Undiscovered

Chapter 2

Sherlock's phone buzzed. After swiftly picking up his phone and staring at the screen, a small smile tugged at his lips. John looked at him and did a double-take.

Did Sherlock just smile? At a text message? John raised his eyebrows and slowly went back to reading the newspaper he was holding. He felt eyes burning through his paper. He peered over to find Sherlock smiling at him.

"Oh for heaven's sake Sherlock, why are you smiling like an idiot?" John was smiling himself. It was impossible to not smile when Sherlock did.
"Oh, nothing." He smiled once again, stood up and marched over the coffee table towards his bedroom.
John shook his head and put the paper down completely. The yellow smiley face on the wall stared at John. It's face was littered with gunshots. John smiled at the memory and closed his eyes. He was tired. John had not been sleeping well the past few nights. Nightmares tugged at his brain during the day, but overcame his mind at night. He always kept that sort of thing to himself. Sharing his thoughts, feelings - it had never felt right, not even with a professional. So he thought it best to stash everything away into a drawer at the back of his mind, untouched by anyone except his himself.

"Coming?" Sherlock was looping his scarf around his neck. Luckily John was already dressed, so he just followed his friend out the door.
He knew better than to ask the detective where they were going. All that earned him was a sideways glance.
The cold air hit their faces and their noses instantly turned pink, leaving them with the flattering I-look-like-I've-sneezed-25-times-in-a-row look.
They walked briskly side by side. It was a cold day, and it had been raining the whole night, leaving the street sleek and wet. Cars hooted and people waved their arms in an attempt to catch a cab.
They turned down a street on their left and Sherlock waved his arm. A black cab pulled up and both men got inside.
"Where to?" A gruff cabbi asked.
"Scotland Yard." Sherlock answered. The car drove off, leaving Bakers Street behind them.
John looked out the window. London flew by them and was hidden behind many water droplets, which were now spreading out and separating as a result of the wind. John was freezing. He made a feeble attempt at warming his hands by sitting on them, only to find the position extremely uncomfortable. Out the side of his eye, Sherlock noticed his friend struggle againt the cold. Sherlock removed his black gloves, handing them over to John.

"Here, take these," he said without looking at him.

"No, Sherlock you'll freeze." John looked genuinely surprised.
"Don't be ridiculous. As a doctor you should know that hypothermia only occurs when body temperature drops below 35 degrees. Take them. Besides - if I were going to freeze, you'd already far ahead of me."
John took the gloves and his fingers brushed Sherlock's. They lingered for a moment before pulling away. He pulled on the warm gloves gratefully. He looked over at his friend's bare fingers. They were long and slender, as if he were a professional pianist. His hands were completely free of any marks. Like they were sculpted of marble.

He looked away.
In no time at all they were outside Scotland Yard. Sherlock paid the cabbie and both men got out of the car. Water splashed under their feet as they walked through a puddle. 

"John, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted them as soon as they entered the building. Phones were ringing and people's voices buzzed through the entire building. They followed Lestrade as he started walking down a series of hallways and into his office.
Lestrade gestured for them to sit down. He took his own seat in the black chair behind his desk.
He leaned back and swung slightly.
"I have a case for you." His salt and pepper hair was neat as was his attire, but his faced showed signs of stress and lack of sleep.
"Two guys. One was a sleeper agent. He went rogue after his brother was killed in a mission. The agency did nothing to stop his brother's death, said he was expendable. After his brother died he rebelled, went dark. Next thing you know, he's connected to a series of weapon smuggling alongside other black market dealings. We think he's providing weaponry. For what, we don't know."
Sherlock's fingers were steepled in front of his mouth, his eyebrows furrowed together. He was deep in thought. John broke the brief silence.
"You said two men. Who is the other?" John leaned forward in his seat.
"We're not sure. He goes by a series of aliases. The first guy however, is Angelo Ramirez. He also no longer goes by that name though. We think there is a leak inside the agency because somehow all his files were deleted. There was no sign of anyone hacking them from the outside. No alerts at all. They tried searching for any traces and if so, linking them to an IP address, but no luck."
"So a leak then. Any idea?" Sherlock questioned Lestrade.
"Still working on it. We need you two to spy. Find out more about what Ramirez is doing. What he's planning. Just take a few photographs, follow him around. Inconspicuously."
"Why us though?" John asked. "Surely there are agents more skilled than us... It's hardly our sort of work."
Lestrade sat forward and he looked at Sherlock, then back at John.
"Well, we just need some spying to be done. Honestly, most of the agents are horrible at 'blending in.' You two on the other hand...." he trailed off, assuming they understood. "And besides, Sherlock told me that you two wanted to tackle a sort of different case."
John chuckled and looked at Sherlock, who was smiling down at him.
"Great. I take that as a yes. You'll head out tomorrow. You're going to France.."