Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock walked up and down the beach hand in hand leisurely for over thirty minutes before Sherlock decided to linger near where the murder had taken place as nonchalantly as possible, sitting down with John and leaning against him. John watched him as Sherlock peered around, every so often slipping into his Jeremy persona to coyly smile at John and rest his head on John’s shoulder or arm.

“What exactly are we looking for?” John murmured to him, still finding it somewhat amusing that Sherlock had ginger hair and that said ginger hair was presently pushed into his chin. “Or, more to the point, what exactly are you looking for?”

“Hand me the camera for a moment,” Sherlock mumbled instead of answering, holding out a hand and slipping to sit between John’s spread legs. “Quickly!”

“All right, all right! Hold your horses,” John muttered as he pulled the camera from his shorts and dropped it into Sherlock’s palm. “What do you see?”

Sherlock used the zoom on the camera to look at whatever he had seen and leaned back into John’s chest at the same moment, pushing his short curls into John’s face. John sighed deeply and chinned him out of the way, pushing Sherlock’s head aside in the next moment with his fingers with an annoyed clearing of his throat.

“God I love pebbled beaches,” Sherlock mumbled, shuffling forward and taking a photo, then looking at it on the camera screen with a curling grin. “I want us to shimmy over—”

“Shimmy?” John snorted, quickly hiding his amusement by rubbing his face and glancing down the stretch of beach; suddenly defensive when he caught a few people shooting them disgusted looks.

“Shuffle then,” Sherlock said, peering back and then following John’s gaze, lifting a hand to touch John’s cheek to redirect his attention. “Ignore them. You get that everywhere—now, I want us to shuffle over about four feet to our right.”

“Were all three couples killed in this exact spot?” John asked as he moved with Sherlock, trying not to giggle at how ridiculous he felt. “And if so many people have been murdered, why isn’t there a proper investigation into it? How long ago did this even happen?”

Sherlock adjusted his glasses with a wiggle of his nose and waved a dismissive hand, “The most recent was several weeks ago, and the rest were months apart, stretching three to four months apart, to be a little more exact,” he told him, pretending to be taking a photo of the sea with a smile as he spoke. “And no, they weren’t killed in this precise spot.”

John bent his legs up either side of Sherlock and nodded, “Right—look, could you please just fill me in? I hardly know anything about this case.”

Sherlock leaned on John’s right knee and turned to glance over his shoulder, “I practically made this a case, as it wasn’t one before I stumbled across it,” he told him. “I was bored a fortnight ago, as I’m sure you’ll remember—”

“Yeah, I bloody do! Seeing as I was the one to get rid of the bloated body of the disease infested pigeon that you’d oh-so-lovingly left for me on the kitchen table like some sort of human cat!”

“It wasn’t disease infested it was—we’re going off the issue!” Sherlock huffed, flicking his eyes around and lowering his voice, cupping his hand over John’s knee warmly. “I searched around, after the pigeon fiasco, for something interesting, anything to work my mind on; and I found this. Now a couple whom was stabbed to death on a beach in France might not sound fascinating to many, but what made it so, was on the same stretch of beach, another couple had been killed…and another, and another, and another. No one saw the link between them, given the space between each murder, given the location and state of the bodies; but I saw it. All the couples were tourists, all the couples were homosexual, and all the couples were either staying in or around the hotel we’re currently booked into.”

John inclined his head and squinted up at the blue sky, “Okay.”

“However, I don’t think that it is in any way directly linked to the hotel, not completely,” Sherlock continued, pretending to show John images on the camera and leaning closer to him in the process, inadvertently shielding John from the sun, “I don’t want you to be extra cautious or paranoid. Yes, someone, somewhere, sees the couples arrive and informs, whomever, so they can later plan some sort of attack, but I don’t think it’s anyone in the hotel—not anyone I’ve seen so far, anyway.”

“Right. Okay. Got it,” John replied, staring into Sherlock’s green eyes briefly. “Why do you think these…people…are doing this?”

