The Mad House

The City of Platonic Admiration

"Got any snacks?" Sherlock asked right as soon as he settled himself into the car.
"No, I don't have any snacks." John grumbled, turning the car on and starting the long drive to the airport. Sherlock slept most of the way, and so John didn't dare put on any music to help the drive go any shorter. Thankfully it was just about a half an hour, and yet he hadn't really accounted for that in this whole travel process. They would have just thirty minutes to get through security and customs, and that really didn't sound like a lot of time. That stress alone was enough to occupy him, for he was focusing a lot on not running off the road at eighty miles an hour.
"Come on then Sherlock, we've got to hustle." John insisted, prodding the sleeping boy as they got their car parked in the little lot. Sherlock gave a groan, looking around with big sleepy eyes, as if wondering how they had possibly gotten here so quickly.
"How much time have we got?" he asked apprehensively, opening his door and spilling out onto the parking lot to retrieve his bags.
"Forty five minutes, but that's only because I made a thirty minute drive twenty." John insisted, dragging out the bags and rolling Sherlock's massive suitcase in his direction.
"Yes, alright. We can do that." Sherlock decided, for it was within his power to be nothing but optimistic. They walked very swiftly through the airport, going through all of their security clearances before arriving at their gate with just five minutes to spare. As soon as they arrived they were hurried onto the plane, having to duck through the dense crowds to arrive at their seats. Sherlock wasn't aggressive enough to get his bags in the overhead compartment, and so he sat down heavily against the window, with his laptop at his feet and that other bag on his lap. He looked very disoriented, not to mention exhausted.
"There we go, we made it." Sherlock said proudly.
"What have you got in there?" John asked finally. Sherlock sighed heavily, holding the bag a bit closer to his chest and shrugging his shoulders.
"Oh just an assortment of things. Some novels, some hair products..."
"You do understand that this isn't going to be a very big production? It'll take three days, and then we're back home. You don't need a novel; you don't need any stupid hair products." John growled.
"Well of course I need a novel, you're not going to entertain me, are you? Besides, I need to look my best." Sherlock scoffed, arranging himself a bit proudly in his seat.
"It's not like I'm going to be sitting around our hotel. I'll explore the city with you if you want." John insisted.
"I'm just being prepared; really you cannot blame me for that." Sherlock insisted with a little frown.
"No I suppose I cannot." John agreed with a sigh.
"I'm sorry about Reginald this morning. He's always been a presumptuous, jealous little weasel." Sherlock grumbled, his face down turning into a disinterested scowl.
"Yes, he did seem to be quite the handful. How'd you end up rooming with him at all?" John challenged.
"Oh it was a pitiful agreement, really. I needed a roommate and he did too, no one else wanted to room with a gay boy, all too afraid of us supposedly. He really was my only option, if I didn't want to be hopelessly crippled with debt." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. John nodded, not really knowing quite how to respond to that. Sherlock didn't seem too upset over it, and yet still John felt as though he owned the boy something of an apology, simply for the excuse of the human race. Thankfully he didn't have to, for they were interrupted when the empty seat beside them was filled. John looked over a bit nervously, for there were always very strange people on a plane, most of which he ended up sitting next to anyway. Thankfully it was an old woman who settled herself next to him, someone who seemed to be pushing seventy, and wearing what appeared to be a handmade dress.
"Hello dear." She said in a croaking old voice, with a pleasant enough smile.
"Hello." Sherlock said immediately, leaning over John with a smile in return.
"Hi." John managed, not attempting now to compete with his companion's enthusiasm.
"Off to Paris?" Sherlock wondered.
"Oh yes, yes. Visiting my grandson." She agreed with a grin, looking very excited to share the story. Certainly she was just brimming with a great long lecture about her family history, and about her grandson's success as a doctor or a lawyer.
"We're visiting our friend." Sherlock responded. "He's an artist." Oh goodness, here we go. Well thankfully it wasn't a very long trip, for Paris really was just the English Channel away. All the same, John had to endure the endless chattering of Sherlock and this woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Turner. She chatted all about her grandson, who turned out to be working in the British Embassy in France. She was very proud to talk all about his duties, and how she's so proud to be the grandmother of a boy who was representing his country. Sherlock went on to talk mindlessly about Victor, talking about how he and John knew him very distantly, and how they were going to pay him a visit to see if he still remembered them. Thankfully Sherlock never blurted out the real reasoning behind it, yet he got dangerously close to mentioning the word reincarnation, and to scaring that poor lady half to death. Joh had intended on getting a little bit of sleep throughout the plane ride, however Sherlock and this lady seemed perfectly happy to hold an entire conversation over top of him, and so their chattering kept him awake for the entire flight. It didn't take long until they were finally disembarked. Sherlock had managed to get the old woman's phone number, she offered it in case they wanted to meet up in Paris and meet her grandson. Well of course John was going to decline that offer, however Sherlock seemed very happy to have made a new friend. When they had gotten their bags and their security clearances the two made their way out to the road, so as to get a cab to take them to a bed and breakfast John had looked up the day before. It was situated close to Victor's apartment (the man wasn't expecting their presence of course, lest they somehow scare him away), and would provide them with all their necessities until they could fly home with one more passenger. The entire ride was occupied with bent necks, staring out the window with gawking faces, looking up at the beautiful buildings, bridges, and waterways that were making their way through the elegant city. John had never been to Paris before, and by the way Sherlock was pressed up against the window he would be willing to guess that Sherlock had never been either. It was a luxurious city, beautiful beyond proper perception and older than John might ever have realized. Every brick held a story, every road held a revolution, and every statue had looked upon tragedy with their own two eyes. John may not have noticed the car had even stopped if the driver hadn't reached back for the due money.
