#Rubbish Removal Central London

[bigbenblog]

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[blueiscoool]

Gold and Jeweled Necklace Found at Burial Site of Powerful Anglo-Saxon Woman in England

Archaeologists have discovered a stunning 1,300-year-old necklace, made of gold, garnets and other semiprecious stones, at an excavation site in central England earmarked for a housing development.

The necklace and other precious objects, called the Harpole Treasure after the local parish in Northamptonshire county where they were unearthed in April, also revealed a powerful role played by some women in Anglo-Saxon England.

The jewelry piece was buried with a woman of high status, who died between 630 AD and 670 AD, according to researchers at the Museum of London Archaeology who unearthed the treasure. The trove also included a relatively large silver cross, two decorated pots and a shallow copper dish.

The Anglo-Saxon bling suggested the woman was powerful in her own right and extremely devout, perhaps an early Christian leader, a princess or an abbess.

The grave site is thought to be the most significant burial from a unique sliver of English history when pagan and Christian beliefs intermingled and women held powerful positions in the early church.

The discovery's importance, the archaeologists said, was of a similar magnitude to that of other monumental Anglo-Saxon treasures unearthed in England, such as Basil Brown's famed find in 1939 at Sutton Hoo, where a warrior king was buried in a ship, and the Staffordshire Hoard of gold and silver artifacts, discovered in 2009 by an amateur metal detectorist in a field in Staffordshire, England.

About a dozen other high-status female burials, known as bed burials, have been discovered elsewhere in England. In some cases, the grave sites included similar necklaces.

Few of these burial sites date back earlier than the 7th century AD, when burials of high-status men were more common, and as Christianity took root, later graves rarely featured valuable objects because being buried with ornate jewelry, such as the necklace, was frowned upon by the early Christian Church, said Lyn Blackmore, a senior finds specialist at MOLA.

"The Harpole Treasure, it's not the richest (bed burial) in terms of the number of artifacts but it is the richest in terms of investment of wealth ... and it has the highest amount of gold and religious symbolism," she said at a news briefing.

X-rays taken of blocks of soil removed from the grave site revealed an ornately decorated but delicate cross cast in silver and mounted on wood. The artifact also had unusual depictions of human faces cast in silver.

Organic matter found in the grave is thought to contain fragments of feathers and textiles like leather, and further study should uncover the nature of the bed burial and whether it had a cover or canopy. The two pots were Frankish in style, Blackmore said, suggesting they came from what is now France or Belgium. The archaeologists hope molecular analysis will allow them to identify the residue in the pots; to date, their analysis has ruled out myrrh.

The skeleton itself was fully decomposed, with the exception of tiny fragments of tooth enamel, but the necklace and other features of the burial convinced the archaeologists that its occupant was female, Blackmore said.

Opulent gold riches

The discovery was made on April 11 but was made public for the first time on Tuesday.

The necklace is the most ostentatious of its type ever to be found in Great Britain, with 30 pendants and beads made of gold, garnets, glass and semiprecious stones strung together along with Roman coins. The striking artifact was found on the penultimate day of an eight-week excavation, said Levente-Bence Balázs, the MOLA site supervisor who first spotted the treasure glinting in the soil.

He was excavating what was thought to be a rubbish pit when he came across the crowns of two teeth, which signaled a burial of some sort. He then saw the rectangular pendant that formed the center of the necklace.

"In 17 years of excavating sites, this was the first time I've found gold. It's not just the artifacts, it's the sheer magnitude of the find," he said.

The excavation work was funded by the house-building company Vistry Group, which said it had waived any rights to the the artifacts that now belong to the state.

he first occupants of the housing development are due to move into their homes in two weeks' time and don't yet know about the treasure that lies beneath their community, said Daniel Oliver, regional technical director at Vistry West Midlands. Nothing has been built on the precise location of the burial, which isn't being made public, he added.

The area where the burial site was found was otherwise unremarkable, with no mounds or other features marking the grave. Archaeologists who worked at the site said they have surveyed the area thoroughly and are confident there is nothing else to find.

Officials at the Museum of London Archaeology said it would take at least two years to study the finds, but hoped the Harpole Treasure would eventually go on public display.

By Katie Hunt.

[master-john-uk]

I am surprised the number is that low, to be honest!

The popular beaches that I am familiar with in Kent, Sussex and Dorset often look like a landfill waste site after a busy summer day.

City dwellers do not seem to comprehend the need to dispose of their rubbish responsibly when they visit rural, or coastal areas. This got noticeably worse in 2020 when international travel restrictions were still in place. The area around my rural Kent residence (about 4 miles from the Greater London boundary) became increasingly littered during the coronavirus period. But, it has not decreased since.

The streets in Central London, and most of the surrounding outer-London areas are mainly clear of dropped rubbish. Is this because of the surveillance cameras? The residents are not law abiding citizens... they simply know how not to get caught!

For those criminals normally responsible individuals, I warn you that several areas on the North Downs and the Greensand Ridge now have temporary cameras installed, which are monitored by Kent and Surrey Police.

[clarrisageorgia]

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[torialeysha]

Cold feet - Part 16

Bakers redemption

A/N: I’m on a roll guys! Your love, patience and support for this story fuels my fire for writing, a fire I thought I had lost and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you all <3

Songs: Carry me home - Jorja Smith ft Maverick Sabre

Can’t buy happiness - Tash Sultana

Fortunately the awkwardness of the journey home was lost on you as all you could do was think about Alfie. You questioned the sincerity of his visit and wondered why it had taken him so long to realise you had lied about the ridiculous possibility of him not being the father of your unborn baby? He had asked you for forgiveness. A shot at redemption. Could you give it to him? Could you allow him another chance when he had already let you down not once but twice? Were you foolish enough to give him the opportunity to do it again? Would he do it again? He said that he had seen the error of his ways and that he really did want the baby. Did he mean it? Could you believe him even if he did? He said he could prove it to you and you were curious to see how. Silently you pondered, driving yourself insane with question after question that regrettably you didn’t have the answers to.

After a tedious battle with the London traffic the car finally pulled up outside the opulent townhouse Charles was renting. The atmosphere still frosty and tense as you crossed it’s threshold. You were in the process of removing your coat when one of the butlers collared Charles.

“There’s a Mr Changretta waiting for you in the lounge, sir.” He announced casually as he took your coat. Your hair immediately stood on end.

“Ok. I’ll be right there. Meanwhile, could you please fetch Ms Y/L/N something to eat.” Charles hands his coat to the butler then turns to you. “I won’t be long. Feel free to start without me.” He told you coldly. But you were no longer worried about food and more concerned about the fact that Luca Changretta was in the next room.

Fraught, you staggered to the dining room and began to pace, anxiously wondering what the occupants next door were discussing. You manoeuvred towards the wall that separated the lounge from the dining room and placed your ear against it, hoping that the divide was thin enough to be able to hear their conversation. Their muffled voices vibrated through the wall. You edged closer to the crack of the locked double doors that connected the two rooms and the voices got slightly clearer.

“...And you really trust this broad? You’re sure she isn’t the problem?” It was Luca’s voice.

“Of course I trust her! I wouldn’t have involved her if I didn’t.”

“How much does she know?”

“Hardly anything. She asked me some questions about the club. Why I bought it for her and why I insisted I put it in her name and not mine, but her curiosity is only natural, Luca.”

Your stomach rolled realising they were talking about you.

“What did you tell her?”

“I fed her some bullshit about wanting to give her the world.”

“Nice. So she doesn’t know anything about the money coming in from New York?”

“No, I take care of the books and I keep them locked in my safe.”

“Good.”

There was a brief silence before Luca spoke again.

“Tell me, Cuz, what are your feelings for this broad? You still intend on marrying her when this is all over?”

Cuz? Why would Luca call Charles that?

“Yes. I love her.”

Charles’ confession made you feel sick.

There’s another long pause before Luca speaks again.

“Then you have my blessing. But I’m warning ya, I don’t know if my dear Aunt will be as accepting. You know how she only wants the best for her son.”

Cousin? Aunt? Son? You felt the colour drain from your face as realisation dawned on you.

“Y/N is best for me. Now can we please stop discussing my personal life and get back to business.”

“Of course. I hear what you’re saying about the Jew but we need him alive for now. I think he’ll be able to help us deal with Thomas Shelby.”

“Solomon’s is tight with Shelby. There’s no way he’d sell him out.”

“Oh, he will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse... Don’t look so worried, Chuck, all will be revealed soon. You just carry on doing what you’re doing and remember that we’re doing this per la famiglia. Luca’s foreign tongue made you shudder. “Once Solomon’s, Shelby and Sabini are dealt with. London will be ours for the taking.”

You pulled away from the door just as Charles was asking about Sabini. You had heard enough.

It was worse than you or Tommy had anticipated. Charles and Luca wasn’t just business relations, they were blood relations. His money was their money. Your time and efforts had been in vain. Any hope of sabotaging their connection was gone. Replaced with an overwhelming sense of alarming trepidation. You had to leave. There was no way you could stay now knowing what you know.

The main door of the dining room swung open, startling you.

“I’m terribly sorry miss. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The flustered housemaid apologised as she shuffled in with your supper.

“Please don’t apologise.” You told her shakily.

“You’re white as a sheet! I must’ve given you a proper fright. Poor thing. Sit ya self down and I’ll fetch you something to drink.”

“No, no. I’m fine. It’s just-I’ve received word today that my friend isn’t well and it’s come as quite a shock. I would like to check on her to see if she’s feeling better. Could you let Mr Fenton know that I’m going to visit her and I won’t be back until later.”

“Of course, Miss, but what about your tea?” She signals to the silver tray she’s carrying.

“I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I’ll eat it when I return.”

“Ok, Miss. I’ll put it by for later.” She took off with the tray of food and without a second thought you made for the door without even stopping for your coat or purse.

