Observers- BBC Sherlock x Reader Chpt. 39

John couldn’t help but grin as you literally danced into The National Gallery, giving a little twirl before letting out the most content sigh. You were a hard and incredibly devoted worker but he knew you hated that type of work, it made you feel boxed in, bored, and dull. For you, this was not only a moment of excitement but of much-needed freedom as well. Sherlock set a hand on your shoulder to reign you in before you wandered off down some hall and got lost. He got the feeling it would be hours before they found you again if that happened and a grateful look from John confirmed it as you wiggled a little under his hand.

They’d briefed you in the cab on the way over, explaining that they had identified the three people that were murdered as leading art experts all focused in the field of impressionism. Once they had done that, the note left with the bodies made sense and led them to a set of paintings by Monet on loan to The National Gallery by the Musée d'Orsay in Paris that included two newly discovered paintings that had been unveiled just months before. That’s where they were now- one of the five paintings was a fake, it was just a matter of determining which. You had protested to Sherlock that you were hardly an expert, sure Monet was one of your favorite artists and you were a painter but that didn’t mean you’d be able to spot the difference between a fake and the real deal, but for some reason, he insisted you look at them.

Lestrade and the curator looked up when the three of you walked in, your eyes going wide as you looked around the room with a gleeful grin- so much better than being stuck in the café. Sherlock released you and you gave Lestrade a small, distracted wave as you moved past him to stand in front a painting you knew well, ignoring the conversation that had begun behind you. You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander over the pale blues and yellows of one of Monet’s many paintings of Rouen Cathedral, this particular one depicting the soft light of morning. It was one of your favorites. You would need to go over every inch of each painting to be absolutely certain of which was the fake so why not start here?

It had only been a few minutes when you were pulled from your study by raised voices behind you, the curator arguing loudly with Sherlock and Lestrade over your qualifications, or lack thereof, and without turning you snapped, “Either shut it or get the sod out. You’re messing with my concentration.”

They fell silent and you went back to what you were doing before you were so rudely interrupted as John snickered, “I told you she’d notice.”

Time passed slowly for Sherlock and the others as you spent hours in front of each painting, night slowly creeping in while you shifted from painting to painting, sometimes sitting on the floor but mostly just standing. By the time you got to the last two paintings, the curator had left, Lestrade had stepped out to get coffee and stretch his legs, and John was sitting against a wall, napping, next to Sherlock who was deep in thought with his hands folded under his chin.

You gave a soft yawn and stretched your arms above your head as you moved to the last painting, the noise making both of their eyes snap open and Sherlock gestured for John to go get him some coffee. John opened his mouth to tell him to get it himself but Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes flicking to you and back as John narrowed his own eyes at him in annoyance. He decided he could use some air anyways and got up to do as Sherlock wanted, leaving the two of you alone in the room. Sherlock went to you, wrapping his arms around your middle and resting his chin on your shoulder causing you to tense slightly but you didn’t push him away.

The last week had been surprisingly hard on Sherlock, even when he was distracted by the case he found himself missing you. At first, it was just that he’d grown used to your presence and it threw him off a little that you were gone but as the week wore on he began to miss little things that he had never really thought about before. The sound of you humming as you made tea, the way your tongue peeked out of your mouth when your sketches got more detailed, the quick sarcastic comments that so easily mingled with his own- he missed it all.

As annoying as it was, he found it interesting that he’d spent his entire life without you and now, after only a week of you being gone, he was miserable. Love was turning out to be a more complex emotion than he’d originally thought.

You suddenly let out a sigh and your hand came up to tangle in his hair as you turned your head to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He kept his arms around you but stood straight to let you turn and lean into his chest with another soft yawn as he thrummed, “What do you see?”

A wave of disappointment washed over him when you pulled away and moved back to the third painting, The Seine at Port-Villez, standing in front of it for a moment before stating, “The logical choice would have been one of the two new pieces as they would be much easier to duplicate and switch out without someone noticing yet from what I can see there is nothing wrong with either of them. So that leaves the older pieces- I have seen these three works a number of times over the years, enough to know them well, and there’s something about this one that’s off… also, the more I think about it the more it’s the perfect piece for someone to switch out with a fake.”

“Explain.” he murmured as he wound around you from behind again, this time with his cheek against the top of your head.

“It’s well known but not as popular as say… his lily pads, medium sized so not as carefully scrutinized as something smaller or as time-consuming as something bigger, and conservatively worth over ten million on the black market.”

You stepped away from him again, moving so you were just inches from the canvas before giving a soft hum, “This one is a fake and… I know who painted it.”

“You do?” John’s voice rang out behind the two of you as he walked in, just in time to hear your statement but miss the moment of affection from Sherlock, and you spun to nod, “I almost missed it… it’s been a while since I’ve seen one of his paintings, but hidden in one of the trees in a clever shade of muted green is his signature, just two letters-TA for Timothy Ares.”

“Timothy Ares…” Sherlock said the name as if he was trying to deduce something about its owner simply from what he was called and John came over to press a very welcome cup of tea into your hands, “How do you know him, Squeak?”

You plopped down cross-legged on the floor, giving your legs a rest as you sipped at your tea, “He was one of my flatmates when I first moved to Montmartre, we shared a studio for a bit too. You met him when you came to visit once… kind of a lanky bloke with a shock of chestnut hair that flopped over one eye- if memory serves it was flecked with streaks of white when you saw him.”

John was looking to the ceiling in thought and then nodded with a chuckle, “Oh! I remember him… he’s the one who got caught by the authorities in only his pink pants when you broke into that pool in the middle of the night.”

“That would be the one,” you confirmed, giving a little laugh at the memory.

After a moment of thought, you looked up at Sherlock, who was standing with his eyes closed, and firmly stated, “He wouldn’t do this. Not unprovoked. He has great respect for the work of others.”

“Do you still have contact with him?” John wondered aloud.

“I do.”

“Call him.” Sherlock demanded and you shook your head, “I can do you one better. He’s in London. Phoned me two days ago to see if we could meet up but I was busy so he told me where he was staying in case I had some free time.”

Sherlock abruptly stalked out and you and John exchanged a glance, scrambling to catch up with him after he poked his head back in and called, “Don’t laze about.”