docwithablog | does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

[ He's standing in the doorway to the kitchen while Khan, a couple of hours into his stay, is sitting at the table, fixing -- something on the kettle again, what is it with the bloody thing, it worked fine last he used it, didn't it? Licking his lips a bit nervously, he steps into the room fully and walks over to the kitchen counter, leaning back against it, facing the other man. Hands gripping the edge of the counter. Sock-clad feet shifting a bit restlessly from side to side.

It shouldn't be this damn hard, honestly. It's just a -- suggestion, the man can tell him no and they can go fuck in the bedroom as per usual. But John isn't stupid, he knows what the implications are. You don't go from being fuck buddies to buddies, once you decide a friendly outing is in order, no, if you go out, then -- you go out as something else entirely and he has absolutely no idea how well that is going to play out. For either of them.

Nevertheless -- okay, good, here goes. A deep breath. ]

I was thinking I'd take you to the National Army Museum today.

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[ He's brought a spare part with him from home and is currently busy, upgrading John's sad excuse for a tea kettle to something a little more interesting. It's nothing too fancy and will, eventually, grow old and rusty and useless like everything else, but it'll last longer, it'll use less energy and - best of all - it'll boil the water about ten times faster. He doesn't know why this even matters to him and he's decided not to question it. It's an impulse. They happen.

And maybe he just likes the thought of leaving something behind.

John's body language doesn't distract him, as such, but it keeps him alert. He's tenser than usual, more restless. Then, when he speaks, Khan understands why. Is he being asked out on a... a date? Is he? His hands pause in their work, expression blank as he stares ahead. Is this - why would they go to the museum if it wasn't... His mind can't seem to complete any inferences and, with a frown, he looks up at John. His voice sounds - perhaps - a bit colder than he'd intended. He doesn't like being surprised. ]

To do what?

What do people normally do at museums?

[ Khan's voice is a couple of degrees colder than John has heard it in other contexts, mind you, but he raises his chin regardless and refuses to be deterred. Come on, it's -- not that bad an idea, is it? A couple of hours looking into the historical development of warfare on several fronts, there's probably some engineering stuff to be found in one of the dusty corners, if not in several of them and John knows for a fact that their medical collection is rather interesting, followed by -- what does he know, a stroll through the park to one of the local pubs, a pint, then home in time to fuck before the man's 24 hours are up. They're not exactly racing the clock here. Or maybe they are. Maybe they are.

Giving Khan a very eloquent stare, complete with a fully raised eyebrow and the cock of his head, he licks his lips again and finally looks off to the side, crossing his arms over his chest. ]

Listen, we're two people, we seem to -- not want to kill each other. This is how I imagined we could utilize that.

[ He stares at John for a bit longer before resuming his work on the kettle. It takes him a bit to answer and not just because he's close to finished with it.

He hasn't stopped to wonder what this is, with John, except to question the fidelity of it all, of visiting him when he ought to focus on the situation they've landed him in back home. Since his last visit, however, he's been seeing the man in dreams as well; not too often but often enough, in ways that clearly imply a subconscious preoccupation. He visits him from the get-go now, doesn't wait until night-time as in the beginning, and he... enjoys the hours John grants him, the time they spent.

Growing attached is no danger at all, so long as you can shoulder the break. He's never been overly good at that, granted, but John's a human and comparatively unimportant - certainly, in time, he'll be able to do what he must and leave him behind, no matter what else transpires. He exhales, slowly. Picks the path that he wants and tries not to think about why he shouldn't. ]

I see. [ He sets the kettle on the table. ] That's fine, then.

[ That's fine, then? John stares at him.

Seriously, that's the best the man can offer. That's fine, then. Both John's eyebrows go up now, expression momentarily -- and very thoroughly unimpressed, too. So, he's graciously allowed to take the other man to the museum and graciously allowed to enjoy his company and he -- what, ought to be grateful for it, too? Well. As a matter of fact, he is actually rather grateful for it, because there honestly hasn't been a day during the past week when he hasn't -- well, thought about... if not Khan, then the stupid order Khan left him with, find something better to do.

Something or someone, right? Okay, great. John's working on it. Obviously.