In a daze you wandered down the street, feeling hopelessly lost in a city that had been your home for 20 odd years. You headed north, knowing that regardless of your current uncertainty towards Alfie you would have to warn him and get word to Tommy. Without your purse you had no money to jump on a bus or the underground. Your only option was to trudge the busy late afternoon streets to your destination. It would take roughly an hour to get from Central to Camden, probably the same amount of time it would take Charles to suspect something was amiss. It was a distressing thought that caused you to pick up pace. To make up time you decided to take a shortcut that lead you along the river and down the canals. It was a risky move as the muddy banks of the canals were refuge to some unsavoury characters - mainly drunkards - desperate men that would find easy prey on a young woman trekking the waterways on her own.

The sun was slowly sinking into twilight by the time you had reached Camden lock. Despite your exhaustion you were relieved to have made it in one piece but you shouldn’t have spoke too soon. In the distance you could see a group of what looked like 3 men huddled together along the path which you needed to pass to get across to the bakery. Your blistered feet slowed but it was too late, they had already spotted you. You quickly tried to think of an alternative route. The only other way was to swim across but jumping in and braving the grim green water that was frothing with rubbish and other questionable substances wasn’t tempting to say the least. There was nothing you could do now except carry on walking with your chin held high as if their shady presence didn’t intimidate you. You argued with yourself as you approached that maybe you had jumped to a brash assumption and that they were in fact a harmless trio who would just let you pass without a second glance. As you got closer they rose from their makeshift perches and swayed towards you. It was then you knew that your brash assumption had been correct.

“Evening treacle.” One slurred. “What brings you down ‘ere then?” He smiled, revealing a row of yellow teeth that were gradually rotting a browny black. You ignored him and tried to pass but he obstructed you.

“Let me pass!” You ordered him.

“Now then, that’s not nice. You could at least ask nicely. Say please.” He slurred.

“Please let me pass.” You said through gritted teeth.

The other two came to stand beside him. Panicking, you tried hard to conceal the trembling of your body.

“Beg.” He tells you through a snarl.

“I love it when they beg.” One of the other men chimed in, earning a chortle from his soapy comrades.

You laugh as if joining in with their sadistic merriment. Then quick as a whippet you tried to barge through their burly blockade, effectively knocking one of the men into the drink. The middle one grabbed you. You turned as he did so, kneeing him between the legs. He dropped to the floor and you made to escape but was grabbed again by the last remaining man. His filthy hand covered your mouth, cutting you off mid scream. You thrashed in his arms. Your eyes widening as the man on the floor rose slowly.

“We’ve got a feisty one ‘ere, Del.”

“Let’s see how feisty she is once I’ve finished with ‘er.” The man you knocked to the floor was now fully upright, stalking towards you.

You closed your eyes, helplessly awaiting your fate.

“Get your filthy fucking hands off ‘er!”

Your eyes shot open at the unmistakable voice coming from behind you.

The man turned suddenly with you still in his arms. Your eyes landed on Alfie and Ollie and you wanted to cry out in relief.

“Mr Solomon’s - I was only helping the poor Lass. She was lost, ya see.” He muttered a sheepish reply. His arms loosening around you. You pushed away from him stricken and lurched into Alfie’s arms.

“Are you ok, Yahalom?” He asked, pushing away the hair from your face and checking you over for any sign of injury.

You noded, clinging to him.

“Run!” One of the men shouted and they both fled in opposite directions. The one who had hold of you tried to leg-it past Alfie who with a flick of his cane tripped him before he could get any further. Alfie pushed you to Ollie, and pounced on top of the fallen man. Savagely he landed a shocking set of bone crunching blows upon the sputtering and sobbing man on the floor.

You started to shake uncontrollably. Your chest heaving to draw in breaths.

“Alfie, stop now. You’re scaring ‘er!” Ollie yelled at Alfie who stopped immediately.

“Get ‘er out of ‘ere!” He shouted.

You felt Ollie tug on your arm.

“No-I c-can’t go-I need t-to talk to A-alfie.” You chattered numbly.

“It’s ok, Y/N. Let’s wait for him inside and you can talk to him then, yeah?” Ollie asked you soothingly. You stopped resisting, allowing him to guide you over the bridge of the canal and inside the huge double door entrance of the bakery. He set you down on a crate.

“Are you ok?” Ollie asked. Kneeling in front of you.

You shook your head from side to side, unable to speak through the loud chattering of your teeth.

“We were just leaving. You’re lucky we spotted you, ya know.”

You didn’t answer him. Instead you reached out and gave his hand a grateful squeeze.

Alfie exploded through the doors, making you and Ollie jump. His blood splattered face was a fit of pure rage.

“How many fucking times have I told you not to walk the canals on your own? If me and him would have left ‘ere half hour ago like we were supposed to, what would have happened then, ay?” His eyes flickered as he tortured himself pointlessly with the sickening possibilities.

“Alright, Alfie. Calm down, ay? We left at the right time and luckily Y/N weren’t hurt-“ Ollie started calmly before Alfie interrupted him.

“- You sure they didn’t hurt you?” Alfie asked.

“I’m sure.”

“The fuck was you thinking, Pet?” His stern voice was slightly softer now.

“I-I wasn’t-“

“-Where’s your coat?” He asked suddenly. “Them cunts take it?”

“No, I left it behind-there was n-no time- I had t-to get out of there fast-I left my coat behind along with my p-purse-I’ve had to walk from Central-thats why I t-took the sh-shortcut.” You stuttered senselessly, barely pausing to take a breath. Alfie took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. You pulled it tightly around yourself. His musky scent clung to the heavy wool material that was still warm with the heat of his body. You inhaled deeply, feeling instantly calmer. “I couldn’t stay there, Alfie. I had to leave, I had to get out of there!”

“Calm down, Yahalom, and tell me exactly what’s happened?” He ordered, his eyes wild.

“It’s Charles. He and Lu-ca Changretta are related. They’re cousins. I-I overheard them talking. They said something about money coming in from New York and taking over London. They’re going to take down everyone in their way - you, Tommy, even Sabini. Everything Tommy said is true and there’s nothing I can do about it. We have to warn Thomas.”

Alfie exchanged a look with Ollie.

“Did he know you were listening in on his conversation?” Ollie asked.

“No. But he’ll know I’m missing by now and maybe he’ll put two and two together. I told the housemaid to tell him I was visiting an ill friend but I’m not sure he’ll believe that.”

“Right then. Well, first things first.” Alfie put his arms around your shoulders and lifted you gently from where you rested. “I need to get you out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay here and help sort this.” You told him wilfully.

“You’ve done all you can, pet. Let me and Tommy deal with this now.”

“So all of this was for nothing? Me staying with Charles, weeks of misery and sneaking around. That was all for nothing?”

“This isn’t your fight, Y/N. It never was your fight.” Alfie sighed.

“They’re planning on killing you, Alfie - the father of my unborn baby. Tell me how that isn’t my fight?” You sobbed angrily.

He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you lightly.

“Look at me.” He said firmly. Your wide eyes rose to his. “I can handle it, right. What I can’t handle is the worry of anything happening to you. Which is why I’m getting you out of ‘ere, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. I’m taking you and that unborn baby of mine to safety. You ‘ear me? That’s our priority now, yeah?”

“...Yeah.” You whispered, knowing he was right.

“Come on.”

You held on to him as you walked, your weary feet stinging with every faltered step you took.

“You need me to carry you?” He asked.

You shook your head weakly.

The sun had now almost set but the brightness outside was still blinding as you emerged from the darkness of the distillery.

“Get in the car.” Alfie ordered.

You did as he said, sliding into the front passenger seat and trying to avoid looking across the canal where your attacker still lay, a lifeless crumpled, mess on the floor. You blocked it out and focused on Alfie through the windscreen instead. He was leant into Ollie, telling him something. Ollie gave him a contrite nod and handed him what looked like a set of keys. With a pat on the back, Alfie left him to climb in to the drivers seat. He started the engine.

“Isn’t Ollie coming with us?”

“Na. He’s got to sort a few things out for me.” He replied, shoving the shift stick into gear and pulling off. You watched him intently. An unsolicited heat crept over you as he manoeuvred the machine with a confident ease that you couldn’t help but find alluring.

“Where are we going?” You asked croakily.

“Let me worry about that, right. You look exhausted. Rest your head and I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Too weak to argue you did just that. Leaning your head against the window which was slick with condensation. The soft purr of the cars engine lulled you rapidly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

You were roused from your confined slumber by Alfie as he lifted you from the passenger seat into his arms. Your neck throbbed where you had laid awkwardly propped up against the window for God knows how long. You let the aching heaviness of your head rest against Alfies chest as he carried you. A whooshing noise echoed familiarly in the blustery background, intertwined with what sounded like crunching gravel beneath Alfie’s feet as he walked. Curiously your sluggish eyes peered at your surroundings. You could just about make out the silhouette of a building and an unusual looking tree against the dark blue of the night sky.

Exhausted, your head fell back onto Alfie’s chest and you buried your face in the crook of his neck to shield it from the tenacious chill of the night air. He came to a stop holding you tightly with one arm as the other searched his trouser pocket. A jingling of keys and the sound of the lock turning, then you were finally inside and out of the cold.

The smell of fresh paint and varnish filled your nostrils as he carried you over the foreign residence. After kicking the door closed with his foot, you felt him ascend a set of stairs in the darkness, effortlessly, as if he was already well acquainted with the steps. A door creaked open and then shortly after you were being lowered. You unfolded from him as he placed you on the soft cushioning of a mattress. Your head sunk into the fluffy pillows, your arms stretching across the width of the spacious bed. Your eyes opened when you realised Alfie wasn’t joining you.

“Don’t leave me.” You begged.

“Sssh.” He soothed softly. His heavy hand brushing back your hair from your face. “You’re safe now, Yahalom.”

Your eyes closed, his reassuring tone and tender touch settling you back to sleep.

You awoke with a start. Looking around the huge room that was now highlighted by an orange hue emanating from the fire that crackled and danced in the fireplace adjacent to the bed. The ceaseless whooshing you heard earlier broke in from a set of french doors to your left and you raised from the bed to investigate. Pulling back the floor length curtains that decorated them, you were shocked to see the mosaicked balcony and the beach landscape that it overlooked. At a glance it appeared that Alfie had stolen you away from the perilous situation in London and brought you to Margate - your safe haven. But what was this place? It wasn’t a B&B or a hotel because you remembered that Alfie had entered with a key - you assumed the same key Ollie had handed him before you left. You glanced around the room once more, the unfamiliarity of your surroundings causing you great unease. And it was quiet, too quiet. Where was Alfie?

