The plaza which housed BasePairing’s offices was also home to no less than seven different restaurants, making it easy enough to surveil those coming and going. Sherlock laid claim to a window table and observed as Captain Sebastian Moran entered the building and, within half an hour, left again.
It was the end of the day for most of the office workers in the area, and the crowds were sufficient to let Sherlock pass unnoticed as he tailed Moran through the streets of the city. Moran kept his phone to hand, consulting it every few blocks in a manner that suggested he was following a set of directions. After seven minutes he arrived at a corner pub; he paused at the threshold, then—with an amused huff and a grin—stepped inside.
Sherlock followed. The pub was as crowded and close as any other in London, and most of the decor had remained unchanged since at least the 1920s: polished wooden bar, mahogany panelling, leather seats, and an ornate chandelier hanging from the embossed tin ceiling.
Moran sidled up to the bar and ordered a drink; soon, a cocktail of some sort was placed in front of him. Drink in hand, Moran settled at a table within view of the door. He checked his phone, sent a quick text, then set it down again.
He was waiting for someone, and thus visibly annoyed when Sherlock sat across from him.
“Holmes,” Moran said, foregoing the usual pleasantries—no “nice to see you” or “fancy meeting you here.” He’d shed the persona of the affable consultant and was in no hurry to put it back on.
Sherlock appreciated the lack of pretence. “I take it you’ve heard the bad news.”
“Not the best result of my career,” Moran admitted with a shrug. “Leach chose the facility, though—poorly, it turns out.”
“I did note,” Sherlock said, “that you were careful to leave that decision in his hands.”
“And how is Dr. Watson?” Moran asked, rather than answering. “He had quite the close call.”
“Not so close after all. The bomb buried in the road was rather small—it seems the intent was to topple the van, rather than destroy it.”
Moran raised his glass to his lips. “That’s a relief to hear.”
“I imagine so,” Sherlock agreed coldly, “considering you were supposed to be there.”
“And then you insisted Watson go instead.” Moran sipped lightly at his drink.
“Yes. A most unusual case, overall.” Sherlock put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “An infiltration is attempted and fails, but the security measures which prevented it are found to be inadequate. The prize is relocated, with no end of secrecy and misdirection to obscure its passage, but a driver is subverted and the shipment attacked. The thieves nevertheless fail to lay hands on the prize, only for it to be, in short order, destroyed.” He tapped his fingertips together at a steady rhythm. “It almost has the cadence of a chess match.”
“Never been one for chess,” Moran remarked. “I’ve always preferred cards.”
Sherlock levelled a glare over his hands. “Cards leave too much to chance.”
A wry smile crept across Moran’s face. “Not the way I play.”
“You may also be relieved to know,” Sherlock said, “that I managed to locate the driver.”
Moran raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Men on the run always make the same mistakes.” Sherlock kept his eyes on Moran’s face, studying his reactions. “And I was … highly motivated. The bomb may have been intended as a non-lethal measure, but it’s impossible to control for every factor. Watson could have been injured. Or killed.”
“Lucky he wasn’t, then.” Moran set his glass down on the table, but otherwise didn’t react. “So where’s the driver now?”
“The police have been tipped to his location,” Sherlock said, with a dismissive wave. “I imagine he’ll find arrest preferable to the tender mercies of Harry Nolan.”
Moran blinked. “Who’s that, then?”
A slim body dropped abruptly between them. A young man, no older than twenty-five, draped himself across Moran’s lap, arms looping around his neck as Moran instinctively steadied him with a hand to his lower back. “Hey, babes,” the newcomer said, breathy and salacious, and leaned in to kiss Moran deeply on the mouth.
Sherlock quickly diverted his attention to the texture of the wooden tabletop.
The man finally came up for air, apparently noticing Sherlock for the first time. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, with an assessing look that swept over Sherlock from head to toe.
Sherlock’s chair screeched a bit as he pushed away from the table. “Excuse me. I have somewhere to be.”
The stranger’s laugh followed him out the door.
“God,” Sebastian said, struggling to keep a straight face, “warn me when you’re about to do the twink voice.”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” Jay resembled nothing so much as a cat picking bits of songbird from its teeth as he slid off Sebastian’s lap and settled into the chair Holmes had vacated.
