docwithablog

[ 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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