Missing Parts

ROCK AND STOLE

It was probably one of our most unusual cases. One minute I was reading the Guardian in the Costa Coffee at St. Pancras Station and the next I was taking one of Sherlock’s typically abrupt phone calls and struggling to catch up with what the heck was going on. “Theft. Secure building, no sign of entry, no alarms activated. Surveillance shows nothing. We’re going to check it out this afternoon.” I was still swallowing my breakfast when he added the last bit. “Oh, and pack your shorts. I’ve just booked two tickets to San Francisco. Later!” I didn’t even have time to go to the duty free.

“That… is the worst one yet.”

John looked up, momentarily distracted from tapping on his laptop. He leaned back against the sofa and twisted his head to look up at Sherlock, who was peering over his shoulder at the screen with a look of suspicion and disdain.

“The worst what?”

“Title. Bloody hell. And nobody is interested in where you eat your breakfast.”

John smiled, turning back to his computer at the same time that Sherlock went back to tossing clothing, haphazardly, into his suitcase, which lay open on the floor of his sun-filled hotel room.

“I hate to disappoint you, Sherlock, but people seem to be fascinated by details like where I eat my breakfast… and that bloke that writes for the Times called my blog ‘revealing, pithy and compelling.”

“It’s me that’s pithy and compelling. And that blog is revealing nothing but the utter vapidity of-”

Sherlock was cut short by a rapping on the hotel room door and John resumed typing with a smirk of amusement, when he dropped a pair of socks onto the growing pile of crumpled garments and went to answer it.

He pulled the door open, then paused in the threshold, one arm braced against the doorframe.

“Hi…” came the soft voice from the other side.

Billie Joe shuffled a little in the carpeted hallway, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black jeans. His greeting hung in the air for a moment, as he took in the surprise on Sherlock’s face.

“Hello.”

Over Sherlock’s shoulder, he could see John sitting on the couch, his laptop still open on his knees. The apparent lack of conversation at the door made him look up from his screen.

“Oh, hi mate.” He glanced between Sherlock and Billie for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Thought we had you all sorted out. Social visit?”

“Uh, yeah… I thought I’d just, y’know. Seeing as how I was passing…”

John nodded, smiling crookedly.

“Tea? Coffee? We’ve got both, I think…”

Billie Joe smiled.

“Thanks, man, coffee would be - ”

“- Down the road,” Sherlock interrupted, dropping his hand from the doorframe. Billie Joe blinked, as Sherlock stepped over the threshold and into the hall, letting the door bang shut in its hinges behind him. He paused in the hallway, then fished in the pocket of his trousers.

“Uh…” Billie Joe chucked, nervously, “What are you...?”

“Keycard. Phone. Strange green money. Let’s go.”

The café down the street was almost empty, having just rid itself of the last of the breakfast rush, and Billie Joe followed Sherlock out the back and into the sheltered garden, where they settled on a table in the shade. He watched the detective stir his black coffee, the sun filtering through the leaves in the poplar trees above their heads and casting dappling shadows on his white shirt. Billie Joe thought it made him look like he was glittering.

Sherlock looked up, as he dropped his spoon onto the table with a tinkling clatter, locking Billie Joe into a grey-eyed gaze.

“Why are you here?”

His words were harsh but his voice was a soft murmur. None the less, Billie Joe felt his stomach turn over with nerves. He frowned, not knowing how to even begin to answer him when he was unsure what he was doing there himself.

“I just thought … you know, I didn’t really get a chance to… but I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to-”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and regarded him with a stare of twinkling amusement.

“You’re rambling. You don’t need to be sorry. I wasn’t suggesting you shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

“So, your make-up sessions went well? Peace has been restored. I’m sure the wife is happy. And you chose to forgive Tre, after all.”

Billie Joe raised an eyebrow, his coffee pausing on its way to his lips.

“I – yeah. But how did you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You look like you slept last night. It’s a good look on you.”

Billie Joe smiled, setting his coffee back on the table and leaning back in his seat. He brushed some invisible crumbs from the front of his Black Flag tour shirt and regarded Sherlock, calmly, from across the table for a moment, before responding.

“So are you gonna say it?”

“Say what?”

“That you told me so.”

Sherlock grinned, rubbing his chin.

“I wasn’t planning on it. The fact that you already know is good enough for me.”

Billie Joe chuckled, then leaned forward, his arms folding on the table, as he looked down into his coffee.

“Thanks,” he told him, still watching the foam swirl in his cup. “That’s really what I came here to say. I know that… it was your job to solve this case and… you always told me that you would but…”

He trailed off, then looked up into Sherlock’s eyes.