Sherlock shifted his gaze pointedly and John glanced over at the people who’d given them a dirty look not moments ago, “It might be all fine for some, there might be a large part of the population that are open-minded, that are delighted with love whether its between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman, or a man and a man; but there are still others, and there will always be others, that do not… approve. Whoever these killers are, they obviously don’t take kindly to those who love their same gender and have decided that it warrants death. They are sick and twisted and most of all, completely and utterly deplorable.”

“Agreed,” John nodded. “Do you reckon they’re overly religious?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock conceded, “Although, they could be merely using religion as an excuse. So many do, after all.”

“Do you know what happened to the last couple before they died? Where they went, who they met, things like that?”

Sherlock smiled at him and shifted around flexibly, slipping his legs either side of John’s hips and facing him, “Yes—Well, I know what they apparently did up until the point of their deaths, because as I’ve said, it was several weeks ago and most of the evidence was either cleaned from their hotel room or washed away by the sea. Their friends and family only know so much, as does the hotel staff. Their social media accounts document a lot of their holiday, and so I’m using that as a plan of action, of what we can do to retrace their steps.”

“But you saw something? Here, on the beach, you took a photo of something?” John asked, motioning to the camera and trying not to lean back from their close proximity when Sherlock shifted on the stones digging into his backside.

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock beamed, bringing up the image and handing over the camera before leaning back and collecting a few pebbles. “Paint. Nothing too fancy, but it’s something—you see, I think the last couple put up a fight. This paint is weeks old and it could be from anything if it weren’t for the fact that it’s vibrant pink. The last couple were Cybergoths—”

John frowned, “Cyber what?” he asked, peering at the image to see a dotting of pink amongst the grey pebbles of the beach.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Cybergoths. Surely you’ve seen them around London, specifically Camden? The term has been around since 1988 for goodness sake,” he told him, sighing and showing him the pebble. “They wear a gothic sort of fashion with contrasting bright neon colours; this is fluorescent pink nail varnish, so I’m pretty certain it belonged to them. I’m also convinced that they splashed it on their attacker, or at least one of them—now this could have been on purpose or on accident, either way, they did it, and this tells me that it was probably a sudden attack, that the couple were taken by surprise and so used whatever they had on hand.”

“Were the couple two men?” John queried as he took the pebble.

“No, two women,” Sherlock replied, “The couple before were two men, as were the couple before them.”

“Right…so how does this help us? Is there a pink path leading to the killers? Find them pink-handed, will we?” John asked with a grin. “And what if the varnish just got smashed in the attack?”

“No—Dear God I hope you’re being deliberately obtuse,” Sherlock muttered, taking the pebble back. “If the varnish bottle had been smashed during the attack then I would have seen it in the crime scene photos and therefore not been at all bothered by finding this. The crime scene was only coated with blood, not pink varnish. This piece of evidence not only tells me that it was a sudden attack, conceivably an ambush, but that there was more than one person involved. If the person stabbing them had been hit with the varnish, then it would have dripped down on their bodies as the killer stood over them and thrust the knife in and out of them—”

“Yes, okay, I’d rather not have that mental image, thanks,” John muttered, shuffling his hips with a wince and swiping sweat from his brow. “Can we move from here now? It’s bloody hot.”

Sherlock nodded and fluidly got to his feet before something caught his eye and he grinned, nudging John’s arm once he too was on his feet, “There’s more pink over there—perhaps there really will be some sort of path…clever girls. I knew I liked them for a reason.”

John pocketed the camera as Sherlock did the pebble, and then followed him as Sherlock strolled off, “You liked them?”

“Yes,” Sherlock started, taking up John’s hand when he neared and glancing at him, “Putting aside their stylish, attention-grabbing clothing, and enigmatic smiles, they were very—”

“So you took the “case” because you liked them and wanted to find their killers, more than finding the way they had died interesting?” John questioned with a smirk.

“No,” Sherlock huffed, walking with John slowly and squinting against the sunlight. “Their deaths interested me first, but the fact that they’re also extremely clever people did indeed help matters. In fact, I think I knew one of them at one time. She seemed familiar, at any rate. I’m sure that we had a violin duel.”

