docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ 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.

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