"So this is it then?" Sherlock wondered as the cab pulled away, hoisting his bag up on his shoulder and following John up to the door.
"Ya, this is it." John agreed, hesitating to read the French but deciding that he trusted the cab driver to have dropped them off at the right place. They opened the door to find a very friendly looking Frenchman at the counter, leaning over top of a small computer while sipping a large cup of coffee. The little office was decorated tastefully; however it was most certainly catered to tourists as it had many pictures of the Eiffel tour scattered about.
"Ah, bienvenue messieurs!" he exclaimed with some enthusiasm, setting down his coffee mug to shake John by the hand. Sherlock hung back a bit nervously, just now looking worried about meeting new people. Then again, maybe he was just hoping John was going to pay for their rooms.
"Hello." John managed.
"Anglais?" the man wondered, looking a bit hesitantly at the men as if just realizing there was a bit of a language barrier between them. John looked towards Sherlock, who looked just as confused as John did.
"Room?" John wondered hopefully, pointing towards the ceiling and hoping the man would realize that they were only here for one thing.
"Oui bien sûr, vous voudriez une chambre simple?" the man said, phrasing it like a question.
"Chambre is bedroom, I think." Sherlock offered apprehensively from behind. And so John nodded eagerly, getting out his credit card so as to make this process a bit less painful. Certainly money talked better than English did, at least to someone who only spoke French. The process didn't take long, and thankfully there were no more questions asked. The man only gave John a key, and two little mints. John thanked him, waving the key towards Sherlock and starting up the stairs in an attempt to find the room which was printed onto the key.
"Twenty one." he called back to Sherlock, who was struggling behind with his numerous bags. John felt as though he didn't have any obligation to help with that process, considering it was Sherlock who had insisted it was all necessary in the first place. Sherlock arrived just in time for John to unlock the room, swinging open the door and immediately seeing the first flaw in this little place.
"There's only one bed." John said a bit obviously, throwing his bag into the place before storming inside, looking for a pull out couch or something else to offer him a little bit less awkwardness.
"Well it's not too small, I'm sure we could fit." Sherlock assured a bit uncomfortably, for he was obviously picking up on John's apprehension.
"Ya, that's not entirely what I'm worried about. I'm not about to share a bed with you." John insisted with something of a growl, clutching to the key rather furiously in his fist and feeling something of an irrational anger bubbling up inside of his chest. Certainly he didn't know where this was coming from, perhaps from the stress of travel, or perhaps from his heart, which was asking the universe why everything was lining up so perfectly if it wasn't meant to be? Why they were here to collect Victor, yet Fate was offering them a single bed. Yet in John's anger he wasn't really able to detect Sherlock's embarrassment, that small little "oh" he managed out as he held fast to his silly little makeup bag.
"Someone like me, you mean." Sherlock corrected in the smallest of all voices. John faltered for a moment, half way to the door to go back down to the lobby when suddenly a cloud of guilt came about him. He noticed that Sherlock looked uncomfortable, as if he was now ashamed for having complicated things with his sexuality. Oh if only that boy understood, if only he realized that he was not the problem? Yet suddenly John felt the need to make it right, suddenly he felt the need to wrap him up in his arms and assure him that he was not causing an issue, he felt the need to kiss him on the forehead and insist that it was John's design flaw, or rather planning flaw, that made sleeping next to him all the more tempting. Oh the issue wasn't that he didn't want to, it was that he did want to. He wanted to sleep next to Sherlock Holmes, he wanted to roll up next to him and get tangled in those impractically long limbs. And yet...yet was that really possible? Was there any situation in which that would end well?
"No, Sherlock. Sherlock I don't mean it like that." John insisted.
"It's fine, go and get another room. I'll pay for this one, I really don't mind." Sherlock assured, forcing something of a smile onto his face as he nodded and threw his bag down upon the bed.
"Now stop that, stop saying that. You know I'm not scared of you, you know I'm not like that." John assured quietly.
"Well certainly not." Sherlock agreed. John frowned at him, in an attempt to make him realize just how silly he sounded as he lamented over something that he had completely made up in his overly self-conscious mind.