John paused and waited for Sherlock to turn to him in confusion, “I’m sorry, I swear I heard you say “violin duel”? How on earth do you have a violin duel?”

Sherlock smiled in response, “Easily.”

“Well…did you win?” John laughed with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered proudly, starting them off walking again with a swing of their joined hands. “Of course I won.”

John sniggered, “What did you win at the end of it? Was there a prize of some sort?”

Sherlock gave him a cunning look, “Winning was enough of a prize. She stupidly thought she could outplay me. I proved how wrong she was.”

“If it was her, then she must have been wearing the same bright clothes, right?” John asked him offhandedly but peeking at him with a shrewd expression.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, bowing his head to try and stifle his smile.

“…Did you used to be a Cybergoth?”

Sherlock chuckled deeply, bending over and clutching his waist with his free arm, “No!” he gasped between his chuckles until he calmed and straightened his face and continued, “I’m more of a Punk… 'Cause I wanna be Anarchy. It's the only way to be…”

“I quite liked the Sex Pistols, you know,” John replied after a few moments of silence, grinning widely at Sherlock who laughed again and leaned into his side as they carried on walking.

❀ ❀ ❀

In the end the pink splattering path ended somewhat abruptly near the exit to the street and Sherlock looked around, still pretending to be Jeremy, still pretending to be taking holiday photos, and then sauntered back towards the hotel, clearly finished with the first overall scan of the area. John observed him and tried to see whatever Sherlock did whenever he would take another photo and squeeze John’s hand, as if to tell him to remember something, even though John had no idea what it was he was suppose to remember. In addition, Sherlock’s Jeremy walk was beginning to grate on John’s nerves a bit and he glared when Sherlock seemed to notice and accentuate it more, butting his hip into John’s side and pressing more reservedly to John’s arm until John had to push back to keep from toppling sideways.

“Behave,” John huffed.

“Peux-tu me parler en français s'il te plaît?” Sherlock responded with a soft smile that had just the hint of a grin. *

John shook his head and pointed a finger at him, “No, I will not speak in French. I don’t know that much French and I doubt you can teach me over the time we’re staying here either—and even if you could, I don’t trust you enough to teach me the right things. You’ll probably have me call someone a hairy goat or something stupid.”

“Pardon, qu'est-ce que tu as dit?” Sherlock asked, turning his ear to John with a flickering smirk, bumping his hip into John again as they turned to cross the road. *

“Mon français est mauvais!” John replied testily, glancing up at him and then noticing the redness of Sherlock’s ears with a concerned and displeased frown. “Stop trying to make me speak, French. I know you’re only doing it to wind me up and to take the mickey—and look, you’ve caught the sun on your ears. What did I tell you? It’s a good thing I also bought some after sun lotion from that blasted airport, isn’t it?” *

“Ton français est très bien!” Sherlock told him, his Jeremy mask barely slipping as he leaned close so John could better inspect his ears. “Qu'est-ce que je ferais sans toi?” *

“N’importe quoi,” John replied, unable to stop from smiling tightly when Sherlock laughed at his choice of words, and then glared half-heartedly when Sherlock looked at him. *

“Peu importe,” Sherlock corrected him patiently, touching John’s shoulder in a meek but very affectionate manner, still playing Jeremy off expertly whilst teasing John about his lack of French knowledge with a flicker of cocky condescension at the corners of his eyes. *

John pinched one of his ears in retaliation, “See, this is what I’m talking about! I know enough French phrases to get by but I can’t have proper conversations in French because I just don’t remember or know that much—now hold still and turn your head a little, let me see how bad this sunburn is,” he said, bringing Sherlock’s face closer and then turning him by the jaw. “A lot of people forget that the ears can get sunburned…and you are no exception it seems.”

Sherlock glanced at him sidelong as John pulled and tugged gently at his red ears, and slowly smiled, “T’as de beaux yeux, tu sais,” Sherlock rumbled impishly. *

John paused and gave Sherlock a bothered look, “Did you just say something about my eyes?” he asked.

