docwithablog

[ They're a thirty minute walk from Baker Street, Piccadilly a proper myriad, buzzing and whirring, movement everywhere, at every step, every turn. He keeps an eye on Sherlock, just out the corner of it, really, watching how he navigates through the crowd with his hands thoroughly buried in his pocket of his very wrong, very unflattering coat. Apparently, Mycroft won't give him the right one before -- well, brotherly affection was always something rather odd between the two of them and John should bloody well know, he's someone's big brother as well and he fucked that up a long, long time ago.

The case has kept them going for the past 30+ hours, catching some Serbs, preventing the murder of a politician (not that the world needs their sort to, you know, survive, necessarily), uprooting the criminal milieu across Europe, the works. He's been doing his best to keep up with the other man, always and obviously three steps ahead of him in his mind, but on the physical plane, John hasn't actually done too shabby a job, let's be real. Considering his two-year hiatus and the extra pounds they've added. There's been a lot of running. A lot of running.

And Sherlock looks tired now. So tired that John is thinking about maybe just, hailing them a cab and forcing the man into it. At this time of night, it's much quicker by foot, but in a cab they'll at least be sitting down all the way. Sherlock glances sideways at him, as if he knows what he's thinking. Oh, rest assured. He might. ]

Could catch a cab. [ A beat. He sidesteps two girls walking by hand in hand. Pulling his coat closer around himself, he adds: ] Your back would thank you.

[ He shrugs, then immediately regrets the movement. Ow. He pauses, allowing John to catch up to him properly, until they're side by side. It's a great feeling, though, heading through London as the darkness falls around them, with John by his side and a case well-solved. It's good and he doesn't particularly want to break the mood, though he really is... quite exhausted by the mere idea of walking for another 40 minutes.

Frowning, he pauses. Gives John a sideways look before raising his hand. ]

How about dinner?

[ He's not actually hungry - he rarely is, these days - but there's something about this whole situation that begs for the proper finish. There's nothing logical about it, as far as he can glimpse (then again, he's tired) and it annoys him, to be so overwrought by sentiment even now. He doesn't get this need for repetition and re-creation, as if something inside him can't help but wish for them to be complete once more. What's that about? Why? Then, he thinks about the past two years, alone, slipping from one internet cafe to the other and sleeping in cheap motel rooms, wearing masks everywhere whilst knowing, knowing for sure, that if he played his cards right, he'd definitely win. He'd win and he'd return. There was no other option.

Obviously, his concept of returning, however, has remained sadly underdeveloped. ]

[ Dinner, Sherlock had asked back then, after the cab driver case. Their first one -- and John had replied, starving, because he was, for food, for more... Jesus, Sherlock sure does like taking them back and round, doesn't he? Halting next to the other man when he poses his own question rather than answering John's, which is grandly typical, of course, he glances up at him, raising his chin slightly to do so. Dinner would, however, be practical on so many levels. One, John is actually (now that he thinks about it) starving and two, dinner would require Sherlock sitting down, not moving around so much, some much needed rest for John's surgical handiwork.

Besides, it would be nice... just... well, food and relative quiet, right? Company. It would be nice.

He looks across the junction, brows furrowed, suddenly remembering the pub he used to go to during the first couple of months after Sherlock's fake death that felt very real at the time, mind you. It's right on the other side, prime location, but the pints are cheap and the food's pretty good, too. A deep breath while he weighs the pros and cons of taking Sherlock somewhere he's got history, where he might run into people he knows and whom it's very likely Sherlock will ensure he gets to know even better, if he starts deducing left and right. But they need something to eat, evidently, and they need to sit down and it's close by and maybe, just maybe John's fine with Sherlock getting a glimpse of it.

How it was. ]

There's a pub across the street.

[ He would have thought Angelo's - but of course, his mind is still stuck on two years ago, trying to fit everything neatly into categories when there are none to be found. Instead, there are rare boxes of take-away - street food, eaten under the cover of darkness - and bland noodles, heated by boiling water. Food, reduced to little but fuel, bare necessity, as it were before, back on Montague Street. After a short moment, he nods. Drops his hand, just in time for a cab to pull over to the curb. He shakes his head quickly and the cabbie glares at him, driving off again and shooting them a very rude, widely-recognised hand gesture.

Sherlock straightens slightly, trying to glimpse the pub in question. Instead, he gets an eyeful of some passing lady's rather volumptious cleavage (size 40 at the very least, back problems, saving up though not, as it were, for a breast reduction, going by how much she likes showing them off) and he blinks, rapidly, before turning more fully towards John. Shooting him an almost pleading look, he holds out his hands, resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair. Overly long as it is, it'll only end up in further disarray. ]

Show the way, then.

