docwithablog

[ 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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