You poked your nose out of the bedroom door and peeked down the length of the darkened hallway. A sliver of warm light shone from a partially open door of one of the rooms and cautiously you ambled towards it. You lingered outside, your nerves settling when you heard Alfie’s hushed tone beyond the wood.

“Did you get hold of the rabbi?”

There was a long pause before Alfie spoke again.

“I don’t care what fucking time it is just keep trying. I want him up ‘ere by the end of the week, before the fight... Yeah? Well make-fucking-sure.” You heard a crashing bang which you guessed was the receiver of the telephone being put down on whoever Alfie was talking to.

“Are you gonna stand out there all fucking night or you gonna come in?” He shouted out to you, causing you to smile.

You entered slowly, stalling in the doorway.

Alfie was sat at a desk, a much neater, more fancier desk than the one he usually occupied at the bakery.

“You alright?” He asked, watching you intently as you came to sit in front of him.

You nodded absentmindedly, too busy taking in the plush interior of the room.

“Did you speak to Tommy?” You asked eagerly, your eyes finally meeting his. He waited a moment before answering you.

“Na, I ain’t been able to get hold of him. I’ll try again in the morning...You sure you’re alright?”

“Where are we?” You queried, ignoring his question.

“Margate.”

“No, I mean here.” You pointed to where you were sat. “Whose house is this?”

“This is our house.” He said casually.

You look at him stunned. Your mouth agape.

“Our house?”

He nodded simply.

“W-when? How?” You stuttered, dumbfounded.

“I bought it a while back, after I saw you again at the Eden. It was in a bit of a two an’ eight when I bought it. Taken me an’ the boys a little while to do up.”

“I’m confused.” You shook your head. “You’ve bought a house in Margate? But we’re so far away from London, from your businesses. What about the bakery?”

“I’m retiring, Yahalom. I’ve sold up all the properties I own and I’ve handed the bakery down to Ollie. This was my plan all along. The only way I knew I could keep you safe.”

It took you a moment to process everything and still you were stunned speechless.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought this was what you wanted?” He cites.

“It was-“

Alfie narrowed his eyes at your use of past tense.

“-I mean is.” You corrected swiftly before carrying on “It’s just come as a bit of a shock is all.”

“Hmm.” He let out a suspicious grunt. “It’s not the best timing after the day you’ve had, I get that. But that was out of my control wern’it?”

You nodded solemnly. Still trying to wrap your head around everything.

“I thought you’d be happy, Yahalom?”

“I am.” You frowned.

“At least show it then. Crack a smile or summin. You’ve got a face like a slapped arse at the minute.” You heard a frustrated annoyance creep into the grimmess of his voice.

“I don’t know how I feel about it, if I’m being honest. The last few months have been a whirlwind for me. I haven’t slept properly in days, weeks even. Weary to the bone. Wracked with guilt and worry. I honestly don’t know wether I’m coming or going. And now you’re telling me that you’re selling up. Leaving behind everything you’ve worked so hard to build and for what?”

“For us!” He barked. “For us to be together without the worry of someone hurting you to hurt me. And yeah, I’ve worked hard, I’ve earn’t my money, however, it’s time for me to rest now and enjoy the fruits of my labour.”

“I’m not sure, Alf...” You hummed uneasily.

“What’s there to be unsure of?”

“I still ain’t sure this is what you really want!” You snapped frustratedly. “A quiet life by the sea, a child you never wanted...I just can’t see it.” You admitted sadly.

He exhaled harshly, rising from his desk and stepping round to extend a hand to you.

“Come with me. I wanna show you something.”

Reluctantly you took his offered hand and let him guide you back out into the hallway and along to a room that was situated next to the one you had been resting in earlier.

He opened the door and moved aside for you to enter.

The waxing moon shon brightly through the bare windows, lighting up the room with it’s spectacular lunar glow. You stepped through noticing immediately the cot that lay new and empty against the far wall, next to it was a matching chest of drawers and a rocking horse that looked like it had been plucked from a fairground carousel.

Your eyes shot to Alfie whose bear like frame was leant in the doorway studying your reaction.

“When did you do this?”

“A couple of days ago. The room needs a lick of paint but I thought you might wanna choose the colour.” He came to join you in the centre of the room.

“So you did all this before you come to see me? Before you were even certain that the baby yours?...Why?”

He was silent for a moment, deep in thought.

He shrugged. “I s’pose deep down I knew you were lying and that the baby was mine... or maybe I didn’t fucking care, I dunno... doing this...it just felt right.”

“But you said-“

“-I know what I said but saying don’t mean fuck all does it. Actions speak louder than words.” He motions to the room. “And this speaks fucking volumes, dunnit. I mean if this doesn’t prove to you that this is what I really want then I don’t know what will.”

Reassurance drifted over you as you looked once again around the unfinished nursery.

“Say something.” He requested quietly.

Wordlessly you rushed to him and threw your arms around his broad shoulders.

“You like it then? You’re happy?” He confirmed uncertainly.

“I do. I am. It’s...wonderful! Thank you!” You choked a reply, your voice struggling past the forming lump in your throat.

He pulled you closer, his shoulders relaxing as if a weight had been lifted off them.

“You want me to show you round the rest of the house?” He whispered gruffly into your hair.

“Not tonight. Show me tomorrow in the daylight so I can properly take in the beauty of it all.”

“Alright. Well, what shall we do now then?” You were sure you heard a seductive undertone in his question and took full advantage.

“Take me to our bed.”

“You ain’t gotta ask me twice.” He said. His eyes lighting up at your words.

You squealed when he lifted you in his arms and carried you to the next room.

“Cor blimey. You’ve got heavier already.” He huffs.

“Oh give over, I ain’t even showing properly yet. You’re just getting weaker with age, old man.” You teased him.

“Oi! I’ll have you know that there’s nothing wrong with my stamina and I will gladly prove that to you in a minute.” He threatened hotly. Sending your pulse racing. “There’s just one more thing I’ve got to do first.”

He set you down carefully on your own two feet.

“Can’t it wait?” You whined as he stepped away from you and headed towards the door.

“It won’t take me a minute.” He assured you.

You stood in the middle of the once unfamiliar room that you now knew was yours and Alfies. Sighing happily, you glided to the french doors and tried the handle. They opened willingly under your touch. The chill of the night air was refreshing as you stepped out on to the balcony. Leaning on the stone balaustrade, you observed the unrelenting waves that stretched the distance, relishing in the peacefulness of their crashing melody. Nothing could ruin this moment, not even the ugliness of the Changretta situation. All that mattered right now was your future with Alfie, a future that this morning never even existed.

“Yahalom?” Alfie called, having returned.

You spun to look at him. He marched skittishly towards you, his hands behind his back, as he joined you on the balcony.

“I know I’ve asked you this before but as you so poignantly pointed out to me the other day, it’s a proposal that has since expired. So, I’m gonna ask you again... Y/N Y/L/N will you marry me?” He asked gruffly, his eyes so intense you thought they could set you on fire. You gasped unexpectedly. Although it was the second time he had asked you, it was the first time you had heard him say those words aloud.

“Oh, Alfie. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“Thank fuck for that. Here then.” He produced a ring that was hidden in his clenched fist behind his back. Grabbing your hand he slipped it on your finger. You stared down at it in awe. A ruby once again burned brightly on your finger but it wasn’t the one you were used to. You frowned down at the foreignness of the rings delicate beauty and the circle of winking diamonds that surrounded the red gem like a halo.

“I searched high and low for the other one in the bakery but couldn’t find it. So I bought you another one. D’you like it?”

“It’s beautiful... I was just expecting to see the old one.” You replied, your heart sinking at the thought of your first engagement ring being lost forever. It was only supposed to be a temporary ring, taken from Alfie’s pinky finger until he had gotten you a proper one. There wasn’t much to it just a thick gold band with a faceted ruby so red it was hypnotising. Back then you had persuaded Alfie not to buy a replacement, that you wanted to keep his one as every time you looked at it it reminded you of him. Now, thanks to yourself you’ll never see it again.

“That’s old hat now that one though, innit? a token of who we used to be. We’ve been through a lot of shit, right, shit I wanna leave in the past. I want us to have a fresh start, a clean slate, and this house and this ring is where it begins.”

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[kalluun-patangaroa]

Suede

SKY magazine, December 1993

written by Simon Witter 

"HELLO! WHAT HAVE WE GOT HERE?!" asks Brett Anderson rhetorically, staring at the fluff he has just removed from his ear. "I haven't taken these earrings off for about nine years."

It may seem an incongruous moment to ask the 27-year-old indie pin-up about his personal style, but hey, that's the kind of guy I am. "Tatty," replies Brett with a wry smile. "I haven't been able to get out and go shopping."

Brett Anderson, frontman of Suede – the British pop sensation of 93 – is hotly rumoured to have a great dress sense. Today however, perched uncomfortably behind an executive desk at the central London HQ of his record company, his head inadvertently framed by a halo of Right Said Fred promotional balloons, he is sporting a navy blue jeans'n'top ensemble he accurately describes as "just anything". Brett has been telling me how he spends most of his time with people who work in shops or are unemployed – "real people, not in the business" – so I presume this boutique bonding provides a clue to his supposed, though temporarily non-evident, style savvy.

"Oh no," he gasps. "Not clothes shops! Most of my friends are in food shops. So I know a good bit of brie when I see it."

The thought of Brett Anderson having, at any point in his life, ever eaten food, conjures images of pigs flapping their trotters as they sail past this second floor window. But we press on with the personal style enquiry.