Features softening, he licks his bottom lip once and then manages a small smile, nodding his head a couple of times, aimlessly. ] Good. That's -- good. [ A pause. Realising that he has no idea whether Khan is even the museum-going type, he adds, voice carefully interested: ]

You've been before?

[ He stands and walks around the table to put the kettle back on the counter. He doesn't have to try it out - it'll work. He thinks over John's question, carefully posed and soft, despite his initial annoyance at Khan's answer (he noticed, of course, how could he not). He's a proud man, is John, and the fact that he keeps trying to re-connect, even when Khan's given him very little reason to do so, is... pleasing. He likes it. He likes it quite a bit.

Consequently, he straightens slightly and turns to face him. There's about a feet of distance between them and in a brief flash of memory, he thinks about the hardness of John's body, the solid weight of him, the heat. When he speaks, his voice is low and even, almost devoid of emotion. ]

I have. The ones who raised me found the study of war imperative. [ His tone gentles almost imperceptibly. ] But not for years. There'll be lots of exhibitions I've never seen. [ The shadows of a smile. ] It's a good suggestion.

[ He brushes past John to stand by the window, looking out. His gaze is calm, mostly contemplative. It's status quo at the moment back home and for once, he's not actually here to counter something terrible or rage-inducing. Interesting, actually, that John should choose this day, in particular, to suggest something so different from their usual raison d'être. This trans-dimensional travel really is a curious thing. ]

[ That's -- interesting, really. John would have frowned at the other man's way of talking about his parents, but then he's telling him, it's a good suggestion and he's smiling instead, something genuine and amused. You shouldn't think he'd be that easy to flatter, but hey -- he's got an ego, it needs constant feeding, right?

Following the man with his eyes as he moves over to the window, he does, however, wonder. Probably not a happy parent-child relationship there, no love lost, obviously -- and naturally, John can relate. He'd probably not go as far as to say the ones who raised me, but they all come with their own baggage, he imagines. There's a reason they end up in the army, after all. There's a reason that's the sort of stimulation they need. Extreme sports, in its own way. Immediate danger, war games and a new family in addition. The lost boys.

John shakes his head and crosses the small distance between them, placing himself behind Khan, in perfect height (well, if he angles his head a little, at least) to rest his chin on the other man's shoulder, one hand pressing against the small of his back. ]

Of course it is.

[ They've been at the NAM for half an hour, walking through the two current exhibitions, a poster collection from the WWII era and an exhibit about women's position in the army since the 30s (nothing truly exciting, albeit admittedly important as an organizational insight, he'll give them that much), now landing themselves squarely in the regular displays -- the Special Forces section is a bit further ahead and John would actually be quite interested in going over that collection with an insider like Khan, but he isn't rushing them, continuing at the same languid, halfway lazy pace that they've struck so far. They're moving through the medical displays on the way, as it is -- and it always brings him right back to his uni years, seeing the glass cases with old medical equipment and medals and records. Photographs on the walls. They're moving along the far end wall currently, several glass cases put out with a showcase of old medicine bottles (most of the stuff largely ineffective, even in its own day and time) and John purses his lips, gaze moving to the next display -- where he halts. Surgeon's medical case, 1850, the sign reads and he quickly runs through his general history, that would be in the immediate wake of the Napoleonic Wars, the experiences they'd gained throughout the early 19th century... Noticing the forceps in particular, he stays where he is, leaning in slightly for a moment, eyes narrowed, before turning his head to look up at Khan.

It's not exactly a throw-away comment, but it's very casual, very careful not to load a whole bunch of semi-useless info on to the other man, shouldn't he want it. After all, John knows how that feels. Drowning in someone else's specializations. ]

Although we've fine-tuned the concept since then, surgical forceps have worked largely the same way since the 18th century.

[ He hasn't been in a museum for... some time. There's something slightly bittersweet about revisiting all this ancient history, most of it very congruent with his own universe, at least until the end of WWI. He - they - pushed the world to change beyond anything the human race could have ever imagined, back in his day; indeed, when he woke up, it was, at least on the surface, in-recognizable.

This, on the other hand, is familiar.

