and paused to look at the piece of cardboard taped to the inside of one of the windows. A spiderweb of cracks ran over the surface. The door opened and a blonde head poked out. John could see the two talking for a moment, then the smoker stamped out her smoke, accepted the other woman's arm and went back inside.


Sherlock got up from the table with enough energy to push the chair backwards and against the wall. "Your shoes are in the hallway," he said to John, and marched out to the door. John sighed and followed, picking up his shoes along the way. He looked down at his own hands, and covered his face. Now was simply not the time.

---

"Hmm." Sherlock examined the ice-encased walls of the room. The spot that had shown up on the photograph had been bagged and tagged by now, but against all odds he had managed to find another stray hair. John watched as the man whipped out his mobile phone and took a picture of it, careful not to disturb the ice.


A voice next to John whispered: "I wonder what he can tell from that hair."


John glanced aside at the young police officer next to him. Younger than him, probably. He had been all too glad to let the two of them in. Apparently, Sherlock had a reputation.


"It belongs to a middle-aged man with facial hair," said Sherlock, still standing very close to the wall, now with a pocket magnifying glass in his hand. "A man who is busy, and well off. Most probably a businessman."


John stepped up to the wall, past the little flag marking the former position of a shoe, and peered at the hair.
The policeman stood in the doorway, quivering with excitement. "How did you know?" he said, craning his neck but still unwilling to leave his post. John would not be surprised if the same woman who had told them to bugger off had ordered the boy not to set a foot inside the room. He was teetering on the edge of the prohibition.


"Because I am a genius," said Sherlock, the tone of voice matter-of-fact.


John grinned. "Not that I disagree," he said, "but I think I see how you got there." He stepped back and pointed at the wall. "He dyes."


"Pardon?" mumbled the young officer.


"More accurately, John" Sherlock shot him a glance, "the man dyes his facial hair a dark brown. Not regularly enough to prevent grey roots, however."


"It's a beard hair," John supplied.
The policeman looked suitably impressed, and nodded as well.


"I'll leave you to the rest of the room," said John, and walked to the door. "I am going to find a bathroom."


With a satisfied smile, Sherlock followed him out of the freezing chamber. "No," he said. "I've seen all I need to in there. I'll wait for you here, John."


As John turned around, a man and a woman came walking around a corner into the hallway. The woman had a look of high executive about her, and the man wore a similarly impressive, if less formal, suit. John noticed the fact that he wasn't wearing a coat, while she was. He noticed the man's elegant goatee, dark brown but going grey at the roots, and he noticed the man in hotel uniform following the two, carrying a briefcase. The moment the man spotted him and Sherlock, he headed straight for them.


"I'm afraid we haven't met," he said in a pleasant voice, "are you with the police?"


Sherlock took a step forward, discreetly slipping his phone out of his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective." He gestured at John. "This is my colleague."


"John Watson," said John.


The man smiled and offered his hand to Sherlock. "Ah, yes, I've heard of you." He shook Sherlock's hand enthusiastically. "I'm Richard Milborrow. I do hope you'll get all of this sorted out quickly. It's delaying the grand party."


"Yes, I've heard," Sherlock said with an actual smile. "I believe I should congratulate you."


"Thank you, thank you. If you'll excuse me, I need to be off." He nodded at Sherlock, ignoring John and the policeman. "A good day."


Sherlock's smile melted away as the man rounded the corner and he wiped his hand on his jacket. "Eugh," he said. "Sweaty hands."


"And a smile like a shark," John added. "Full of razorblades."


"Aren't you poetic, John. One would almost think you a romantic soul." Sherlock wiped his hand again and shot John a particularly sarcastic smile. He clapped his hand on John's shoulder, and he couldn't help but grin in response.


"Remind me to put some poetry on my blog," he said. "I know you read it."


Behind the two of them, the police officer locked the door with shaking hands and shuffled forwards. "I'm sorry," he said, "but did you notice?" He paused, looked down and started over: "Did you notice his beard?"
"Dyed, yes," said Sherlock, and buttoned up his coat.


Hesitantly, the young man asked: "Are you two--?"


"Colleagues," Sherlock interrupted him, staring John on the face. John could feel a warmth creeping up his neck, and was grateful for the turtleneck.


"Right," said the policeman, "Of course. Uhh." He trailed off.


A frown on his face, Sherlock inspected his phone for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket resolutely. "John," he said, and grabbed him by the arm. "I believe we're done here." He marched off, unstoppably, pulling John with him.


"Thank you," John called over his shoulder, before the officer disappeared around the corner.