[ A cab drives up by the curb before Sherlock can drop his hand and the cabbie's very displeased with their sudden change of plans, as much is obvious, flipping them off as he speeds up again. John draws in a deep breath through his nose and steers around a woman with an eyeful up front without even giving her a second glance, instead heading for the road up ahead which they'll need to cross in order to get to Denman Street. Sherlock needs to get off the streets and he needs to get off the streets now, God knows the man's been on the move constantly for the past two years, judging by the -- well, the look in his eyes, the way he carries himself, the appearance of his bloody back, shit. ]

Two minutes.

[ John isn't exactly sure who he's talking to more at the moment, Sherlock or himself, but maybe it doesn't matter either, maybe they both need to know the given time frame to not completely -- miss the mark and here he's not talking about finding the Queen's Head, that's not the difficult part, come on. There's residual adrenaline still pumping through his system as they make their way across Regent's Street, the headlights of countless cars blinding him for every other shift of his gaze. Glasshouse Street, Sherwood Street... Then, where Denman Street does a nice, little bend, they get a full view of the pub, its old-fashioned exterior not betraying the rather classy interior design, because John could only do lasting damage to his liver in a place set up to attract a lot of women, right? Seriously. He winces.

Then, he nods towards the door, light falling across the pavement, welcoming them inside. ]

Get in.

Edited 2019-09-22 16:57 (UTC)

[ He follows John for a change, until the pub comes into view. Oh, that one. Yes, he remembers - he met with a client here, once, several years back. He's committed the location to memory only for the owner's singular choice in cigarettes which had, incidentally, sealed the case. As he enters now in front of John, he notes several things at once as he looks around. It's an art deco-infused upgrade to a traditional, Victorian pub, the colours dark but warm and the chandeliers affording the rooms a quiet, subtle gleam. Age-wise, the clientele seems to average the mid-thirties, an almost equal distribution of gender, social economic status somewhere in the middle to upper-middle range.

He looks back at John. Realises, then, with a stab of surprise that John can't possibly have chosen this place at random - he was much too goal-oriented on his way here, exhibiting a degree of familiarity that suggests... frequent visits. The bartender greets John with a quick wave of his hand, which solidifies that particular hypothesis. Ah. Sherlock leaves John to pick a table, just to see whether he'll look for any one in particular. Whether he's got a regular table as well.

This place, he thinks with a growing sense of wonder, is a glimpse into the past. Gaze darting quickly from person to person, item to item, he sucks it all up, feeling suddenly a lot less tired. ]

[ It's Jack at the bar tonight, greeting John quickly when he enters behind Sherlock -- before turning his attention on another customer, because there's no such thing as a quiet night in this place. John had been almost sure the guy wouldn't last this long, his whiskey sours (along with half the cocktail menu) frankly rather horrible when he started out approximately around the time John began coming here, what, some twenty months ago. He hasn't been back for a good half year, but it looks the same as always. The clientele looks the same, too. John does, pretty much.

Gesturing across the room towards the corner table, the one with the full view, he's about to tell Sherlock to have a seat, ask what he'd like to eat, drink, but Camilla appears out of nowhere in that very particular way of hers that's only possible because she's four inches shorter than John, pausing briefly next to them to smile up at him. You're lucky, John, she says, the reservation for your table's just been cancelled. He manages a small smile in return, a thanks, pure politeness, because he's really more focused on getting to the corner table (his, he used to sit there every bloody night) than on the way she's obviously trying to tell him something with her big, bright blues. Another second and she purses her lips, shakes her head and saunters off in her black uniform jacket.

John steers straight, very straight, for the corner table, slipping into a chair and leaving the bench for Sherlock, because that's the angle from which you can really see everything. ]

I'm expecting you to actually eat while you're here, I hope you're aware.

[ A waitress passes them by, but not before engaging John in a small bit of very obvious flirtation. She looks decidedly unhappy about his lack of interest, too. Sherlock gives her a brief once-over (early-to-mid-twenties - close to mid, probably, 24 or 25 - university student, studies... music, careful muscle-control around the mouth and lips suggest some sort of flute; oh, and she's got at least two, maybe three, canaries. molting canaries) before following John to the table, getting seated on the bench. It's a good position for observation and within seconds, he's engrossed in the life around the bar.