He follows John, letting the other man decide upon which exhibitions to visit and when. Khan doesn't have a preference. He's mostly soaking up the peace and quiet, knowing full well that the better he manages to infuse his nervous system, the better prepared he'll be once he lands back in his own London with Marcus breathing down his neck. It's not just about the context, either. He looks at John as the other man looks up at him, talking about a pair of surgical forceps. He's clearly testing the waters, taking care not to be presumptuous. Taking care.

No, definitely not just the context.

Khan nods, indicating his interest - the words are mostly for that added sense of connect: ]

Go on.

[ Oh, that's gracious. John raises an eyebrow somewhat and cocks his head a little, then leaves it be, shrugging once. Khan is, at least, showing an actual interest in his knowledge about -- what, some old, rusty medical equipment, that's more than most and certain others would. John licks his lips once and leans in over the display with the surgeon's kit once more, getting another look of the pair of forceps. They're not shaped much differently than surgical artery forceps today, but they've got no locking mechanism and would have required an extra pair of hands, to keep the artery pinned sufficiently out of the way. No wonder it took teams of five-seven, if not more people back then, to perform surgery. On a current battlefield, an emergency team would consist of two, maybe three with an extra nurse -- all thanks to these little things.

He nods, curtly and straightens up, turning towards Khan fully. ] Major difference is the lack of a lock. [ A gesture to the surgeon's case, precise enough to indicate the pair of forceps specifically, but too general to be an actual pointing to. ] This pair would have to be tweezed by hand. The surgeon needed assistants or nurses to keep them closed around the artery during the procedure, ensuring that he could have both hands free to operate. More people during surgery, however, meant higher risk of infection, hence an overall greater loss of life.

Edited 2019-08-03 09:38 (UTC)

[ He tilts his head slightly, looking the forceps over. The first thing that crosses his mind is, naturally, how easily he could kill someone with them - an operating theatre, modern or not, really is a prospective torture chamber if you know how to turn the balance. Obviously, something long, thin and metallic is a no-brainer (literally). John talks about saving lives, risk of infection, the way human solutions generally come with problematic consequences to balance out the advantages. He's a rather good example, isn't he. Giving John a quick glance, he takes a moment to reply, thinking his words over thoroughly first. ]

A small but essential enhancement, the locking mechanism. [ He straightens up a bit, hands resting behind his back. ] Imagine the amount of people you'd need for a medical team in a war zone. Complete chaos.

[ The medical aspects of warfare have never concerned him overly much, not just due to his blood cell generation. There are doctors in his crew as well, educated scientists with detailed knowledge of Augment biology and he'd defer to them when necessary, trusting entirely in their expertise. He can, however, easily imagine how vulnerable people would be without efficient medical personal to keep them going for at least a little while longer; prolonging the inevitable, obviously, but even so. They die so rapidly as it is, once under fire. The enormous casualties of the greater wars really are no wonder. ]

I've seen old photographs of surgery teams consisting of 10 to 12 people. [ He shrugs, there are still surgery types today that require several participants, but on the battlefield, they generally boil it down to the essentials. You can't have ten doctors running around near the front line, you bet, one of them will get shot. John makes a slight grimace and rolls his left shoulder that isn't aching today, what a bloody treat. He's seen battlefield surgery from both sides, hasn't he? He knows. About chaos. ] When you think about it, people are a pretty chaotic race. Killing others or healing others, we go about it in a chaotic way.

[ His expression changes slightly, softens, lightens, the hint of a smile finding its way onto his lips. He inclines his head a little, an amused gesture with brows rising and the smile growing full, almost teasing, almost. They're talking war, after all, can't be too happy about it. On the other hand, Khan is talking to the man who misses the stupid thing enough to show abstinence symptoms. Happy is all he's got. ]

That's what makes us so exciting.

[ It strikes Khan for the first time, possibly because they haven't really talked all that much previously, possibly because he hasn't shown the appropriate amount of attention - John misses the war. He misses it. He hasn't spoken to many human war veterans for obvious reasons but his general impression is that while some people are certainly thrill seekers, they typically come out of war traumatized and damaged, body and mind both. But John's talking about it with warmth in his gaze, with something that sounds almost like reminiscing.