"I want to change it at the moment," he says. "I'm sick of wearing second-hand things. I used to have a grudge against new clothes because I don't like wearing things that another thousand people are wearing. It's nothing to do with being into clothes from years ago, or tatty clothes at all. I'm quite keen to toy around with my style until I eventually find something, to have clothes made for me. There's never anything, when I go out and look for clothes, that I really love. I've got quite a strong vision of what I want, which would be very, very well fitted things. I don't like baggy things. I like lots of ethnic looks. I really like the Spanish look, that sort of matador thing." By way of explanation, Brett strikes a pose, clicking imaginary castanets above his head. "I like that shape. Prince wears a really brilliant little thing sometimes. When I kept getting my bellybutton out, it was really a desire to achieve that shape more than anything, nothing to do with flaunting my navel."

It's well worth flashing your bellybutton while you still can, I assure him, a rueful hand on my own expanding waistline.

"Yep," he smiles. "Well I can't anymore. Not after that chinese last night."

In May of 1992 Suede released their first single, 'The Drowners'. They had already been on the cover of Melody Maker – before they had a record out – and would grace 18 other British magazine covers over the next year, including the cover of Q on just their second single. Their eponymous debut album, released last March, went straight to No. One in the charts and went on to win the Mercury Prize, and last autumn they released a full-length concert video Love & Poison. At this rate, it will be time for their memoirs by easter.

Within the bizarre, incestuous fishbowl of the British music media, Suede have become almost self-damagingly important. After a couple of wilderness years spent faffing about, finding their feet and being universally loathed, their overnight transformation into the most hyped band in the world was nothing short of miraculous. Yet it created impossibly high expectations of their music. A German friend told me how surprised he was, after long distance exposure to their media glare, to discover how average Suede sounded – a judgment that casual discovery of the first album would hardly have elicited. And while touring America, their support act the Cranberries famously outshone them by an enormous factor when it came to album sales. Yet phase one of Suede's career has been – or appeared to be – so extraordinary, that they are going to be hard-pressed to follow it up with anything similarly momentous.

For now, we have 'Stay Together', a new, epically long single. As a measure of Suede's magnitude in the reality-starved world of British indie pop, I am treated to an absurd preview of the track the day before meeting Brett. Before entering the listening room I am subjected to a bag search to check – I kid you not! – that I'm not carrying a concealed tape recorder.

In LA, the world capital of muso control freakism, I was played U2's Desire, the immediate-follow up to their 15-million selling Joshua Tree album, eons before its release without anyone thinking twice. Yet now, without a hint of humour or irony, I am being treated as if I not only know anyone who cares what the next Suede single sounds like, but would be willing to pay for a tape of it recorded through a leather bag.

After regaining consciousness, I join in the fiasco, insist on a full body search (well, at less reputable establishments you'd have to pay good money for this touchy-feely experience) and am seated. The label boss places two speakers on each side of my head, facing my ears from about 20" away, turns it up LOUD, and begins to do that embarrassing, pseudo appreciative in-chair grooving that only people who work in record companies and recording studios have the gall to indulge in. "It's not pompous," he assures me, "even though it's eight minutes long."

Of course any pop song – as opposed to dance record – that lasts eight minutes is by definition pompous. 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was gloriously, defiantly pompous with a side order of pomposity to go. But, despite the circumstances, 'Stay Together' sounds like a fine, many-hued song, liberally doused with Bernard Butler's life-saving guitar, that is destined neither to win many new fans nor shock the devotees.

"It's about a sense of unrest I feel about the world," Brett tells me the following day, in an ill-advised shot at an explanation. "An attempt to make some sense when everything seems to be going slightly insane. I do get a real sense of impending doom, but not in a depressing way, not like we're all gonna die, let's go and rape people. I feel quite content with it. We're living under some shadow, and I'm not quite sure what it is. It's a bit like the fears I felt when I was growing up, when things were unstable and there was the threat of nuclear war, or the fear that your parents could die of aerosol poisoning."

Brett grew up, together with Suede drummer Mat Osman, in the soulless satellite town of Haywards Heath, between London and Brighton. According to Osman, if they'd been the tea party fops people make them out to be, they would've formed a grunge band. They only wanted to be really glamorous because of their stultifyingly dull working class backgrounds. Some might say that that would lead to the three-Es-a-night, dance-and-forget syndrome, rather than the formation of a glam rock band.

"Hopefully we're not a glam rock band," Brett shudders defensively. "You can escape those surroundings by taking a load of Es and ignoring it. Another way is to create your own myth, to try and become romantic in your own eyes, to create something beautiful out of the rubbish and the shit. It all sounds very Oscar Wilde, but that's the way we did it. None of us were brought up in workhouses, but we haven't had easy lives at all."

Suede claim to be obsessed with fame because they were excluded from it. Yet surely fame is the one classless thing people aren't born into?

"Lots of people are constantly privileged," says Brett, who has clearly spent an unhealthy amount of time pondering the abstract qualities of fame. "If you're born in Soho to rich professional parents, and you've got Jonathan Wotsisname coming round to your house every night to see your father, then you've got this world that you slip easily into. When you're excluded from it there's a desperation, you're desperate to have it. It doesn't come as second nature to you, like professionally famous people who hang out in Beverly Hills. It's not something you're comfortable with, but that mutates it into something far more interesting, a bit prickly and far more creative, because you're not just sitting there lapping it up."

Suede's appearance coincided not unfortunately with the post-Madchester 70s revival. But was their styling something more than just the result of being unable to afford new clothes? Personally, I had thought the emergence of Gary Numan had killed off the idea of anyone ever again wanting to be David Bowie (not to mention Bowie's recent records). Then along came Suede, with their rough guitars, their androgyny and their theatrical singer.

"I never thought of ourselves as '70s," Brett insists. "David Bowie is a genius, but the rest of all that rubbish I always found laughable. As for the clothes, I always thought we looked more 60s than 70s. It's all tied up with this whole kitsch thing, this Magpie and Porridge and rediscovering the culture of British music journalists' youths. Kids of 14 didn't know what anyone was talking about, it was just that the people in power had reached a certain age where they were getting sentimental about their youth and started remembering Magpie. That's all it was, all a complete load of rubbish. As soon as we were aware that this scene was going on, we wanted nothing to do with it."

Brett's voice is a highly variable instrument, perfect and beautiful on slow numbers like 'The Next Life', but occasionally, when he affects that archly operatic Bowie yodel, a whiney, sneering sound like Rik Mayall on speed boring into your brain – absolutely maddening. It goes without saying that his delivery owes much to the most overrated British pop star of the last decade, Morrissey.

"I forced my voice in that way because of how we were born, musically, playing shitholes. It was the only way I could make myself heard. I didn't want to sing in the murmuring way that was the style of the time. I wanted to project my voice, because I was writing songs that I wanted people to hear the words of. I wasn't just writing about fluffy little clouds, which is what everyone was doing at the time. People read into my intonations a theatrical seventiesness, but it was a complete accident."

Overworked as the subject is, it's hard to avoid asking why Brett thinks his androgyny caused such a fuss. It's not the first time it has been done; it's not even the tenth time. Genderless, mincing fops are to classic British pop what hairspray is to American rock, a staple ingredient. Brett, by comparison to most, is pretty tame.

"I don't know," he sighs. "We certainly weren't thinking 'oh let's be androgynous', it's just the way we are. I'm naturally quite an effeminate person – not all the time, I do play on things. I think it was because, at the time, people were so incredibly boring. We had been through five years of the cult of non-personality, and we never wanted to go with the flow. When everyone had their heads down, chugging away, we wanted to twist things a little bit. It's like at school, when you find that something annoys someone, you keep on doing it more and more. And that's what happened really."

A female psychologist wrote recently about the overt sexual expression of pre-pubertal girls at pop concerts, the way in which, amidst the non-contact hysteria of the pop experience, they could sometimes experience their first orgasm. She was, admittedly, talking about a Take That show, but I can't help wondering if it looks like that from the stage to Brett Anderson?

"No, nothing like that," he purrs, "nothing sexual. I always feel like people are putting it on."

Having their first fake orgasm?

"It's a bizarre thing in my head. I know they really like me, but I can't really take it seriously. When I'm onstage, and it's working, I feel like I can do absolutely anything. I feel as though there's no limit, even in the sense that I could fall asleep if I felt like it, because I'm that relaxed. I feel much more comfortable on stage than walking down the street. I could go off into a corner and do a crossword or shave my head. I feel ridiculously relaxed. I really enjoy the power of being onstage. It's to do with the circuit of the flow between the audience and you, when it's an audience willing you to be good. Your own power is an expression of how the audience is feeling, but I can't say I ever feel sexual, even if it looks that way. I think that to call the power purely sexual is to belittle it. When I've been to incredible gigs, it hasn't been a sexual thing, it has been something far more magical than that. "

Brett and Osman came to London in the mid 80s to study, respectively, architecture and politics at UCL and LSE. Suede began after they placed an ad in the NME in 1989, but initial concerts had audiences shouting "Fuck off!", critics calling them effete wankers and record companies running for the hills - a three-pronged invitation to eat shit and die that would have spelt the end for most bands.

"That X factor that made people despise us," muses Brett, "was something we managed to turn around in our favour. It's like being in love with someone, and exactly the same things you adore about them, completely horrify you when you've fallen out of love. We went away and learnt how to write songs, and came back transformed. And those qualities that originally pissed people off, we transformed into something provocative. I think the fact that we went through all that rubbish was a fucking good thing for us. People forget that the Beatles spent five years in Hamburg. No one would touch them in England, cos everyone thought they were an utter load of shit. They spent five years getting it together, suffering a bit and fighting for it."

A typical lyric from those hard years was Brett's line about "shitting paracetomol on the escalator". When they were recently described as chemically saturated, I had assumed more interesting chemicals were involved.

"That's about pure mundanity, being off your face every night and your staple diet coming from your bathroom cabinet. It's a metaphor for a humdrum life, going up and down the London underground, which I spent five years of my life doing."

In many ways this – Suede's poignant soundtracking of new depression Britain – is their strength. But if they are Her Majesty's equivalent of slackers, it hasn't made America any more amenable to their cause. Indeed, despite Brett's avowed loathing of the British character – "negativity, small-mindedness, lack of faith" – there may well be a Britishness about Suede which prevents America from getting the point.

