docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ Port Prideaux lies an hour outside of Helston, near Rinsey and they didn't arrive until well into the evening the previous day. As chance would have it -- or perhaps it was Ingram's faultless memory, who can say, they'd been given the keys to the Beach Lodge, a small cottage near the stretch of shore that falls under the manor's estate. And the very same cottage John had stayed in that summer so many, many years ago.

Though, they're not actually there now. After a morning spent driving to town and getting stocked up on supplies, they're spending the late afternoon at the beach, Sherlock having been very invested in -- well, sand. That is, of course, until he went swimming in a pair of trunks that were distractingly tight-fitting and showed off, among other things, thighs, thinner now than ever, John thinks.

While Sherlock's emerging from the waves like a rather different take on Venus, he's busy sketching. Hasn't done much drawing since he left university, granted, but he was quite good at it and the Beach Lodge made him want to buy a cheap sketchbook while they were in town. Just as the length of Sherlock's thigh muscles is making him want to use it now. He's outlining the stretch of leg from knee to hip, glancing up at the other man only intermittently from his position on a large rock sticking out from the dunes. For every step the other man comes closer, the shadows across his skin change a little.

John frowns. Doesn't try to replicate it, sticking to anatomy. Anatomy he knows. ]

[ The sea isn't exactly benign in this area and Sherlock enjoys the resistance of it, the strong undercurrent, the subtle danger that never truly reaches him as anything but a mental acknowledgement. He's a strong swimmer and this swim has lasted the better part of an hour, his muscles trembling from exertion and his blood roaring through his veins. He thinks about coke, on and off. One moment, he misses Baker Street almost unbearably (more precisely, the small stash hidden away underneath the couch), the next it's gone. The burn. There's just the air and the smell of a rainfall, soon to descent upon them within the next couple of hours.

He wades through the sand as he steps onto the shore once more, gaze seeking out John immediately (there's nothing else to look at out here so it's just as well). He was quite insistent upon buying art supplies in town earlier today and whilst Sherlock wasn't surprised to know that he can draw, it was perhaps a bit interesting (unexpected), realising that he'd wanted to. That he... likes it.

John liking things is always such a wonder, really.

Padding over to the other man, he grabs a towel from the basket next to the rock and dries off his hair, first. Glances sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the sketch. Then, he raises an eyebrow. ]

You don't get enough of that in our usual, three dimensions?

Edited 2020-05-07 19:20 (UTC)

[ Sherlock goes for drying his hair and trying to sneak peeks at John's drawing simultaneously, like it's anything interesting, like it isn't just a thigh in suspension between two slabs or nothing. Besides, John can't get the dimensions of the rectus femoris right which only goes to show how out of practice he is, but maybe if he sets about drawing Sherlock's thigh from here and until they're going home, he'll be back in full vigour. Might help if he gets to start touching it again at some point. Intimate anatomy lessons, right there. A wry smile as he inclines his head to one side at Sherlock's comment, packing away his pencil and closing the sketchbook carefully. What is it Sherlock usually says when he composes, it helps me think. Same thing, basically. ]

Yeah, if I could get the two dimensions here right, I might call it a day.

[ Pushing himself off the rock, arse smarting from some bumpiness somewhere, he brushes some sand off his jeans and looks out towards the sea. It's rough terrain around here, wild and untamed and they should definitely get out of London more. However much of a city boy he is, he also likes a change of scenery. Quite a lot, even. ]

Enjoy your swim? You were out there for a while.

[ What he's really asking is, did it take your mind off? Getting reasonably distracted? It's a slow process, taking a cold turkey of off anything, sure, but coke's especially hard on the mind. And not just Sherlock's mind, let's be real. This isn't only his retreat or John would have paid for a stay at a spa somewhere and not got Ingram involved. No, this is personal. Very, very personal. ]

[ A huff of something not quite laughter at John's initial comment, then a shrug. He knows what the other man's asking, naturally. Did you think about coke? Did you manage not to, for a few seconds at the very least? Drying off his shoulders and torso, he shudders lightly in the cold. ]

Wasn't bad, I suppose. [ He pauses, towel hanging loosely by his side, droplets of water and specs of sand still clinging to his legs. ] Once I got going, it just...

[ Hm. He frowns. Waves his hand, the sentence fading into obscurity. It's not that he doesn't know what he was getting at, but the wires in his brain get crossed quite regularly these days, impression replacing impression and leading to new paths of contemplation. Right now, he's thinking about fish. He met one, further out. A cod fish, two feet long and oddly close to the shore. There's fish for dinner, he seems to recall. Might very well be cod. Blinking, he starts drying off the rest of his body, glancing sideways at John, remembering suddenly that they're both here. Here. His chest aches from a combination of exertion, withdrawal and... peace, because the combination is so very foreign and it's hard to know what to do with it.

On impulse, he reaches out and runs one, cool hand over John's upper arm. ]

[ Wasn't bad, Sherlock replies, then trails off into nothing that makes much sense and John turns towards him, looking him over. He looks cold in just his trunks, thin legs and thinner still upper body shivering slightly in the gradually cooling evening breeze. When he starts drying off the rest of the way, John follows the movement of his hands, the soft fabric of the towel, with his eyes, frowning. Maybe he'll draw the other man's arm next. He has interesting arms, full of character. They're wiry and sort of worn, faded remnants of track marks on the left, birth marks, history. Lots of bloody history.

When Sherlock reaches out and touches him, then, John blinks himself back into focus, looks up at his face. His palm is cool and still a bit moist, making all John's hairs stand on end in response. Oh. Oh, touch, it's good. It's really very good.

He smiles, slightly. ]

Get dressed. [ There's no intensity in it, it's a request rather than an order. ] You're going to catch a cold -- and two guesses as to who will be treating that.

[ Despite the surface harshness of his comment, he still reaches up with his hand and runs it lightly up Sherlock's arm in return, catching the towel where it's sliding off one shoulder, hoisting it back up and brushing his thumb over the tight outline of biceps. When he steps back, out of reach, it's less a rejection as it's an urging, get to it. ]

storyline one.

31.

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