He spots at least one other lady, glancing in John's direction. Not at all the same type as Flute-lips, meaning that John hasn't been particularly... selective. He thinks about before, about the girlfriends - cardboard cut-outs most of them, very bland, very boring, very similar. The thought of it is disturbing - of John, taking what he can get, simply for the sake of what, carnal pleasures? Passing the time? Company, a part of him whispers and the resultant heaviness in his chest makes him swallow, hard, before grabbing the menu card from its holder. ]

You don't come here for the food.

[ Spoken with a look over the edge of the card, gaze boring into John's. ]

Edited 2019-09-22 18:20 (UTC)

No, I come here for their three-for-two pint discount Thursday through Sunday.

[ It's said both very matter-of-factly and very dryly at the same time, when he responds to Sherlock's observation which obviously includes a full cold reading of Camilla and -- is that Janet at the window table, far left? For God's sake, if any of his Anns decide to show up tonight, too, he's just going to leave, Jesus. For some reason, it feels less -- well, embarrassing to talk about all the alcohol he's drunk during his long afternoons-turning-into-evenings-turning-into-nights at this place than to acknowledge that he came here to fuck an endless row of neither nameless nor faceless girls that he'd rather have liked to forget more easily than he finds it currently. Than he's ever found it, because John Watson's simply not the type, is he? They might not matter much, his -- what do you call them(?), not-girlfriends, but they never matter so little either.

As such, he only holds Sherlock's gaze for a brief moment before looking back towards the bar. They have a pretty good chicken dish. Some nice pan-fried fish. A lovely roast on Sundays. ]

You can as a matter of fact do both. Eat and -- [ A small pause. Drink? Fuck? ] -- Yeah.

[ He cocks his head. ]

Right.

[ Looking over the menu again, he realises that it's a lost cause - he's lost all traces of appetite, not that he truly had any to begin with. He abandons it on the table, face down, and starts looking around in earnest. Upon further thought, this place really is very fitting for John - it's warm and cozy, presumably a great place to huddle down and hide away from the world for a bit. Then, there's the clientele. The ladies, in particular. Sherlock spots another one by the window who's looking decidedly angry. He stares her down for a few seconds before blinking, looking away. Their three-for-two pint discount Thursday through Sunday.

He thinks about the case they just closed and tries to remember that it's worth it. The sacrifices they've made - he scratches his thigh on reflex - the loneliness. He thinks about John, waking up at night, terror and sadness and grief filling the room between them, even now, even now. With Sherlock back. As if, in a way, he's still exactly as dead in John's mind as he was two years ago, on the pavement outside St. Barts. ]

You stopped drinking heavily about - [ Quick look. ] - a year ago.

[ And because he's rather quickly done scanning the menu, abandoning the card, face down on the table, Sherlock also very quickly turns his full, entire, undivided attention on John. Come on, John can bloody well feel it, even if the man's only sending quick glances his way. He's reading him -- as you apparently do when you're Sherlock Holmes, right? Right. He can't exactly turn it off, John's aware, it's not something that comes with an on/off switch, though that would probably have been convenient for all parties involved. As it is, John finds himself balancing for a moment between getting irritated and telling him off or -- what's the alternative? You stopped drinking heavily about a year ago.

Alternatively, he could just be, well, upfront. Supposedly.

Turning his head, he finds himself looking towards the entrance just in time to see Ann S. enter the establishment and God, is it a fucking X's and O's night tonight? Christ. He frowns. Quickly turns his attention back on Sherlock and that sort of -- decides it, doesn't it? There's nothing the man can't read from his face anyway, the texture of his skin, the appearance of his superficial veins and the, what, minuscule stains from the beer he had the night before last on his left shirt sleeve... Everyone gets the picture, yes? ]

Started volunteering with the Emergency Response Team around that time. [ John leans back in his seat, putting his own menu away. He'll have the fish. And a pint. God, he deserves a pint right about now. ] They'd pull me from assignments when I couldn't do my venipuncture right, so I stopped drinking on the mornings before my shifts. [ A pause, followed by a slight inclination of his head. ] Then, I stopped drinking on the evenings before my shifts.

[ And then, I just -- stopped. He licks his lips, folds his hands on top of the table, no doubt looking as comfortable as he feels which isn't very much at all, let's be real. ]

[ He watches as John goes through a complex, emotional process, facial expression tightening minutely and his gaze shifting away for a moment (orientating himself towards the entrance and spotting - ah, yes, another one, dear God, Sherlock would attempt to keep score if the thought didn't revolt him) before he re-establishes contact. Sherlock waits, looking at him without haste or impatience. They have all night, don't they? The case is done. Milošević is finished. By proxy, the Baron will have a couple of restless nights, at least, if nothing else. He'd like to topple the elite when they misbehave but Mycroft needs something to do with himself as well, the fat bastard.

