Undiscovered

Chapter 4

At about 1pm Sherlock received a text from Lestrade.

Le Areys Café. 2 pm. Ramirez has a meeting.
- L

Sherlock showed John the message and they glanced at one another. They were sitting besides each other on the floor, looking out the window. Sherlock stood up and held his hand out for John. He got up.
"So Le Areys Café, then. Any idea where it is?" John questioned Sherlock. He folded his arms over his chest.
"No," Sherlock dragged out the 'n' whilst casually shrugging on his coat. It wasn't a particularly cold day in Bordeaux, but there was a slight nip in the air which froze their skin. Both men took this into consideration before exiting their hotel room.
After reaching the ground floor, they strode through the lobby. Few people walked around the large room. Long sofas were placed next to intricately carved tables and over-priced art. John could hear soft mutterings in a foreign language and shook his head. It was disorienting.

They made it to the car park. John grabbed the keys from Sherlock's hand and started unlocking the driver's side.
"Excuse me," Sherlock stared at John, his eyebrows furrowed. John looked up. His big innocent eyes stares into Sherlock's.
"What?"
"I'm driving."
"What? No! I'm probably the better driver."
He shook his head and chuckled.
"Give me the keys, John." Sherlock held his long hand out expectantly. John hid them behind his back.
"Oh? And what if I choose not to?" A small smile tugged at the doctor's lips. He loved teasing his best friend. He rarely got the opportunity.
"You're not serious, John," the brunette looked down at his friend. "You probably can't even see over the steering wheel. If you were any shorter you'd fade out of existence. Now give me the keys."
John laughed long and hard. Soon after, Sherlock joined in. They stood there in the darkness of the parking lot laughing like idiots. John wiped the tears from his eyes and handed him the silver keys. Sherlock smiled triumphantly and got in the car.
The new leather smell tickled his nose.
Now they had to find Le Areys Café before 2pm.

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It was late at night when Sherlock and John returned to their room. The events of that afternoon were successful. Sherlock had snapped photos during a brief lunch. They had been seated at a table a few meters away from Angelo Ramirez's. The detective had deduced and figured that there were three body guards, each stationed at a diferent section of the quaint restaurant. John distracted them while his detective friend subtly took photos and eavesdropped. They had more luck than imagined at finding out what the criminal was deciding to do next.

"So he's planning an attack on the agency?" John asked. He pulled off his black jacket. He walked over to the small kitchen and flipped the kettle switch. Sherlock had already removed his coat and was now sitting in an armchair in front of the fire.
"So it seems. Cliché, if you ask me. Brother dies, so he kills the people that practically enforced his death. A simple matter of revenge, really." Sherlock seemed quite disgusted at the lack of imagination. He'd always hoped for something more exciting to work with rather than something he'd heard of a thousand times. At least he got to be in France with John.
"It's understandable. Wouldn't you also plot revenge if someone killed your loved one? Coffe or tea?" John busied himself with the task of preparing a late snack.
"Coffee, please," Sherlock replied, ignoring John's first questioned. He assumed it was rhetorical.
He sighed and closed his eyes, which burned from tiredness.

John handed him a cup of steaming coffee. He sipped it gratefully. He returned ro the kitchen and grabbed aome biscuits out of the fully stocked cabinet. He put three on a plate and handed them to Sherlock. He then retrieved another three for himself and sat down. Tea and biscuits was something John had always loved. It was a simple eat, yet contained so much comfort and memories from his childhood.

The fire crackled in the hearth. John looked up as a soft tapping noise sounded on the windows. It was raining. He walked over to the kitchen and washed out his mug and cleanes his plate. He did the same for Sherlock's. His friend was near the point of passing out. His head hung over the back of the armchair. His breathing began to slow as John stood there, mesmerised. He lightly placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Sherlock."
"Hm?"
"Come on, up you get. Bed time for you," John helped him up and they both walked over to their room. Their room. He wasn't sure how he felt about the prospect of them sharing a room. It sent his stomach into twists, though he had no idea why. Sherlock got changed out of his clothes while John took a quick shower in the bathroom. The hot water streamed down his body, washing away his worries. The image of a naked Sherlock flashed through his mind. He quickly shook away the thought and stepped out of the shower.
Stepping into the room, he dropped his dirty clothes into the hamper against the wall. Sherlock lay sleeping on his bed. The black shirt he was wearing tightened across his chest, defining his torso. Only his legs were covered with the duvet, so John pulled it up to his chin.
He tenderly swept a single brown lock away from Sherlock's face. His fingertips tingled at the contact with Sherlock's skin.

John climbed into his own bed, merely inches away. He lay down, tucking the blanket right up to his ears. In a matter of seconds, John Watson was asleep.

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Gunshots rang through his ears. Out of breath, John stumbled for cover. A pain in his shoulder made him grit his teeth. None of his team was anywhere to be found. It was just John. The enemy fire seemed to be picking up. John leaned against the side of the sandbags. His mind raced. He knew he was going to die. The hot sun scorched his already blisteted face as he peered over the sandbags. What he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.
Sherlock stood in the centre of the minefield that separated John from his enemies.
"Sherlock!" he cried out for his friend hopelessly. If he wasn't shot to death, then he would be killed by a mine.
"Sherlock!" he cried out again, wishing his friend would hear him. Sherlock looked over at John. He was in a simple black suit with a white shirt. He was clean, aside from his tear stained face. Panic and fear glowed in Sherlock's eyes.  Sherlock stepped towards John. A massive explosion clouded John's vision.
Hot tears streamed down John's face as he screamed in agony..
"Sherlock!"

He woke with a start. Gasping, John opened his eyes. His face was wet with tears.
"Sshh, it's okay John. It's okay,"  Sherlock's whispering voice echoed through John. Sherlock was kneeling beside his friend, a comforting hand on his shoulder. John sighed with relief. Sherlock wasn't dead.
John sat up and placed his head in his hands. He was furiously trying to shake the feeling away.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock's voice came again. John felt comforted every time his friend spoke. Something about his voice reminded John of home. John shook his head and lay back down. Sherlock retreated back to his own bed. Both of them lay there in the darkness, staring at each other from their different beds. Both fell asleep that way.