Brett makes the mistake of quoting a Smiths song to me – something about innocence, fragility and trust – forcing me to point out that American audiences don't want to be trusted with something precious, they want to rock out with their cocks out. Evan Dando may wear a dress and pigtails, but the wider American market is notoriously unkeen on sexual ambiguity. Queen were big in America until the early 80s, when Freddie Mercury started appearing in full clone gear. They never toured America again, and didn't have a single hit until after his death (and then only thanks to Wayne's World). In fact, America's association of guitars and manliness make Suede fundamentally unsuited.

"No!" storms Brett. "I don't think we're fundamentally unmanly. All you have to do is come and watch us live. We're about sexuality, power and emotion, things that everybody feels."

Whether or not America is destined to fall for his Morrissey-meets-Larry Grayson stage persona, Brett's much-aired desire to move to America (and less well-known plan to live in Paris) has, for now, been replaced by a much smaller act of bedouinism.

"I've moved from Notting Hill to Highgate," he announces proudly, "from a fashionable place to a place where you're living in the last century pretty much. I was living in a very small flat in Notting Hill and it was driving me insane, I couldn't write and was being bombarded with nonsense all day long. I needed the peace and quiet, and now I have a bigger flat with a studio room in it and I'm writing quite prolifically. It's more serene, there's more space to think. It's quite a beautiful place, but you do feel like you're living in the last century, like you're some sort of oddity, or in a play. You keep going into these odd characters. But it's a great place."

In person, and despite the affectation of much of his thought processes, Brett Anderson is quite charming. An endearing smile – which seems to hibernate when cameras are around – plays constantly around his face, suggesting shared confidences which, to some extent, he delivers. Like so many people cocooned by over-protective minions, he is refreshingly open and approachable. I like him. But he is deeply shocked and incredulous when I paint a picture of the special treatment afforded him by those he works with.

"They treat me with the respect I deserve," he jokes defensively. "I don't have tea with Lenny Kravitz. My best friend works in a chip shop, and that's why I like it, it's a complete escape. One of the beautiful things about being successful is that it can rub off onto your friends as well. Not fame and all that bullshit – the really brilliant thing about being successful is the self-confidence, the sense of life having a purpose, that life is a wonderful thing. You open the shutters in the morning and the sunshine pours through. That sense of vitality about life can completely rub off on your friends. Sometimes it doesn't, it can go the other way, with friends ignoring you cos they think you don't have time for them, but that never happens with your proper friends."

And yet, engulfed in the sweltering perversity of his peer group, Brett has come to hold some pretty crap views, views that seem utterly irrelevant beyond the borders of saddo indie land. He worries about being thought a sell-out, thinks Suede are radically honest because they admit to having ambition – as if people didn't get over all that bollocks a decade ago – and, worst of all, that people don't talk enough about music in interviews. Oh dear!

But, despite all this, Brett's public image remains unshatterably cool. He exudes waves of sultry, sulky hipness. I feel an urge to know what naff items lurk in the corners of Chateau Anderson, his ownership of which will shock Suede devotees to the core. Brett tells me he's been to see Aladdin, listens to jazz music, likes The Orb and Verve and has just bought the new Shamen single. To prove it, he even does his Mr C impression - "Comin' on like a vibe, y'know!". This won't do at all.

"I like Terence Trent D'Arby," he admits, trying harder. "I think he's really good."

It's good, but it's not right.

"I bought Billy Joel's River Of Dreams album. I like that one."

Aha – as Inspector Clouseau used to say – now we are getting somewhere! What about films?

"No, I've got impeccable taste when it comes to films."

No feature length On The Buses video stashed chez Brett?

"No. I have got Crocodile Dundee."

Bingo and Bullseye! So much for impeccable taste.

"Well, my perennial favourite is Performance," he flusters wildly. "I can virtually quote the whole film from start to finish. And there's a brilliant film which I've just discovered called The Shout, with John Hurt, Alan Bates and Susanna York. It's about a man who has spent years in the Australian bush learning the secrets of the bush doctors coming to this ridiculously reserved Cornish village and turning two people's lives upside down. It's like an animal alive within this village, and when he shouts, everyone within a mile radius dies. If Alan Bates' part had been played by Vincent Price, it would've been laughable, but it's incredibly powerful, one of those great lost films."

It's a nice try, but nothing can erase the impression created by Billy Joel and Crocodile Dundee.

[alinephotographingthecity]

Where are the bins?

London has very little public wastebins compared to other cities. Especially at the metro stations, there are no rubbish bins to be found. But why is that?

The scarcity of places to throw out garbage comes from lingering fears of terrorist attacks. London was plagued by deadly bombings for decades, with trash cans being a favorite drop point.

In London, bins were yanked from stations and many other locations in the central city years ago because the Irish Republican Army used them as bomb drop locations, Metal cans were especially attractive to terrorists because they could create deadly shrapnel when the bombs went off.

After a tragical bombing at Victoria Station in 1991 London Police removed all trash cans from Railway stations.

[rubbishandgardenclearance01]

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Rubbish and Garden Clearance are providing services to remove unwanted household waste which you may not have to get ridden over the years and it's occupying some extra space. In any type of job, we professionally do our work to fulfill our customer’s requirements.

Others paid a high price to anyone they could discover to cart away their commercial waste. However, the arrival of particular companies is all set to change the nature and attitude of commercial waste disposal.

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This lessens concerns about how this unwanted is affecting the environment.

It also resolves the huge headache posed to most businesses concerning legal compliance.

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While most regular businesses make regular waste such as sheets of used paper, unfilled water bottles, etc. others have very exact commercial waste clearance needs.

Even waste such as used computers failed monitors, old particle cabinets, chairs, and other office furniture wants specialized disposal. Old electronic things now need to be disposed of as per the new WEEE or Waste Electrical and Electronic Equipment rule formulated by the UK Government.

Certain businesses such as manufacturers generate a whole different variety of waste such as excess or unused building material that would also be essential to be disposed of in an accurate manner. Products such as plasterboard also want to be recycled as per new recycling rules. Real estate agents might also need such facilities to clear an emptied property before showing it to new clients.

The right commercial waste clearance company can now recycle and arrange the waste generated by these businesses while following all the compulsory rules and regulations.

Commercial waste clearance companies are the solution

Certain businesses would have appointed waste management companies that would have charged them on a per skip basis, which could verify to be very costly. Professional commercial waste clearance companies typically charge only for the actual waste that is removed from the business premises. This could allow that business to accept thousands of pounds in a year.

Companies can arrange to have their commercial waste removed on a daily basis thus lowering probabilities of any amassing of waste or spread of any illness on their premises. Specialized vehicles can cart away their waste and the company can also rest secure that they have done their bit in contributing to lower their footmark on the atmosphere.

Selecting a commercial waste clearance company

The selected commercial waste recycling company should have all the required certificates to clear the designated waste from any business site. If that waste is dangerous then the business too will need to acquire proper permission from the environmental agency. An effectual commercial recycling company should have its own fleet of modified vehicles manned by well-trained staff that is willing to clear all kinds of waste from the business premises at compulsory intervals.

With an affected rise in waste generated by a cumulative number of businesses, it is important that specialized companies handle such waste and recycle the maximum amount from that waste. The All Clear Company offers clearing and recycling facilities to businesses in and around central London. Shouldn’t your business look into using these facilities to stay inside the law, get rid of waste in a professional way, and also do its bit in preservative the environment?

We are Providing Rubbish Clearance Services in London including Rubbish Removal, House Clearance, Garden Clearance, and Office Clearance, to get the best Rubbish clearance services in London. Contact Rubbish and Garden Clearance in London for any type of rubbish clearance activities.

[roryqpotter]

30 Day OTP Challenge - On A Date

Sherlock was released from the hospital about two weeks after being admitted. He was well enough to leave, and was prescribed an ointment that he would have to apply for two more weeks to make sure the skin on his back didn’t scar too badly.

Of course, Sherlock was more worried about staining his clothes rather than permanently maring his skin. John actually sat in the room every morning and evening Sherlock had to apply the ointment, and even bought him undershirts so that he wouldn’t be so worried about his clothing.,

The… romantic side of their relationship was more… complicated. They had gotten numerous cases back to back since Sherlock had returned home, and during those times, Sherlock had made a rule of ‘no romantic contact’ during cases. That meant no hugging, no cuddling, no holding hands, nothing. John was starting to wonder what the point of declaring their feelings were if they weren’t doing anything romantic.

One day John had been at home reading the paper during this bout of nothing but cases when Sherlock tugged the paper out of his hands and practically threw himself over John’s lap. This was completely out of nowhere… and now Sherlock was just lying longways across John’s chair, not saying anything. John didn’t exactly know what to do, or what to say to this.

After a minute of silence, Sherlock looked up at John expectantly.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you supposed to start cuddling me or some insipid thing like that?”

Seriously, he’s doing this now!? The fact that he was expecting this kind of thing while also being a dick about it honestly pissed John off. He had been patient and understanding, but Sherlock was pushing it.

“You’ve been saying ‘no romantic contact’ for the past three weeks, so this is a bit sudden. What do you expect me to do when you’ve just been focused on The Work and acting antisocial like nothing happened?”

Sherlock just gave John an unamused look.

“You have been irritated by the restrictions being in place, I assumed you would have been eager to start romantic interludes once more.”

“Well maybe if you did something nice, I would be more inclined to be romantic.”

“How about dinner at Le Bistro du Breton?”

Well, that was one way to make up for the lack of romance. Le Bistro du Breton was a five star French gourmet restaurant in central London that was practically made for people like Mycroft or the Prime Minister. Thing was, you had to make reservations a week to three weeks in advance to even get a table for two, and the food was astronomically expensive. John thought Sherlock had been too focused on cases to even think about romantic gestures to even make a reservation.

“How did you… when did you..?”

“I made a reservation three hours ago for tonight at eight (the owner owes me a favor). I had foreseen that you would be irritated about the restrictions, and decided that a proper date at an expensive venue would help us ‘make up’ so to say.”

“But isn’t it insanely expensive? I heard just one bottle of wine costs £2,000.”