“You didn’t just figure out where my record went, Sherlock… that tape wasn’t the only thing I lost and… it was like you knew that, right from the start. You helped me find everything.”

“I helped you find the tape,” Sherlock insisted, leaning forward on the table so that their heads were close enough together that Billie Joe didn’t have to strain to hear his quiet voice. “Everything else… I just helped you face up to what you already knew.”

“Either way… I don’t think I would have done it without you.”

“What about without your drummer? I think he was the mastermind behind the operation.”

Billie Joe smiled, his elbow landing on the table and his head dropping into his hand.

“Will you shut up and take the fucking glory here, Sherlock? Damnit, man, I’m trying to say thank you for saving my ass.”

Sherlock chuckled, then took another sip of his coffee. He was quiet, until the cup landed back on the table.

“Fair enough… I’m not used to people taking me for coffee and thanking me for my services. The closest to thanks I usually get is fucking idiot tabloid reporters flashing cameras in my face.”

Billie Joe grinned.

“Well, I guess I know what that’s like. I sure won’t be telling any reporters about this if you don’t.”

“Well, that’s a deal. And... you’re welcome.”

They both glanced up, when the café door opened with a jingle and the waitress that had taken their orders hurried outside to clear the tables. She balanced a dangerously wobbling array of crockery on her arm, asked if they needed anything, then went back inside again. Up until then, Billie Joe hadn’t noticed they were the only customers left outside.

“How are your war wounds this morning?” Sherlock asked, after she’d gone.

Billie Joe wrinkled his nose, then brushed it with the back of his hand.

“Alright, I guess, just feels a little…”

He had barely taken his own hand away, when Sherlock’s rose up to take its place. He felt his words trail off, at the feel of cool fingers against his still-tender skin. His breath caught just the way it had before, when he saw the detective’s eyes narrow in gentleness and concern and he wondered what it was about him that made his stomach lurch. Sherlock was a beautiful guy; and he supposed it was about time he went out on a limb and admitted that, but he was thirty-fucking-one years of age and he was pretty sure that meant he wasn’t supposed to be behaving like a fourteen-year-old girl anymore.

“You did that yesterday,” Billie Joe reminded him, a little nervously. “You said I didn’t break anything.”

“I know…” Sherlock murmured, dropping his hand again. “But I thought I should check, now the swelling’s gone down.”

“I think I’ll live. Besides… the other guy definitely came off worse.”

“I don’t doubt it. You really went for him.”

“Yeah… but I think we’re going to be alright now.”

Billie Joe paused, considering his next words very carefully for a moment, before he continued.

“I think you were right, y’know… about what you said to me in the parking lot that day. That you and I aren’t all that different. I know you understand how it feels when… you let yourself be completely defined by what you do. I am music… I am Green Day. There isn’t a single part of me that isn’t. It runs through everything, my friendships, my relationships… even the way I raise my kids. I’ve been singing to them since before they were born and they’ve been running through my lyrics since not long after. Music isn’t just a little part of me, it’s everything and… lately I’ve been feeling like I lost it. Losing music feels like… it feels like I don’t even know who I am anymore. It feels like I’m nothing. I see that in you Sherlock… I know that’s how you feel if you can’t solve a case.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his eyes registering surprise, then looked down.

“I solve every case.”

“Sure, eventually. Because you won’t think about a single other thing until you do. Shit, man, you don’t even let yourself eat. You’re Sherlock Holmes, this amazing detective that never fails, that can figure out everything about a person just by looking at them and… you think that’s all you are…because it’s woven all the way through you, right down to your bones. If you don’t crack the case… you don’t know who you are anymore either. You feel like you’re nothing.”

Sherlock was very quiet, then; so quiet that Billie Joe wondered if he had overstepped some kind of line by being so personal. The detective leaned forward in his seat, trailing one finger through the brown sugar that had spilled from the shaker onto the table. He watched him draw a line through it that started as a sweeping curve then became more like a lightning bolt.

“Well,” he mumbled, without looking up, “It isn’t often someone tries to figure out me.”

Billie Joe smiled.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m not even anywhere near to having you figured out, Sherlock.”

“Well… you came a lot closer than most.”

He cocked his head, at the wry tone to Sherlock’s voice.

“What about John? He come close too?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, thoughtfully, then gave a little nod.

“John’s my best friend. That doesn’t mean he has to understand me – he’d be the first to admit to not knowing where to begin.”

Billie Joe nodded, finishing his coffee and setting the empty cup back on the table next to Sherlock’s. He had been drinking it slowly enough that it had been quite cold at the end but it still wasn’t enough time. He wasn’t even sure what he needed time for – to do what? – but he did know that he didn’t want Sherlock to leave just yet and that he was dangerously close to doing so.

