docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ So, Sherlock asks, going on the defensive and John shrugs to deflate the matter just a little. Normally, he could say, nothing would stop you -- but assuming something did and assuming it was to be found in a BDSM club, although assuming's dangerous (then again, they like danger, the two of them), John thinks he knows what this might be about. ]

So. You didn't just take the back door.

[ Sherlock's clinging to their usual power dynamic. The one where Sherlock steers them through the world, from one crime scene to the next, through one case and another, and John follows him around, saying fantastic and amazing (which he would do any day, mind you, when Sherlock is). However, the man actually thinks that is what makes him Sherlock Holmes. John shakes his head, reaches for his own last piece of bacon and crunches at it slowly. ]

Really stopped you in your tracks, did it?

[ He's both referring to the establishment, how -- obviously, something in there got Sherlock to rethink normal, John remembers how he'd been upon returning to the flat, you know, before the sex which was really, truly amazing. He'd been shaken, to his core. And at the same time, he's referring to them, to what happened between them, the implications that the other man's reacting to now.

Defensively. Come on, Sherlock, it doesn't change anything. Nothing at all. He's here, making breakfast for you like always. For God's sake. ]

[ John, apparently, wants to talk about it and Sherlock gets to his feet quickly, padding over to the kitchen counter, the sheet clinging to his legs and hips, slipping down slightly over his shoulder. There's nothing of particular interest there but at least he'll have his back to the other man. He swallows. Grabs onto the counter and looks down, gaze sweeping over the counter top without taking in any details. ]

Don't be absurd. [ He looks up, out of the window. He can see himself and John reflected in it, though John's features are washed out now, undecipherable. Will it make things easier? He keeps thinking about them in one of those rooms, the ones he never saw which makes the whole thing even more tempting to imagine. What would be on the walls? In the cabinets? What would it smell like, what - he bites his lip. Stop. ] I just didn't see the point.

[ And this, at least, is true. Say he'd retrieved the photographs and brought them back to Mycroft. What, then? Would Irene Adler have left the country, still, with the royal lady in tow? Would they have been just a little weaker for it, maybe, or would they simply produce another set to match the first? The Royals were blackmailed, yes, but the lady wasn't. And that's the crux of it, at the end of the day. Sherlock's not with law enforcement. He doesn't work for Mycroft. He'll make his own judgement calls.

Then, there's the fact that he couldn't quite... do it to himself, either. Whatever the hell that means. He sighs, turning around to face John again, back against the counter. ]

[ There's a quick succession of movements, starting with the other man getting to his feet and what's basically fleeing across the room to the counter, turning his back on John and staring out the window like there's anything of interest to look at, Baker Street at half past eleven in the morning. John watches his back for a while, then raises an eyebrow, reaches for an apple someone, most likely himself, has left sitting in the middle of the table and takes a bite out of it, now that he's done with his brunch. He's being polite about his chewing, but in the quiet that settles between them for a second, it sounds loud, sort of rude. Don't be absurd. Chew, chew. Like he doesn't care. He does care, he just can't help him with it. Whatever issue Sherlock's got with Belgravia and the things they did last night, they'll take time. He remembers the eureka moment he had about taking it up the arse, what, almost three months after he'd done it the first time. Certain things are ingrained too deeply, it's just how it is. Probably this falls into that category. ]

Ah. I see.

[ Doesn't mean they can't or shouldn't address it, of course. Finishing the apple in five bites, give or take, he leaves the apple core on his plate and gets up, walking over to the kitchen counter as well, stopping in front of Sherlock who's turned around, like a proper adult facing his problems, yes. Very good. John looks up at him, his stupid sheet, one shoulder bare. Resists the urge to reach out and touch, because there's no reason to push it. He flexes his fingers a bit uselessly by his sides, cocking his head slowly. ]

It's a preference, Sherlock. Not a personality trait.

[ Beating the woman that for very good reason got John sick to his stomach from jealousy all day yesterday is one thing and sure, maybe Sherlock wouldn't prioritize it for very personal reasons or what have you, even after chasing her around like a dog in heat, but wanting to get beaten in the manner she exemplifies? Obviously, that would be something else altogether. ]

It doesn't need a point.

[ He looks at the other man, a sarcastic retort on his lips (something along the lines of sexual preferences tying in suspiciously well with certain personality traits or tendencies) that he holds back, just because there's something quite earnest about John's manner right now. Something that makes him feel equal parts comfortable (John's saying exactly what he thinks, it's straightforward) and... scared, is it? Ugh. He glances sideways for a moment, frowning and thinking. It doesn't need a point, says John Watson, referring to something other than Sherlock's decision not to prioritise the photographs, something underlying that behaviour as well as a few others that have emerged during this particular case. He does remember, of course. It's all fine, he said.

On a somewhat harsh (frustrated) exhalation, Sherlock finally just shrugs. ]

I'll look into it.

[ Like it's a case, one of their usual problems - except it's not, obviously, because preferences and what not, personal pitfalls that he can't leave unchecked or un-explored. He realises that now, upon reflection. Can't leave these things as they are, without knowing what exactly they encompass or someone might just come around and attempt to take advantage of his ignorance (Moriarty would have a field day, in fact, he probably already knows - meaning that Sherlock's yet another step behind him). He straightens up slightly, gives John a more assertive look. ]

Today. [ Nod nod. He pads away from John, trying not to stumble in his sheet as he pours himself a cup of tea. The sheet, naturally, slips open down his chest and stomach, the material pooling around his hips. ] I'll look into it today.

storyline one.

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