Khan doesn't hate the battle field by any means. He doesn't love it, either, but then again, there's something inherently complicated about being created by someone else for at specific purpose. He does like the challenge of it, though. Of facing off against a stronger opponent and taking them apart, single-handily. The instinctual savagery, associated with it.

In that aspect, at least, they don't seem overly different. Him and John. ]

Curious. [ He sets off down the exhibition hall, making sure that John's following him, seeing as he'd prefer not talking to the empty air. ] Some would say this proficiency for chaos is a great weakness. You put everything into systems, boxes and regulations, bureaucracy, for this very reason. Even wars. [ Pause. His voice softens. ] Wars, that can only ever be governed by the strongest party. [ Eye-contact. Stare. ] Wouldn't you rather be without?

[ What he says is: ]

Most of the time, fine, we need the bureaucracy not to descend into unregulated, savage killing, naturally.

[ What he means is -- and he corrects himself after only a second, breaking into a jog to catch up to Khan who in turn catches his eyes, stares as John falls into step next to him again, their marching stride mostly compatible in length, mostly: ]

Circumvention exists for a reason, though, all the instances when rules don't cut it.

[ You won't hear John Watson not pledge himself to the communal effort of regulation, he believes in a functioning society, thank you very much. However, neither would you ever hear John Watson deny that he very much believes in doing exactly everything it takes to see his own intentions through, be it in the operating theatre, on the battlefield or in private. He's never been one not to do what it takes, whatever it takes. Sometimes that means ignoring orders or rules. Sometimes it means -- other things. He's a soldier and a doctor, he knows how to take lives as well as save them and he'll gladly do both for the greater good, as it's been defined, by his country, by his ethics and by himself, sure. Also by himself.

So, he doesn't look away from the other man, meets his stare straight-on, chin slightly lifted and expression defiant. Mr. Free Agent probably won't argue with him or he'd be a big old hypocrite, but come on -- he's basically saying that you're free to make the rules, only so he can fuck with them. Not a whole lot of people will take kindly to that. Maybe there's a reason Sherlock thought his friends don't really like him. ]

[ Ah. The ends before the means, is it? Khan looks away, gaze growing pensive for a moment. So, yes, the human factor is quite unpredictable and chaotic across most contexts, even when they attempt to regulate themselves. John Watson is, it seems, a prime example of why. This is, as it happens, one of his main reasons for deeming people unfit to rule over their own masses; they will never be able to contain a man like John by themselves, to make him less likely to follow his own, internal moral compass. The perfect army is morally sound, deferring only to their commander's moral code. Imagine an army containing just five or ten people like John, small, potential wildfires, only waiting for ignition.

Destruction from within.

No, any regular human would not be able to contain him but Khan certainly would.

He keeps his voice low, undisturbed. ]

Your commander failed you, you know. [ He nods at John's shoulder. Something like that could happen to a medic if they acted either on the basis of bad strategy or utterly out of turn - which, in John's case, could occur solely if he didn't agree with the orders he'd been assigned. ] The human race loses wars as well as soldiers on weak decision-making. You should have had someone stronger.

[ Obviously, trust is earned. The ultimate display of trust is standing on the battlefield and disobeying your inner instincts simply for the sake of strategy and a future victory that you might not even get to see. Blind trust and commitment may get you far but ultimately, you need soldiers who can think for themselves, who're willing to do what it takes. In a way, they solved this dilemma quite efficiently by creating Khan and his people. They should've simply accepted the natural consequences of such efficiency. What you must give up for the sake of peace. ]

[ At Khan's words, John falters to a halt, staring a bit blankly at the other man's back as he moves a couple of steps ahead before stopping as well, turning. He swallows something thick and heavy in his throat, not a cock, far from it, pity -- no, something more massive than that. Clearing his throat, John licks his lips, remembering the front line south of Bastion where there'd been bombings, then raids, casualties, injured, the medics team had been told to stay behind while the troops cleared the premises and he'd waited, hadn't he? He'd waited quite long enough and then he'd decided not to wait any longer, because people were bloody well dying and he'd had little to lose anyway. In the grand scheme of things, yes? Very little.

Sure, bad strategy and selfish commanding officers can certainly become the death of you, but for the most part -- that responsibility rests on your own shoulders and Christ, if you don't need two healthy shoulders to bear it. He's learned. The hard way.