He watched Sherlock gather his things, picking up his phone and wallet from the table and he felt himself suck in a silent breath, steeling himself for another of the detective’s walkouts, before Sherlock stopped what he was doing and appeared to second-guess himself for a moment. Billie Joe watched the indecision flicker in his eyes, before he set his phone back down again and looked at him.

“I play the violin.”

Billie Joe raised an eyebrow.

“Cool. Are you any good?”

“Passable, I suppose. Mrs Hudson likes to hear me play. She’s my landlady. She puts up with a lot of shit from me to be honest. I mean, I never do the washing up. I interrogate highly dangerous suspects in the living room. She’s come home to a body on the floor or a disturbing specimen in the fridge, more than once but… she always seems to forgive me, for some reason. So I suppose playing a bit of violin for her is the least I can do.”

Billie Joe smiled at this rare insight into the life of Sherlock Holmes.

“Well, I guess Mrs Hudson has had a quiet week. She sounds like a cool lady, though. I wouldn’t mind hearing you play your violin either.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you play your guitar… maybe you can send me a copy of Cigarettes and Whatevers Mark Two when it’s finished.”

Billie Joe laughed, eyes twinkling.

“Maybe I will. I didn’t have you down as a lover of punk rock though.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Sherlock insisted, with a crooked smile, waving a hand dismissively. “Jesus, no. I just thought I should see if all this effort was worth it.”

“I think it was.”

“Yeah, I think it was too.” He held Billie Joe’s gaze for a moment. “Because it was a pleasure to meet you.”

Billie Joe swallowed, as Sherlock extended his hand across the table and he reached out to shake it, then curled his fingers around the other man’s and held them in his own.

“I really meant it,” he insisted, hoarsely, “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded, looking down at their linked hands for a moment, while Billie Joe’s mind scrambled to catch up with the reality that his mysterious detective was about to walk out of this café and out of his life, forever. It seemed Sherlock had picked up all the pieces of his fractured existence and he was going to be on his own to put them back together again.

He didn’t remember making his next decision until he was putting it in motion, raising the hand that wasn’t entwined with Sherlock’s and touching it to his pale face. His heart skipped, as his nose brushed Sherlock’s cheek, the other man’s breath ghosting across his lips in such a way that made it clear he wasn’t the only one quivering. He closed his eyes, as his mouth met Sherlock’s in a kiss that was soft and sweet and not nearly enough to explain what he was feeling but all he had the courage for. He felt his whole body give a jolt of surprise, when Sherlock leaned in closer, instead of pulling away.

He wondered, fleetingly and guiltily, what Adrienne would say if she could see him now, kissing the detective with his heart tripping like a schoolgirl, and for a moment all he could hear was her gentle laughter ringing in his ears.

One of Sherlock’s hands tangled into his hair, guiding him closer as their kiss became more earnest, deepening briefly, a flicker of tongue and a warm hand on a scratchy cheek, before it was over and they were quiet, breathless and staring at each other across the very small space that was left between them.

Sherlock cleared his throat, then pulled back a little.

“I said you came closer than most.”

Billie Joe smiled, not quite trusting himself to speak yet, until he could be sure that real sentences were going to come out. He watched Sherlock reach into his wallet and take out a white card, which he slid across the table towards him. He said nothing, when Sherlock’s chair scraped back and he stood up, squinting in the sun for a moment, then bending down and leaning his face so close to Billie Joe’s that his nose brushed the dark curls above his ear.

“Just remember you can call me if you lose it again.”

Billie Joe’s eyes closed, briefly, then Sherlock’s lips pressed, warm, against his cheek, kissing him softly, finally, before leaving the table with a final touch to his shoulder.

“G’bye, Sherlock…” he murmured.

The detective took one last look over his shoulder, before he went through the door, slipped past the bustling waitress, and left.

Billie Joe sucked in a shaky breath, rubbing a hand over his face and blinking a few times to ground himself. The card on the table caught his eye and he picked it up, with a clumsy hand.

Sherlock Holmes, Private Detective
221B Baker Street, London, NW

He turned it over between his fingers, watching the printed lettering catch the sunlight. Then he motioned to the waitress.

“Um, could I get another coffee, please? And… do you have a pen I could borrow?”

His voice came out a little hoarse but she smiled, pulling one from the pocket of her apron and handing it to him, then heading back inside with a nod. The paper napkin that Sherlock had discarded, unused, lay crumpled on the table in front of him and he picked it up, unfolding it and spreading it out on the tablecloth. He smoothed out its wrinkles and stared at it for a moment, seeing a clean, blank canvas.

He uncapped the pen, pressed it to the paper, and began to write, and write, and write.