“Oui,” Sherlock replied, leaning back a few inches when John let him go and looking purposely down at John’s frowning mouth, “J’adore ton sourire. Embrasse-moi.” *

John sighed aloud and took Sherlock’s hand again as they crossed the road, “No.”

“Ne m'aimes tu pas?” Sherlock asked with a saddened expression that was only slightly over the top. *

“Tu es mon meilleur ami,” John muttered, trying to ignore some of the glances they were getting by tourists and the French alike. “Will you stop being a massive arse! You’re only doing this because you’ve found all there is to find today and you’re annoyed, aren’t you?” *

Sherlock’s face shifted and the Jeremy mask flickered for just a moment, “No,” he muttered shortly.

“Right,” John snorted as they walked back into the hotel and took the lift to their floor. “It’s because you’re annoyed at the lack of evidence; you want to show off; you want to frustrate and embarrass me; and because you know that no matter what you say, whether you’re talking about my eyes or about the smell of a dog turd, it sounds like liquid sex in that bloody voice of yours.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline, “Liquid what?”

“You heard,” John mumbled, flushing deeply at his own words and walking out as soon as the lift doors pinged opened; strolling over to the door to their room with Sherlock close on his heels. “Now come on, I need to see to your ears.”

“Nom de Dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperies de connards d'enculé de ta mere,” Sherlock murmured in a deep baritone right in John’s ear as John fumbled for their room key and pushed it roughly into the lock. *

John clenched his jaw and glowered over his shoulder at a smirking Sherlock as he pushed the door open with a sharp jerk of his arm, “I knew I shouldn’t have made you watch Matrix Reloaded…get in.”

Sherlock laughed and moved straight for his suitcase as soon as he stepped foot inside the room, pulling out his laptop with one hand as he began to sing under his breath complacently, “La mer, Qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs, A des reflets d'argent. La mer. Des reflets changeants. Sous la pluie…” *

John shut the door behind him and stalked over to smack Sherlock’s ear roughly, grinning when Sherlock gasped and cupped it in discomfort, “If you still had your longer curls, this might not have happened, you know,” he said as he pulled out the after sun lotion from his own bag and coated it on the red tips of Sherlock’s ears a little rougher than he would have done normally. “You look more like a ginger now though…so that’s a plus.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock scowled, hissing when John pinched a little. “Ah! It’s your fault, anyway. You insisted on putting sun cream on my face and yet you completely ignored my ears—ow!”

John rubbed the lotion in a bit more and then checked the rest of Sherlock for any other patches of sunburn, finding a part of his left knee red and slapping lotion onto that with another broad grin at Sherlock high-pitched intake of breath. Sherlock later swatted him away with a sneer and a growl, moving to sit at a table with his laptop and removing his glasses.

John watched him and smiled, snapping another photo of Sherlock as he hunched over with a faintly furrowed brow, before he handed the camera over to a suddenly glaring Sherlock whom took out the SD card with skilful flicks of his fingers and thrust it into his laptop. Sherlock didn’t delete the photos John had taken, but merely took out the images he alone had taken, of the beach and the shops and buildings lining the coast, dragging them all into a folder on his desktop.

“Well…I’m going to have a look around, I think,” John told him after a bout of silence. “Get the layout of the hotel and…I don’t know, talk to a few tourists?”

“No,” Sherlock said bluntly.

John sighed, “Why not? You don’t need me and I don’t want to just sit around doing nothing while you fiddle on your laptop for however long—”

“I need you here.”

“No you don’t,” John retorted.

Sherlock conceded with a dip of his head, “Fine. No. I don’t, not right now—but I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

John crossed his arms, “You said for me to not get paranoid or extra cautious.”

“Yes—”

“By making me stay cooped up in this room is making me paranoid and cautious,” John pointed out. “Why can’t I go? I’ll only be at the bar…or possibly the swimming pool.”

“I have the money,” Sherlock mumbled.

John smirked, “Not anymore,” he told him; holding up the pouch that Sherlock had dumped most, if not all, of their euros in. “Don’t wait up!”

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed in frustration, half getting up to go after him before John slipped out the door with jaunty wink and a wave.