"The only thing I'm worried about is you being a blanket hog." John corrected with something of a grin, putting the key down onto the dresser and going to flop down on the right side of the bed.
"Oh how would I know, really. I've only ever slept alone." Sherlock muttered, and yet as he turned away John could just catch his reflection in the mirror, his reflection that displayed something of a thankful smile, a smile of relief in some manner. 

It wasn't exactly late when they got themselves settled in (Sherlock insisted on unpacking, even though they were only going to stay for three days) and even though Victor would certainly be hanging around his studio they decided to wait a day to get adjusted to the city. They had a beautiful hotel, for their room was decorated in some sort of baby blue color scheme, complete with beautifully detailed crown molding and dressers of dark mahogany. John sat at the desk in a nice swivel chair, grading some papers while Sherlock hummed to himself and placed all of his clothes very neatly on hangars to put into the closet. Somehow he had managed to get that entire suitcase emptied and put away in the closet, and when that was finished the boy perched on the bed and read some of his book, almost as if he wanted to make sure he didn't waste any space by bringing it.
"Do you want to go out into the city for a little while?" John asked, setting down his pen and swiveling around to see what Sherlock was up to. The boy was stretched out in what could only be described as the longest way possible, with his arms out in front of him holding the book while his neck craned. In this pose he had to lay diagonally across the bed so that his arms would still have support, and still his legs were hanging off at a ridiculous angle.
"Yes! Yes that would be nice. I don't know about you, but I'm starving." Sherlock agreed anxiously, rolling up into a little ball on the bed and bringing his knees to his chest. "Also a little chilly." He added.
"Well I'm sure we can fix that." John assured, getting to his feet and looking around for a thermostat. It was three o'clock when the proposition was first made, and yet it still took them an hour and a half to get down to the street to venture around. For whatever reason Sherlock insisted on getting entirely freshened up, complete with a shower, a blow dryer, and a fresh change of clothes, so as to look as beautiful as possible along the sidewalks. John stayed in what he had been wearing, deciding that he wasn't under any social pressures to look decent, however when Sherlock reemerged from that steaming bathroom he felt rather second rate. They looked so drastically different, at least on the scale of decency. Sherlock would blend in perfectly with any posh Paris party, whereas John could probably wave a cup around and get donations if he sat somewhere too long. All the same, it was getting a bit late and John's stomach was growling in annoyance. That cereal he had eaten for breakfast seemed so far away now. Together they made their way into the streets, joining the crowd of all sorts of Parisians. Sherlock was waving his head this way and that, as if trying to spot Victor throughout the ruckus, as if he was hoping that the one man they had come to see might materialize in this city of a million.
"Do you want to do any tourist stuff?" John asked as they sat down at a little café, having ordered some coffee and pastries to hold them over until dinner. Thankfully John had enough Euros in the bottom of his wallet to hold them over, from his trip with his wife to Ireland before Rosie had been born. Yet he was going to have to exchange some pounds if he wanted to eat another time on this three day adventure.
"Oh I don't know. The Eiffel tour seems a bit over rated to me." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"Well there's all sorts of museums and churches and stuff like that." John offered again.
"Perhaps Victor can show us his favorite spots later. As of now I'm just in the mood to find a couch and sit there for a long while." Sherlock admitted, yawning to show his sleepiness and taking another large gulp from the coffee cup sitting before him.
"I'm with you on that." John agreed with a little grumble. "First day in Paris, and I can hardly keep my eyes open."
"You've never been before?" Sherlock asked.
"Well not of course not, I've not been much of anywhere really." John admitted with a shrug.
"You've been to America." Sherlock offered.
"That's different; I didn't want to be there in the first place." John pointed out.
"Do you think you were influenced by the house, coming to England? Do you think that somehow it made that spot available in the college, and made you interested? Was there anything seemingly supernatural about it?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"Not really. The man retired, and I had been looking for colleges abroad. It wasn't a difficult leap, and it just so happened to be right next to the house." John admitted quietly. "I suppose if the house did have any power of summoning, then we wouldn't be here right now, would we?"
"As if we're here on our own free will." Sherlock said with a laugh, cutting up his pastry very daintily with a silver fork and knife.
"I'd like to think we are." John muttered with a bit of a frown.
"We're pawns, John. That's all we've ever been to that place, just little animals running around and making each other crazy. I think it's brought us back because it misses our chaos, our infernal love triangle and all the drama that came with it." Sherlock suggested.
"Oh I think there's more to us than that, Sherlock." John insisted.
"Not in this lifetime there's not." Sherlock corrected quietly, silencing himself with a mouthful of pastry and staring again at the wave of people meandering this way and that throughout the sidewalks and the streets. John noticed a glint of gold on Sherlock's finger as he went to pick up his coffee cup once more, that gold that could only mean he had taken to wearing that stupid engagement ring once more.