“Is he going to be a problem?” Sebastian asked, glancing toward the door. In that second or two before Jay arrived, the dark expression on Holmes’ sharp, gaunt face had been distinctly unnerving.
“Turnbull kept things compartmentalised,” Jay said, unconcerned. “The driver has no idea either of us were involved.”
“Sounds like Holmes had the whole thing figured out anyway.”
“If he could prove anything, he wouldn’t have been here talking to you.” Jay stretched and looked over his shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Just in case.”
Sebastian nodded and took another sip of his drink.
“So.” Jay twisted back to face him and gestured to the pub at large. “What do you think?”
“It’s gorgeous,” Sebastian replied; Jay had to have picked this place on purpose, knowing Sebastian would like it.
“Good.” Jay stood, heading for the bar. “Let me get a pint. Next round’s mine, too.”
Sebastian was beginning to suspect he was up to something.
They had a few more drinks at the pub before Jay revealed he’d made dinner reservations. They had a table booked at an Ethiopian restaurant Sebastian adored—and which, so far, he’d failed at persuading Jay to try.
He was definitely up to something.
Sebastian was, nevertheless, full of good food and pleasantly drunk as they withdrew to his flat. He was also unsurprised when Jay pushed him down onto the sofa and kissed him.
“All right,” Sebastian chuckled into his mouth, “what did you do?”
Jay pulled back, genuinely offended. “Nothing!”
“So what’s all this, then?”
Jay stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “It’s our fucking anniversary, dickhead.”
Sebastian ended up jostling Jay a bit as he dug his phone from his pocket, checking the date. Even by his own most liberal estimate, their anniversary wasn’t for about a week yet. “No, it’s not?”
“We met,” Jay said, still laughing, “one year ago, today.”
He couldn’t mean the day he’d shown up in a somewhat-stolen car and rescued Sebastian from an attempted black-bagging; that still wouldn’t be for a few days. Which meant Jay was talking about that night at the Bagatelle Club, when he’d been undercover as his client’s assistant.
“Does that count?” Sebastian asked. “I mean, you weren’t really you.”
Jay’s hands went to Sebastian’s neck, thumbs brushing his jaw. “And you weren’t really you.”
Sebastian had to give him that. He’d been in character, playing up the noble mercenary for the sake of appealing to the client’s fantasies—and then he’d spotted Jay, practically hiding in the man’s shadow.
“The whole time I was playing assistant, everyone acted like I wasn’t there. Not you, though—you looked right at me.” Jay’s demeanour shifted, turning quiet and vulnerable. “You saw me.”
Sebastian breathed a sigh, resting his hands at Jay’s waist. Life since he’d left the army had been one dull, artificial performance after another: contorting himself into whatever shapes he had to, so civilised society didn’t recognise him as the malignant thing he was. And then Jay had seen right through him, and Sebastian didn’t have to hide anymore.
And this, the life he had with Jay in it … it was fun. More fun than he’d had in a very long time.
Sebastian tipped forward to resume their interrupted kiss; Jay responded with a pleased hum, lingering for a long while before he murmured, “I have something for you.”
“You’ll spoil me,” Sebastian warned him.
Jay grinned and sat back, reaching down to his discarded laptop bag and retrieving a long, flat wooden box. Sebastian would’ve guessed it was a bracelet box, but it was a little too big. Jay handed it to Sebastian, then sat back against the arm of the sofa, watching him expectantly.
Sebastian opened the box. Inside, resting on velvet lining, was a strip of black leather with a buckle at the end.
A collar.
“Oh, god.” Sebastian’s heart leapt into his throat; he could feel the flush spreading down his neck, across his chest.
“Well?” Jay asked, already knowing the answer.
“Please,” Sebastian said, nearly strangled by how badly he wanted it.
Jay climbed into Sebastian’s lap, plucking the collar from the box; his other hand went to the buttons of Sebastian’s shirt, popping the first few open and tugging the fabric aside for easier access to his neck. Sebastian tipped his head back, and Jay looped the collar into place, the leather cool and smooth against his skin.
Buckling it shut, Jay hooked two fingers beneath to check that Sebastian had enough room to breathe. The movement tugged lightly at the collar, pulling Sebastian with it, and he couldn’t help a soft moan.
“God,” Jay murmured, smiling down at him, “you’re perfect.”
“Do that again,” Sebastian groaned, and let Jay drag him forward into another kiss.
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