So, he shakes his head, before setting off towards the Special Forces exhibit up ahead. ]

Should have been someone stronger.

[ It's not said particularly bitterly or anything, he simply concludes, voice slightly hoarse, that's his only sign of weakness. John considers himself a good soldier, loyal, efficient, unscrupulous. He considers himself an even better doctor, ethical, hardworking, dedicated. But as a person? Oh, he's got faults. His shortcomings as a person are what sometimes, sometimes gets in the way of him being a good soldier and a very good doctor and he'll admit to that, any day, anytime. ]

[ He looks at John, allowing him to walk ahead by a few steps and watching as he sets off for the Special Forces exhibit. He frowns slightly at the other man's response - implying, of course, that he ought to have been stronger. Wishful thinking, isn't it, and the reason someone finally took that train of thought to its natural conclusion and created something stronger. Human weakness is not transcendible: it's not a matter of wanting things enough, of having enough will power or whatever else they're trying to teach themselves on a mental scale. Ultimately, it takes only one correctly aimed bullet to end a man. That's that.

Not an individual mistake but an inherent flaw and logically, John's right. It shouldn't be there - or alternatively, he shouldn't have been. Why send people into war when they aren't meant to be there? Catching up to John, he keeps silent for a moment, eyes on the upcoming items of the Special Forces exhibition. He's worked for many different government branches before branching out, so to speak - he knows how they function, broadly speaking, though there's a very understandable level of secrecy to their operations that makes it impossible to generalise. ]

All soldiers have their limits.

[ Not his people, granted, but they aren't soldiers as such. They are warriors and in Khan's mind, there's a rather sizable difference, even beyond the bare terminology. The exhibition on the Special Forces isn't terribly large - what could they exhibit, after all, except for outdated history? He glances over a showcase containing black and white images as well as slips of documents - radio transcriptions - and maps. All pertaining to early-forties operations. Outdated, indeed. ]

As does this exhibition, clearly. [ Lip curling slightly in distaste, he moves on to the next showcase. ] Is this really entertaining to people? Do they know so little of non-contemporary SAS operations?

[ A sign on the door saying classified would have been just as useful. ]

[ Obviously, he wants to reply to Khan's statement about soldiers and their limits. He rolls his shoulder once more, mostly an automatic reaction at this point and waits for the other man to catch up, saying nothing of the sort, because it's redundant, really. They're agreeing, a painful, quiet sort of agreement. If nothing else, though, it's nice -- being able to do something painfully and quietly with somebody. Again. He'll take that any day. Over the clear vacancy his life's been until Khan showed up.

Khan who doesn't seem overly impressed with the Special Forces exhibit at first glance. Perhaps not at the second one either. Or the third. John's lips twist upwards slightly as he follows the other man through the room, old missions described in photos and documents. Nothing contemporary, of course, that would be idiotic and we're trying to steer off that track, aren't we? After all, people might get killed. Oil get lost, that sort of thing.

When the man comes to a halt in front of a showcase, 40s and 50s era stuff all of it, he stops next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush slightly. Khan really is hard as rock in every sense of the word, unyielding and unforgiving and evidently rather unimpressed which actually amuses the hell out of John, in turn. He purses his lips, before turning his head towards Khan, raising one eyebrow eloquently. ]

Why do you think people watch all those spy movies? We know nothing and would rather like to know even less. [ A snort. ] Fiction over fact, sorry to say.

[ John pauses next to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Khan shifts slightly, just a fraction, enough to press against John's upper arm. Tilts his head slightly and nods. ]

Peace is both maintained and compromised by ignorance. It's a typical paradox.

[ He clasps his hands between his back and straightens a bit, looking the objects over critically before pushing past John towards the next showcase. This one holds a collection of various artifacts, all related to the history of the British SOF from the early equivalents in the 1840s and onwards, all the way through the 00s. He frowns. Some of it follows his own timeline and history, some of it definitely doesn't. He remembers reading up on this when he first came here. Naturally, this world has never been through the Eugenics Wars, as the historians call it. Never will, either. World War Three, when it comes, will look very different from the one that ravaged Earth in his universe. Incredible, how relatively small changes, decisions made or roads taken, prompt so very different realities. ]

They used to work in such small, vulnerable units. [ He mutters as he speaks, drawing closer to a nearby showcase with items from a 90s mission, the Bravo Two Zero. Hm. His people were once called upon to participate in a similar mission, one they purposefully sabotaged. They were building up, at the time. ] Efficient at the best of times, terribly vulnerable at the worst. People used to perceive them as some sort of super-humans. [ Head-shake. ] Ridiculous.