“I have an inheritance, and the last case paid me over £9,000. It wasn’t even a particularly interesting case, but you’ve been moaning at me about money and bills since you’ve moved in. Since we are living together, and our relationship has moved beyond friendship, it would be proper for me to pay my part.”

Sherlock took a case because John nagged about money? That was honestly one of the nicest things he had ever done for him. This was the same man who when given a five figure advance by that prick Sebastian Wilkes, he said, ‘I don’t need an incentive, Sebastian.’ John didn’t know why such a small thing like taking an uninteresting case was such a big deal, but it was the first time he didn’t feel like his ‘moaning about money’ had gone to waste. Not to mention it was a stolen art case, and Sherlock had even declared it a five after the fact.

But, of course, he ruined the moment of endearment.

“But you will not be wearing that horrid brown suit you wore when you had that date with Sarah.” He sat as he stood up and started pacing, “It is a black suit black tie establishment, and I do not wish to embarrass myself by being thrown out for inappropriate attire.”

“Prick.” John remarked.

It wasn’t like John had planned on going to major social events when he left for the army, or even when he was sent home. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t think anything would happen to him after his tour in Afghanistan, let alone an explosion from a psychotic crime boss. It wasn’t on his list to get brand new clothing when he returned home.

John looked at his watch and saw it was almost 11 am. They had more than enough time to head to a store to pick out a nice suit for the restaurant. He sighed.

“Fine, we can get a suit from-.”

“My tailor’s establishment.” Sherlock cut in. “I’ll only accept the finest suit on this date as it is one of the finest restaurants in London.”

This… sounded a bit like a case. The way that Sherlock was coaching John about appearances was similar to how they had to go undercover a month ago, and Sherlock had gotten every possible garment to use on the case. Not to mention he hadn’t finished their current case yet, which made John even more suspicious. John gave his - Sherlock, a skeptical look.

“You’re making us go undercover, aren’t you?”

Instead of denying it, Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes.

“Is it not possible to multitask by going on an actual date as our cover?”

“Wait, hold on,” John said as he got up. “You were going to trick me into a date so that we could catch our suspect?”

“You are a terrible liar, John, and I’m sure my brother plans on exploiting that fact.” Sherlock took out his phone, clicked pushed a few buttons, and showed John a picture of a man who was heavy with black balding hair, an expensive looking suit, gold chains, and rings. He looked like a classic mobster if John had ever seen one. “This is the lynchpin in our case: Antonio Mendoza. He heads a sex-trafficking/smuggling ring here in London, and will be dining at Le Bistro du Breton tonight at 9:30. I had planned our dinner so that we would not only be seen as part of the crowd when he arrived, but also have an actual date before we pursued and arrested him. The owner was more than happy to assist me by removing a different date from the roster tonight as he had a brush with Mendoza a few years back, almost putting him in jail for drug possession charges.”

It was true that John wasn’t a terribly good actor, he’d been rubbish in school plays, but it kind of stung that Sherlock would state it so bluntly. It didn’t exactly excuse the fact that Sherlock was trying to trick him… yet it probably wouldn’t be them if they didn’t solve a crime on the side, would it? Still, he shouldn’t have lied to John to make it ‘convincing’.

“You didn’t have to lie to me about that.” John said as he gave Sherlock his phone back. “I mean, I’m okay with catching a criminal as part of our date, but trying to trick me into it isn’t okay.”

“Unfortunately, I was given conflicting reports as to whether he was dining with a woman, or with a business associate. If his dinner is with a date, your acting wouldn’t matter as he would be distracted, but with a business associate, your lying would be able to be detected.”

“Then why not create a contingency plan?”

“I have everything planned out.”

“Well then let me pitch a solution to our problem, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go on a date with someone in my place.”

“But it wouldn’t be a real date if I took someone in your place, so why would you care?”

“Because-!” John obviously needed to explain what he was talking about, so he took a deep breath. “Listen, it’s not a thing of it being real or not, I know it wouldn’t be real, but where the hell would I be if you needed me? And honestly… I don’t want to… share you, if that makes sense. Unless we had agreed to something where you would, say, have to seduce someone for information or chat someone up to trick them, I’m just not okay with it.”

Sherlock looked to be analyzing him. John hoped that from Sherlock’s observations, he would understand that John didn’t want him to just take someone else on their date, no matter if it was for a case. He had waited for almost a year and a half to finally tell Sherlock how he felt, and now that they were (sort of) together, he didn’t want to waste a perfectly good crime-solving date that would be their first date.

Eventually, Sherlock sat down in his respective chair and crossed one leg over the other.

“What is your solution to our situation?” Sherlock asked.

John sat down in his own chair and answered,

“If Mendoza is such a shallow man that he’s easily distracted by attractive women, why not have a Yarder go in undercover as an attractive date to a different undercover officer?”

It seemed pretty simple: Mendoza objectified women, therefore they needed a sexy woman in the restaurant to distract him. It would probably work whether or not he had a date. He hated that they would need to objectify a woman to get their suspect, but they didn’t exactly have other options. Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin and studied John intently before he said,

“And there is absolutely no way you would let me take an actor or undercover Yard officer as my date?”

“Basically.”

“And why would it be such an issue?”

“Well - I mean - you’re actually very… attractive, and we sort of told each other that we like each other more than friends do, so I would think it’d be obvious why it’s an issue. Just to be clear, Sherlock, how many relationships have you actually been in?”

“Ten, four in secondary school, five in university, and one that was… complicated throughout university.”

“And how did those go? Did you feel jealous at all when they hung out with other people? Or made a last-minute cancellation to do something else?”

“Actually, no, to me relationships were just side-projects to the main goal of going through schooling and solving cases, or at times to go and get high. There had been a few sexual exploits within those relationships, but also a few I cannot remember because I was high at the time.”

That just halted everything in John’s mind. Could Sherlock have an STD because of those times he was blacked out. Just doing heroin in a drug den alone would be a high risk of HIV or AIDS from unclean needles, but could there be other diseases because of the random sexual partners? As a doctor (and lover of sorts), John needed to know if Sherlock had any diseases because of his years of drug abuse.

On top of that, Sherlock saw relationships as ‘side projects’. Really? What did that make their relationship? Was it another boredom-filler for him? If that were the case, John would call the whole thing off if Sherlock was willing to use him that way.

“And before you ask your question, I shall answer it: Mycroft forced me to have STD testing whilst I was in rehab, and it came back negative. I haven’t had sexual intercourse with anyone since my second year at University.”

“Really? You haven’t had sex with anyone since Uni?”

“There hasn’t been a need for that form of stimulation in any way except manual.”

“Uh huh…”

John looked down at his shoes in thought. He didn’t exactly know if Sherlock considered their ‘relationship’ a side project, it was honestly hard to tell. For all he knew, Sherlock could just be pitying him since they were good friends. Then again, Sherlock didn’t do pity unless it would directly benefit him… maybe he would ask during the date.

***

The trip to the tailors was surprisingly brief (Sherlock had secretly gotten John’s measurements by going through his wardrobe), so when they returned to the flat, Sherlock updated him as to who Mendoza was.

According to the intel, Antonio Mendoza was the oldest of three brothers, age 53, originally from the Philippines though his parents were from Spain, and he was the head of a sex trafficking/smuggling ring. He would actually make some of the sex slaves carry drugs inside of them when they crossed the borders into different countries for ‘maximum efficiency’. If they brought him down, the entire network would be brought down.

Why Sherlock had been brought in was because the Prime Minister’s daughter had been kidnapped by three men after she had left her school, and Sherlock had been tracking down her kidnappers. From his intel, Mendoza hadn’t sold the Prime Minister’s daughter into slavery, rather he had been keeping her as leverage to get a considerable amount of money and immunity. He also liked to do business deals and go on dates at Le Bistro du Breton because of the food, hence why they were going there tonight.

John had decided to take a quick trip out beforehand as he wanted to look his best for their date… crime solving… (he didn’t exactly know what to call it). He had gotten a haircut since his hair was a getting a bit long, and looking a bit younger with shaggy hair worked in other situations, not on an undercover date at such a high-class establishment as Le Bistro du Breton.

When he returned home at around 5 pm, Sherlock was in his chair in his thinking pose. He hadn’t moved since John had left an hour ago, so it was possible that he didn’t even know John had left. That hypothesis was disproved when Sherlock gave him a once over, and said,

“You changed your hair.”

“I told you I was going out to get a haircut.”

“It looks… shorter than you usually keep it.”

John sat down in his chair.

“Well the longer hair works for going to a Chinese Circus that’s actually a smuggling gang, not so much for going to an extremely expensive and posh restaurant.”

“Do you expect me to use obscene amounts of product in my hair to flatten it and slick it back?”

“Funny.” John said with blatant sarcasm. “Is this your way of telling me you hate my haircut?”

“I was merely making an observation… and I do actually like your short hair.” Sherlock said with a faint blush. He was silent for a moment before clearing his throat and standing up. “We should start preparing for tonight. I ordered a limousine that will arrive at 7:30.”

Apparently, that was the end of that conversation because the doorbell rang, and when Sherlock came back upstairs after answering it, he was holding a suit bag from his tailor’s shop. Damn they’re fast was all John could think.

They got ready as Sherlock relayed his plan, and didn’t in fact slick his hair back with ‘obscene amounts of product’. It was a bit disappointing, but the detective was so vain about his appearance that he’d probably kill anyone if they changed his hairstyle. Not to mention the suit he was wearing was just bloody fantastic on him.

John didn’t really consider himself high maintenance. He was happy most days to wear a t-shirt, a jumper, a pair of jeans, and his work boots, and he’d add a tie if he was going to work. However, he tried to look his best as this restaurant was incredibly expensive, and he needed to blend in with the other patrons.

Promptly at 7:30 pm, the limousine pulled up outside of Baker Street and took them to Le Bistro du Breton. When they arrived, John was absolutely shocked at how extravagant just the outside of the restaurant was. He had passed by it multiple times during the day, but never at night when it was open. It was a very tall building with columns lining the front, and the entire exterior was white marble. The windows were tall and gave it a somewhat of a colonial feel, but you could tell looking inside that it was modern. There was a section on the outside where people could dine outside lining the front entrance, and the lights that hung above that area were twinkle lights on strings, most likely for romantic couples. At the top of the building was a large glass dome with warped glass that made lights from inside shoot beams outside toward the buildings on either side.