As John elaborates, looking intent on simply getting the story out, Sherlock listens, eyes narrowing very slightly in concentration. All of this, of course, he already knows - he's read the files (and more importantly, he's been watching John for days). But there's something about hearing John telling it that sparks a fierce protectiveness in him and he leans back when the waitress gets there, waves her off in John's direction without comment and sits in silence for a long moment while the girl - the one from before, canary!girl - takes his order and leaves. ]

Suppose it's good to be distracted sometimes.

[ Spoken with a tilt of his lips, not quite self-irony but something not too far removed from it. ]

Edited 2019-09-23 15:39 (UTC)

[ Camilla comes over to take their, well, John's order, in this case and he sends her off to fetch him a pint and a plate of pan-fried fish, largely ignoring her this time much more noticeably aggressive attempt at flirting with him before she finally just leaves (thank God) with a very theatrical, very affected sigh. Instead of following her with his gaze which he could, because she's pretty and petite and he still remembers what she looks like underneath that unisex uniform jacket, he looks across the table at Sherlock who tells him that it's good to be distracted sometimes. John nods somewhat, taps his fingertips against the back of his other hand, shifting slightly in his seat, the entire -- subject matter making him feel restless and uncomfortable. Of course Sherlock would understand, yes, he's probably where John picked up this stupid coping mechanism in the first place, right? Work, cases, outside stimuli -- an extra tumbler of whiskey before going to bed, a couple of smokes between here and there, he's observed, you utter idiot, Sherlock... Blink, blink.

Raising his chin, John gives the man a telling look. It is what it is, it says. ]

Are you going to just -- return now? To taking cases, to -- [ He makes a sweeping gesture with one hand. Life, it seems to indicate. Then, he raises one eyebrow and continues: ] -- being Sherlock Holmes.

[ John is radiating restlessness and Sherlock's sees that topic change happening from a mile away. It's fine. He doesn't particularly want to delve into John's two years of misery beyond this; it'll come at its own pace, if it comes. The past is rarely so essential to the present anyway. Sherlock fluffs up his hair with his left hand, curls tumbling all over his head, lanky and over-long still. He leans back in his seat, careful not to disturb the wounds still healing on his back, and thinks John's question over.

To being Sherlock Holmes.

What a question, really. If John had asked him right after his not-death, he would have told him not to be ridiculous; after all, how would he ever be anyone else? But the past years have stripped him of several identities - first, the original basis. Then, the first - the second - the third - and onwards. Alain was the last to go and he went out screaming and burning. He shifts. Looks away from John, finally, gaze gliding over the street outside. ]

Guess so.

[ Despite the words themselves, his tone is even. There's only one way forward, here, after all. It's simply hard to know what it looks like. Certain things can be predicted - through logical reasoning, facts - but this is unknown country, in a fashion, and even the basis of who he used to be has changed. He looks back at John, fleetingly, before looking away again. Oh yes. Changed, definitely, in multiple ways. ]

[ When he replies, Sherlock's looking away, towards the streets outside and John doesn't try to engage his focus, because there's an expression on his face that seems to betray the evenness in his voice. An expression that talks about two years of -- death and loss raised to the third power, chasing shadows, being a shadow himself, that kind of thing. John thinks he gets it, but naturally -- with Sherlock, you rarely really do.

Guess so, the man says and John thinks it over, the potential, the possibilities of what lies ahead. Sure, he's got some -- grasp of life at this point that doesn't exactly include hunting perpetrators, visiting crime scenes by cab or telling Greg that some poor victim died from asphyxiation (vomit, distinctive smell there), but supposedly arrangements could be made. He could cut down to part-time. He could pick up fewer shifts with the ERT, though he'd -- actually hate to do that... Anyway, there are ways. There are ways, if Sherlock wants him -- to --

Well. Only one way to find out, isn't there? John clears his throat, looking over at Sherlock, catching his gaze and pursing his lips. ]

So, um -- [ He clears his throat again. ] -- was this case a one-off thing? Or are you back to being lost without your blogger?

[ One eyebrow going up slightly, John manages a small smile at the recollection... Although he's discontinued the blog, he's paid for the domain dutifully throughout the past two years. Not really knowing why, but hey.

Hey. ]

[ John clears his throat and Sherlock looks back at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. Then - oh.

Oh.

He remembers those words. From back when Moriarty was the best puzzle he'd ever experienced, when he didn't yet know how expensive solving it would be. He looks at John for a long moment, gaze softening a fraction as he reads the other man's face - the small smile (fondness, recollection), the nervous clearing of his throat, the pursed lips. He could make a joke out of it, perhaps, laugh it off and treat John's presence in his life as self-evident. He would have, too. Before.