[ It's almost like a ripple effect. Khan stands at ease with his hands behind his back -- and it would have felt wrong not to mirror him, do the same and they must look a fucking sight for the people passing through the exhibit behind them, like they're trying to out-man each other, if not out-military each other, but second nature's exactly that. Nature. It's been drilled into him, he can help it, but only with an effort. So, it's easier not to. It's easier to follow Khan who talks about commanders quite a lot and acts like one, too, Mr. Free Agent who probably answers to no one but himself. Well, himself and some obscure government he doesn't even seem to like.

Following the other man to the next showcase -- oh, Bravo Two Zero, that went quickly downhill, didn't it? John listens to Khan's angry muttering, raising an eyebrow at him slightly. For a man who doesn't even seem to be able to maintain a wrinkle or a grey hair, he sure sounds very much, very much indeed like an grumpy old man.

Which would be less amusing, weren't John ready to bet that he's his senior by, what, a decade, give or take? ]

Come on, it's a comparative issue. [ A chuckle. He resists the very tempting opportunity for a more prolonged shoulder brush, perhaps even a bump, again, with a bloody effort. ] Most people can't manage even a percentage of what those guys do. Yes, sure, they're not gods, but they're the closest we've got -- [ A long look up at Khan's face, because he's talking about you, you idiot. ] -- a little admiration's in order.

Edited 2019-08-03 16:42 (UTC)

[ A comparative issue, says John and goes on the defend the Spec Ops because they're the closest we've got. Khan's face remains mostly blank, though the coolness in his eyes thaws quite considerably when John looks up at him and compliments him. Well, Peter Harrison, strictly speaking, and that's actually annoying. Khan gives him the slightest hint of a smile, looking him over for at long moment.

He doesn't particularly care whether John knows the truth, nor how much of it he knows. The secrets surrounding him and the purpose behind his existence were never his in the first place and currently, with Marcus holding his crew hostage to force him into cooperation, keeping the man's secrets only matters insofar as any indiscretions might cost Khan. And by proxy, his people. In this universe? It doesn't. It won't.

However, while John's knowledge of the truth doesn't matter much to him, the lies bother him. They're Marcus' lies - not his. And John is... not unimportant. ]

You realise I'm not Spec Ops. [ He looks away, raising an eyebrow slightly. ] But I'll accept your compliment for what it is.

[ Not Spec Ops, says the man who's as Spec Ops as they come. John frowns, staring straight ahead, not seeing a single of the pinned up documents from Bravo Two Zero hanging in his immediate field of vision. What are you, if you're not Spec Ops, but can obviously pull every bloody Spec Op trick in the book? Private mercenary? Consulting -- mercenary? God, please say we're not going there again. The frown deepens and he licks his lips, turning towards Khan fully, in time to catch him looking away and raising an eyebrow.

But I'll accept your compliment for what it is.

O-kay, then, well, wrong timing, altogether wrong timing, John Watson. How much do you care that the man might or might not run around murdering people for cold cash? He stares at him for a long time, realising that Khan could go about doing exactly that in stupid, rainbow-striped underwear and he wouldn't give a damn. Dead people don't need his assistance anyway, the most he could do for them was an autopsy. He swallows hard and turns his back on the showcase, heading towards the next exhibit, mostly noticing the sign that points to the exit.

They are in dire need of a pint and he knows just the place to get it. ]

Yeah? [ Tone careful, he turns his head and looks at the other man over one shoulder. His voice is level, even, unaffected. His face probably looks a little less so. ] And what is it?