John put on his best and most gentlemanly smile as he exited the limousine and held out his hand for Sherlock. If he was going to act like a proper gentleman, he was going to have fun with it. Sherlock, however, had his ‘poker face’ on, but John could tell from the look in his eye that he was actually enjoying this. Sherlock took his hand and exited the limousine, and John shut the door behind him.

“I’m not taking your arm, we don’t need to draw homophobic attention to ourselves.” Sherlock muttered as they walked to the entrance.

“Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of blending in if we don’t act like we’re on a date?”

“Mendoza is homophobic despite also circulating young men and boys in his crime ring, he’d try to have us removed if we acted too much like we’re on a date.”

“Then we’ll tone it down when he gets here.”

As the doorman opened the door for them, John couldn’t help but stare at the incredible interior of the building. The ceiling had an enormous glimmering chandelier in the center of the main dining area, along the walls were rounded booths for parties of about twelve, the walls were decorated with various paintings, plants, and even statues. John knew for a fact that he didn’t belong in a setting like this, but it wouldn’t be too hard imagining Mycroft or Sherlock in there.

“Focus.” Sherlock whispered.

John merely rolled his eyes and allowed Sherlock to lead him to the hostess, who seated them at a table in the middle of the restaurant. John hadn’t noticed until they sat down that there were tables on the second floor lining the windows. All of them were either rich looking couples he had possibly seen in the tabloids, or businessmen having a dinner meeting. It seemed that the prestigious reputation served the place well.

“I can see why it’s so…” He couldn’t exactly pick the right word. There were too many to describe it.

“Exclusive? Expensive? Prestigious?” Sherlock supplied.

“All of the above.”

John looked at the wine menu, and almost had a heart attack from the prices. The lowest price he could find was £500, but the most expensive was £2,500. He wouldn’t be surprised if the food was even more expensive than that because it had some rare fish or something in it. Sherlock merely sat his menu down on the table as the waitress came and asked for a red wine that was £1,300.

When she took their wine menus and left, John didn’t exactly know what to say. He was still kind of wrapping his brain around the fact that he was on a date with Sherlock Holmes, someone he thought was well out of his reach. Why the hell would he think John Watson, the crippled soldier and adrenaline junkie, was anyone worthy of his affection? Better yet, why did Sherlock not date anyone?

“So…” John started awkwardly, “Why don’t you usually date?”

“Normal people are incredibly dull, and most likely wouldn’t approve of my lifestyle. If I were in a serious relationship with someone who would worry too much about me, they’d try to systematically pull me back from The Work, or force me into an ultimatum of ‘your work or me’. Not worth my time.”

Well, that was… blunt. John thought. Honestly, it was hard to find someone who would go along with their lifestyle of crime-solving, and fate just kind of threw him and Sherlock together.

“And I just fit the criteria?”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“Enlighten me.”

Sherlock sat forward in his seat and clasped his hands under his chin. He looked to be seriously considering his next statement.

“I’m not very good at expressing sentiment, John, and I try to not to allow myself to feel sentiment as it can cloud my thoughts. I’m sure you understand that when I tell you this, it is not what I am accustomed to.” Sherlock paused for a moment, then continued. “Aside from your willingness to help me with The Work, you are also an unaddressed component in the equation I thought I had calculated accurately for what I previously referred to as chemical misfiring in the brain because it can overwhelm the frontal lobes which is the seat of higher reasoning.

“At times, I have considered distancing myself from you so that I could not be clouded by such chemicals, but each time I imagined those scenarios… it pained me on an… emotional level; one that I had previously suppressed for years. The way I feel when you enter my personal space, or tend to a wound I have obtained, makes me feel emotions I had thought I had locked away for years, and I hope that by being in this relationship, we can continue to move forward as a couple.”

The detective looked like he was incredibly embarrassed to be admitting to anything ‘sentimental’. Did Sherlock really see caring as a disadvantage? Or had Mycroft brainwashed his little brother into believing that rubbish? Either one of them wouldn’t have been surprising to John.

When they fell into silence again, John took that as a cue to look at the dinner menu (hopefully without having a stroke over the prices). While figuring out what to order, a random memory went through John’s head: The Blind Banker case. More specifically, when Sherlock had introduced him to Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock seemed to be rubbing it in the prick’s face that he had a friend at all, and Sebastian was just acting like an arse throughout the entire case. There must have been something that happened between them in university or Sebastian wouldn’t have made fun of Sherlock when they first walked in. John needed a good segue though.

“What was it like in Uni for you?” John awkwardly asked. “Pretty sure you’d be deducing the teachers to pieces and telling them they’re wrong at all hours.”

“Dismal.” Sherlock answered as he sat his menu down. “I only attended because my mother and father sat aside a considerable fund for university, and I wanted to leave the village we were living at. Extremely boring.”

“So basically, it was a case of spending your parents’ money?”

“Also gaining knowledge to do The Work. I had started doing small cases within the village I lived in, but I required more skill and knowledge to be a consulting detective.” Sherlock eyed John suspiciously, and rolled his eyes. “You want to know about my classmates’ treatment of me.”

“Well we met one of them a few months ago, and he was a total arse, so did you do something to warrant that?”

Sherlock sat back in his seat with a carefully blank expression. He looked to be considering his response carefully, but didn’t want to reveal too much. If John was pushing the limits, he’d drop it in a heartbeat. He didn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable on their first date. The wine arrived, and the waitress gave them some more time to order their food.

“It was specifically Sebastian who started the crusade of insults and rumors on campus. We… were involved on occasion.”

“What like… friends with benefits?” John asked as he poured them both wine.

“If you call having intercourse when not having any current sexual partners, then yes.”

John was having trouble imagining Sherlock being friends with benefits with anyone (not that he wanted to imagine Sherlock sleeping with someone else), and with Wilkes of all people? They must have been desperate if they were having sex every now and again. John cleared his throat.

“Sebastian seemed smart enough to trade stocks, but not enough to believe when his coworker was murdered. Wouldn’t he have been below your standards?”

The detective shrugged.

“It originally started at a party I had been invited to. He was semi-intoxicated, as was I, and we spent a night in bed together. It became a habit that if he didn’t have a current partner, I’d be his solution to his libido, and if I was bored, I’d ask him to pay me a visit in my dormitory. It was a suitable arrangement for a few months.”

“So, what ended it?”

“I had been unaware that he had been ‘bragging’ about our exploits to his friends. Apparently it is common for young men to discuss sexual experiences with friends, and thus it circulated across campus.” That little shit, was all John could think. “Some of the acts we did in bed were not exactly… normal. I had asked him to-.”

“Not in public, Sherlock.” John cut in.

“Is it not normal to discuss sexual interests with a potential partner?”

“Not in a packed restaurant where everyone can hear you.”

Ok, so Sherlock’s interest wasn’t entirely vanilla. John could always ask about it a different time, and if he was honest, his wank fantasies sometimes delved into kinks. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. John leaned back in his chair.

“Okay… he told people things you liked, and they started to make fun of you?”

“As well as the extent of my deductions skills, referring to it as a ‘trick’. He’d ask me to show off at parties if we were ever both in attendance, only making my reputation less desirable, and chasing away any opportunities to date. Sebastian was an utter idiot as he was unaware of the consequences to his actions.”

“But that kink thing couldn’t have been that bad, could it?”

“I was called cream freak for the rest of my time at University (quite hypocritical as the kink would be accepted by men among heterosexual females) … but I was able to give Sebastian retribution for the rumors that he spread about me.”

“Oh yeah, what’d you do?” John asked as he sipped his wine.

“I revealed to everyone that he had a deformity in which his urethra came out of where his testicles connected with his penis.”

John almost choked on his drink. No wonder Wilkes was such an arse: he was compensating for how his penis was deformed! And wait… cream freak? That could either mean Sherlock had some sort of food fetish, or a different one… Best not to think about that now.

Thankfully the awkwardness of the conversation ended when the waitress came back and took their orders. John decided that maybe he could use a bit of that money Sherlock got from the case, so he ordered Beef Bourguignon, meanwhile Sherlock ordered the Truffade. It occurred to John that Sherlock hadn’t asked about his past at all; then again, he probably already ‘observed’ everything he needed to know.

“What were the circumstances in which you were shot?” Sherlock asked after the waitress had left.

John was slightly taken aback by the question, but recovered quickly. Figured that Sherlock would eventually ask about what sent him home from Afghanistan, he just didn’t expect it to be out of nowhere. John didn’t exactly like talking about what happened, it hurt to remember at times... so he decided that the best way to discuss it was to just be direct.

“We were traveling in a caravan to a nearby village in three vehicles. There were some American troops we were supposed to trade intel with in order to make our next move, but while we were traveling through what we thought was an evacuated village, we were ambushed. I was trying to pull one of the wounded soldiers behind a building, but I didn’t know there was a sniper nearby, and I was shot.”

John could still vividly remember when he was lying on the ground, bleeding out onto the sand. He could still smell the gas from the vehicles exploding, could still hear the gunfire and shouts for help, could still feel the intense pain from his wound. He vaguely knew that someone had taken out the sniper, but he was terrified. He was barely worried about Carter, who had a third degree burn up his leg, he just wanted to live. The jeeps had been destroyed in the ambush, and it would be another eight hours before help would arrive. The last thing John remembered before blacking out was being put on a stretcher having been bandaged haphazardly by a newly recruited pro, and thinking that he was done for.

“Not many in your squad survived, I assume.” Sherlock said carefully.

“There were only six of us left after the attack. Twelve died, two of them were good friends of mine, Calvin and Addy. They were engaged; they met when we were in training.”

Those two were head over heels for each other. They had been stationed in Afghanistan for two years when they got engaged, and it had only been a few months after that when the ambush happened. They had been at a party when Calvin had proposed to Addison, he even bought a ring off of one of the street traders. Calvin had said,

‘I know it’s probably fake, but when we get home, I’ll buy her a real one.’

To think that just one wrong piece of intel had ruined everything.