Now, he simply swallows. Thinks about a dark night in Baku, when he was alone in a dingy flat, the walls damp from mould and the entire place dusty from disuse. He thinks about calling out John's name without reservations, getting himself off for the first time in more than a decade, the shadows swallowing everything up, all sounds, all scents, everything.

He'd been falling then, still. ]

Believe me, John. I've been lost for a while.

Edited 2019-09-23 17:23 (UTC)

[ Yes, Sherlock says. In very different words, sure, but it's the grand total of his reply. Yes, yes, yes. John smiles, wider now.

Camilla, of course, has to enter stage right and ruin the moment, presenting him with a huge plate of pan-fried flounder, a nice roasted carrot-potato mix and some sauce. It smells good, not that he actually cares. She puts a pint down next to the plate as well and he does treat his alcohol with far greater interest than she manages to coax out of him at any point before leaving, even his thank you absent-minded and uncaring, because he's preoccupied staring at Sherlock, mostly.

Reaching for his beer, he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the other man over the rim of the glass while he gulps down a large mouthful. He licks his lips while putting down the pint, cocking his head slightly. The smile's still there, so shoot him. ]

Can't have that, can we? [ He grabs his fork and digs into the tail-end of the fish, steering around bones with habitual ease, because he hates the stuff. With a vengeance. Chew, chew, pause. ] Let's hope for a dry spell while I put in my two weeks notice and you -- I don't know, get your hair cut. [ A look. ] Jesus, Sherlock.

[ John digs into his fish, circumventing the bones with an ease that speaks of both experience and a very solid dislike. He smiles and it looks radiant on him, absolutely so, and Sherlock tries not to feel quite so much in response to such a basic, human facial expression, he really does, but it's an uphill battle. It's a good thing John chooses to comment on his hair - a sore topic, definitely sore - to off-set the vulnerability of it all. It's not who they are, he thinks. At least, it's not who they were.

He doesn't know how or what to feel about any of it. God, he'd like to once more leave the feeling things to other, dumber people. ]

Siding with Mycroft, are you? [ He watches John's plate shrewdly for a second, two, before reaching over with his unused fork and snatching a bite of potato. He pops it into his mouth, chews it and swallows, mostly without truly thinking about neither the taste nor the texture. ] A bad position, John, very bad. You'll be setting yourself up for severe disappointment.

Edited 2019-09-23 18:18 (UTC)

Come on, don't be obstinate.

[ There's a slight laugh to punctuate that particular comment.

With very keen interest, he watches the potato bite make its way, rather sneakily, from his plate to Sherlock's mouth, because if this means Sherlock will actually stuff his face with something, he'll be happy. Very happy, very -- yes. Considering how thin the man has become, honestly every little bit(e) counts, doesn't it?

He cuts out another piece of fish and lifts it to his lips, chewing slowly, because he might have missed a bone somewhere, he knows the signs and -- right, there, ugh. Making a face, he manages to separate it from the rest, the flesh, with his tongue and push it into the forefront of his mouth, picking up his napkin and spitting it out ever so gracefully, except not really.

Another telling pull of his face and he fixes his eyes on Sherlock, the napkin finding a rest on the tabletop again. ]

Eventually you're going to grow so damn tired of that mess on your head that you end up cutting it yourself and although you're fantastic, Sherlock -- [ Going for the potatoes and the carrots this time, he catches a couple of them with his fork, letting it hover in the air for a moment while he meets the other man's eyes with a very quirked, very raised eyebrow. ] -- I'd like to see you try doing that to anyone's satisfaction.

Edited 2019-09-24 08:00 (UTC)

[ He steals another bite of potato, looking at John all the while, one eyebrow raised slightly in challenge. Not concerning the food, obviously - John attempting to stop him from eating would, presumably, cause the world to cease spinning on its axis.

Though he's trying not to show it too obviously, John calling him fantastic makes him feel warm all over. It makes the aches in his back feel unimportant, alongside all the other small imperfections. He flexes his fingers, the joints clicking in response. ]

Don't be absurd. [ Munch, munch. This time, he actually does taste the small piece of potato; a nice blend of salt, pepper and melted butter. For the first time in two years, he misses fish and chips. Tomorrow, perhaps, he'll treat himself. ] In certain parts of the world, you know, it's a sign of strength and vitality. Useful knowledge, incidentally, for case work.

[ He settles in, stealing from John's plate with habitual regularity as he talks him through the strange case of Jonathan Alvi and the one, long hair strand on the crime scene that eventually gave him away. ]

psl.

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