[ The change in the atmosphere is almost palpable, the way John withdraws, not just physically but mentally as well. Khan follows him out of the corner of his eyes, never losing the straightness in his stance nor the calm in his expression. In reality, John actually knows nothing about him, save his name. The fact that he has a family back home. It's minimal. He follows the other man after a few seconds, though he doesn't give much thought to the next exhibit, detailing the Jebel Akhdar War. Instead, he drifts closer to him until once again, their shoulders touch. ]

A nod to the skill-set you correctly ascribe me. [ He turns his head, looking at John more fully. His voice is even as always, almost as if discussing something comparatively unimportant. Weather forecasts, perhaps. ] I've worked with special forces all over the world for this very reason. I've simply never considered myself affiliated with them. A very mutual assessment, to be fair.

[ He reaches out, running his palm up the side of John's upper arm. It's a very brief touch and might, to an outsider, look like nothing more than fixing the fabric, maybe a crease or a piece of lint. His next words are lower yet, a hint of something gentler creeping into his voice. ]

Does it matter?

[ Neither of them is actually interested in the next exhibit and without asking, John simply sets course for the exit a couple of showrooms down. They've seen enough, honestly. Said what they -- needed to say, supposedly. Christ, he needs a beer.

Then, Khan goes on to tell hm that whatever skill set John imagines it requires to be Spec Ops, that's indeed the skill set he's got which, unsurprisingly, John had figured, thank you very much. He also tells him that he used to work with special forces all over the world for that very reason and John proceeds to recall Mycroft and his slight hissy fit... When their shoulders touch, it doesn't make him recoil. Khan isn't exactly frightening, just because he might be able to kill people with a, what, melted spoon or whatever. He's had the man down his throat, he really isn't afraid of him. The day that changes, he will reconsider his dating pool dramatically. Or his life choices. Either or.

He doesn't pull away when the other man reaches out, his palm connecting with John's upper arm and touching him briefly, the sensation of togetherness seeping into his system, somewhere in the stomach region but different from arousal, not that deep. Yet, very deep, in fact. Very deep. John turns his head to meet Khan's eyes with a forcibly casual expression of his own. ]

Trust me, we wouldn't be here if it did.

[ John doesn't draw away, though there's something in his expression that doesn't quite let up. Khan looks him over, then drops his hand to his side. He stays close to him, however, thinking that trust is always difficult, as it should be, if you aren't gullible. How would John trust him, really, when there's little but a specter to acknowledge, aside from the sex which, really, says a lot and nothing all at once? He thinks about the tea kettle. Perhaps, eventually, there are other ways he can leave himself and his world behind for John to find - to find and, hopefully, to wonder at. He likes the thought of that. He likes the thought of the other man in awe.

But as time goes by, he likes the thought of leaving him behind less and less.

Frowning, he finally steps back, turning to look at a nearby exhibit without actually seeing the contents. He really should cease reminding himself of the temporary nature of their relation; what's the point? He already knows. He knows it well, just as he knows that he's letting his crew down with every day that passes. Really, in doing this with John - this thing that he can't rightly name which in itself speaks volumes - he's closing his eyes. Willingly and without regrets.

A harsh exhalation.

Always without regrets. ]

[ Cooper's Arms is only a short walk from the museum and although it doesn't exactly count as one of John's "local" pubs, he's been here a few times with girls in the past, because it's quality food and old-fashioned atmosphere with the costs being quite relative to that, of course. If it were the kind of place you ordered pints, they'd rob you of a tenner -- as it is, you get a cold bottle of beer (25 centiliters, mind you) for just below that. He doesn't care, he told Khan to get whatever he liked. Himself, he's ordered a Scottish ale, leaning back in his seat once the waiter has shuffled off. Uni age, blonde girl. Pretty.

He glances over at the other man.

Since he's apparently going all out on this date -- concept he got started, John had decided Cooper's Arms would be the place to finish. Definitely date-location, come on, with the dark Victorian interior and the wall-lining benches with their dainty little tables, perhaps big enough for three regular people and, with a little squeezing about, their knees colliding as they seated themselves, just about two of them, Khan and him. Leaning across the table to make himself heard over the general noise of classical music (something, something, the violin, something) and chatting diners, John raises an eyebrow slightly. Licks his lips. ]

Sherlock has a brother, the guy practically runs the government and -- well, his people have kept tabs on you.

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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