“And yet you haven’t contacted any of the surviving members of your squad since you were originally hospitalized. It’s too painful for you. You can’t stand talking about the ones you had lost in that ambush.”

Read me like a book, why don’t you?

“Not just that.” John took another sip of his wine and leaned forward on the table. “I guess I want to leave it all behind me. I only really get together with my friend Bill on occasion, but he was assigned to a different squad in Iraq when we were both deployed. I just like my life now, and I don’t want to… dwell on the past, I guess?”

John honestly wouldn’t trade having this life for anything in the world. He may not have been in the military anymore, but he still had crimes to solve, a… partner he adored, and great friends/coworkers (if you could call them that). For the first time in a long time, he was content with his life. Sherlock at this point had his fingers clasped under his chin in his signature thinking pose and looked very thoughtful. The rest of their date had gone much of the same way. John would ask about something Sherlock hadn’t really discussed before, Sherlock would indulge by asking John a question he probably already knew the answer to, it was nice. By the time they had finished their food, their target had arrived. Sherlock was in clear view of the entrance so when he had his ‘game face’ on, John knew that Mendoza had arrived. “Don’t look in his direction, I’ll describe everything to you.”

John merely nodded and ate some of what was left of his food. Sherlock had the look in his eye that only appeared when he was deducing someone. Within about twenty seconds, he spoke again,

“It’s a mix of a business meeting and a date. He is currently carrying a .9 mm under his coat, but I know you brought your gun with you. The woman is a prostitute from his crime ring, but the clothing she is wearing are high end brands. Mendoza is obviously trying to impress the man he is having dinner with by selling her off to him.” Sherlock had been acting like he was talking to John fondly during the explanation. “In thirty seconds, I’ll send a fake text so you can go outside and call Lestrade to start moving in. You have your ringer on, correct?”

“Yeah, just in case Lestrade calls.”

Sherlock reached down to the side away from Mendoza and took out his phone while also taking a sip of his wine. He was texting while sipping his wine like it was nothing. Ten seconds later, John’s text alert went off and he looked at the phone. The text read,

 [Go to the East side of the building to take the call. There are at least 15 couples in the outside seats, avoid them overhearing you. – SH]

 John made a b-line to go to take the call, and went to the east side of the building as instructed. A thought crossed his mind for a moment that he sure did what Sherlock wanted a lot… not exactly an equal partnership, was it?

Pushing those thoughts aside, John made the call to Greg to start moving his officers in. He noticed someone odd watching him as he reentered the building. He looked like the stereotype of a bodyguard - Mendoza had bodyguards watching the building! How could he not have anticipated that!? He shot a quick text to Sherlock about it, and went back to his table. Sherlock was putting his phone away as John sat down.

“I know.” Sherlock said.

“And when were you going to let me in on that?”

“When the moment arose. And that moment will come to fruition in two minutes. I had Lestrade’s men wait five blocks down. Keep up conversation before they arrive.”

John didn’t exactly know what to say, so he started talking about his rugby days. He wasn’t even halfway through the story when Lestrade and his men arrived outside. Mendoza started to panic and rushed to get up but John shouted “stop!” and pointed his gun at the man. In response, Mendoza grabbed the girl he was with and pointed his own gun at her head as he held her in front of him as a human shield.

“Mendoza, you are surrounded, there is no way out.” Sherlock stated.

Mendoza looked between John and Sherlock, and without a moment’s hesitation, Mendoza pushed the girl away and upended his table while shooting at Sherlock. Everyone started to panic and rush out of the building, but Sherlock and John went after Mendoza. The crime boss ran through the kitchens and knocked over trays, bottles of wine, even carts to stop John and Sherlock, but they easily jumped over them. John was starting to wonder how Sherlock could do the things he did in a suit because he was feeling constricted by his attire.

They made it to the back alley where Mendoza was catching his breath. Apparently, he didn’t fancy exercise despite having all the money in the world to hire a personal trainer. John was able to pin Mendoza to the ground and easily disarm him while Sherlock went back inside to get the police.

“Your… boy there,” Mendoza wheezed. “Would fetch a… high price. Lots of… stamina.”

“I could shoot you if I wanted to and say you were trying to get away.” John growled. “I’m a soldier, and you’re a crime boss. Who would they believe?”

Usually John wouldn’t make threats like that, but if there was anything he was protective over, it was Sherlock. Not to mention this arsehole was talking about putting Sherlock into prostitution, the fucking creep.

Thankfully, Sherlock and the other officers arrived in no time and put cuffs on Mendoza. When John got up, he realized he had ripped his pants on the knee when he had tackled Mendoza. So much for spending all that time and money on getting a proper suit.

“Don’t worry about the suit.” Sherlock said, almost reading John’s mind. “It’s easily fixable.”

They managed to interview the girl Mendoza came in with and get her to a hospital. Mendoza, his bodyguards, and the other man confessed when interrogated by Sherlock which revealed where the Prime Minister’s daughter was, and the duo got home at around 3:00 am after giving their statements. The adrenaline was still pumping a bit, but John was still knackered.

When they got in, John collapsed into his chair after just chucking his dress coat onto the sofa. Sherlock, however, went into the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea?” He asked.

“Ta, just milk.” John answered.

Sherlock rarely ever made tea, but it was always nice when he did it. Now if only he’d actually take the time to cook and clean, that’d be extra nice. Soon Sherlock entered the sitting room with two mugs of tea and handed one to John. He took his spot across from him in his leather chair, and they sat in silent for a few minutes. It wasn’t exactly an awkward silence, more of a companionable silence, until Sherlock asked,

“Good first date?”

Sherlock seemed to be looking for approval in his question. Was he really trying that hard to impress John? If he was, it was incredibly sweet.

“Not exactly a normal first date.” John answered. “But it wouldn’t be us if it was normal.”

“It would have been incredibly boring if there was no crime lord involved.”

John must have done something to tip off that he was still furious at Mendoza for what he had said, because suddenly Sherlock looked very contemplative. He took a sip of his tea and stated,

“Mendoza said something that upset you.”

The soldier sighed in confirmation.

“He… said you’d fetch a good price because you have a good amount of stamina.” John was a bit embarrassed by the second part. “I told him that I could shoot him and no one would believe that I was unprovoked.”

“You feel incredibly protective over me.”

“I mean, I figured shooting the cabbie during the Study in Pink case would have shown that.” John couldn’t help thinking about what Sherlock had said about his previous relationships; it was hard not to think about, honestly. Their whole date could have been something to fill in the boredom, and John wasn’t okay with this relationship if that was the case. “Plus, you know, you said relationships were just ‘side projects’, so it might not be a big deal to you.”

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback by John’s statement. Hopefully that meant that he was wrong, and that this relationship was different, but with Sherlock Holmes nothing was ever certain. Instead of giving an answer, Sherlock sat his tea aside, and moved to stand in front of John’s legs.

“When I said I saw relationships as side projects in school, that is not what you are to me. Do not think for one minute that your… affection is something that I would throw away on a whim. What you feel for me, and what I feel in return, it is something I hold dear and do not wish to end any time soon. I would not throw it away even if I was threatened with death.”

That was… incredibly touching. It was common knowledge that Sherlock didn’t do ‘sentiment’, so it must have been incredibly hard for him to say all that. The feelings were mutual, of course, but it was probably obvious to the detective. John hesitantly wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, and felt Sherlock card his hand through his hair. John would have liked to kiss him, but they had only been on one date, so it probably wasn’t appropriate to snog him senseless yet.

“Same goes to you.” John said gently.

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In countries like the UK, many households also opt for more modern ways to heat their homes, like underfloor heating. Electric underfloor heating in a standard-sized four-square meter bathroom, run for two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon, is estimated at a cost of less than £3.50 per month, and electric underfloor heating installation by a reliable heating services company could cost anything from around £3,500 for a standard three-bedroom house.

Underfloor heating consists of an electrical panel system or network of wires that spread heat underneath a floor, but it is recommended that you find a well-established and experienced heating services company to install the system in your home. Underfloor heating is a safe, convenient, and hypoallergenic of generating heat and it can even be installed in bathrooms.

Homeowners usually use underfloor heating systems in their kitchens, living rooms, bathrooms, and other frequently used areas. In some cases, they serve as the primary heating for an entire home. While underfloor heating systems are generally extremely reliable and rarely offers any problems, things do sometimes go wrong, it can be difficult to detect the fault and even costly to have it repaired.

Sometimes a part of the system needs to be replaced and it may require that a portion of the floor be removed to gain access to the damaged part. When it comes to underfloor heating, it is always better to opt for professional heating services providers in your area. It does not matter what type of heating system you have in your home; you will always need professional heating services to take care of installation, maintenance, and repairs.

There are several reasons why an underfloor heating system can suddenly malfunction, and it is difficult to detect the exact point of fault, but people who are trained, skilled and experienced in the field of underfloor heating, will be able to detect the problem and have it resolved.

You will also require the services of a reputable, gas-safe registered company if you are looking to replace your old boiler with a new one. You could for example, save around £350 if have your old boiler replace with a new A-rated condensing boiler that uses less energy to produce the same amount of heat. This will however, depend on the type of house you have and what type of boiler you previously had.

Many heating services companies in London offer a variety of service and home heating solutions, but it is recommended that you first do your homework and find out what others have to say about a company before you hire them to do the work. It is also a good idea to browse their website and ask for a free, no-obligation quotation first and to compare prices with other companies to ensure you get the best deal.

About us

Maximore is a family run Gas Safe registered company that covers the entire South-West London and parts of Surrey providing personalised service to private homeowners, estate agents and contractors. Backed by over a decade of experience in the industry, Maximore comes highly recommended because they have the skills and knowledge to undertake any job, however big or small. They deliver the best results in helping customers take care of the safety aspects as well as the basic needs of their homes. Their team of highly qualified, skilled, and experienced specialists are always available to help, from fixing a dripping tap to installing complete plumbing and heating installations. They also specialise in property refurbishment and renovation services for residential and small commercial projects, from removing the old furniture and rubbish to the last decoration touches. To find out more about their services and prices, visit http://maximore.co.uk

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