docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ Yes.

Okay. Well, it's probably doable with a little help, God knows John doesn't have that kind of money lying around, but the British government no doubt does. He glances back towards the kitchen, towards his phone. He has an important call to make, it appears. For God's sake, when did he become the sort of person who intimidates drug dealers? Around the same time you became the sort of person to shoot serial killers and get jailed for vandalism you didn't commit, a helpful voice clarifies at the back of his head. Nevertheless, it somehow feels like a step down from going to war. Even -- if he's still saving people. Obviously.

When he returns his attention to the living room, to Sherlock, he's put down both his violin and his bow, setting off towards his bedroom and John follows with the small ampoule clutched in his grip, like he's carrying a bomb away from a crowded street -- the analogy not completely off, except he's actually following Sherlock into his bedroom again, so somehow he's placing himself in the middle of the bloody crowd, finding the man standing over his sock drawer, three ampoules more resting on his flat palm now and a couple of folded socks lying around on the floor. Neither of them speak for a while, they're just standing there, Sherlock staring at his drugs and John staring at him, the way his profile curves, the health(ier) tinge to his skin, his curls...

He sighs. ]

Listen, I'll fix it -- [ His free hand comes up, palm up, open. A slight shake of it. Here, you idiot. ] -- if you give me those.

[ John's presence is, at this point, extremely familiar. They haven't lived together for long but Sherlock's a competent observer and he's saved all required variables many weeks prior. Everything else he's added since then - scent, clothes, hair, voice, movements - it's all details, enhancing the greater picture. John when he cooks. John when he reads. When he's angry, when he's delighted. Whenever he thinks he's winning at Stratego when actually he's getting his arse kicked. Episodes, glimmers, all adding to what he already knows: that John Watson is solid, steady and forceful in a rather incredible combination that's made Sherlock's life a little less empty, a little less flat.

I'll fix it he says and holds out his hand. Sherlock's fingers curl around the ampoules almost convulsively for a moment. Then, on a rough exhalation, he presses them into John's palm and steps back. He runs his hand through his curls and fluffs them up, mostly automatically, his gaze slipping away from the other man as he glances around the bedroom instead. Everything looks to be in transition between two very different states; the bed, unmade, the sheets missing. The imprints of the bucket on the floor still, because the floor needs washing. The window, open, the air in the bedroom just a tad too cold, too fresh. Looking back at John, he nods. ]

Thank you.

storyline one.

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