docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ The powder is burning a hole in his pocket, basically, but he keeps his hands off it and his mind focused on the pub as he steps inside, the difference between the night air and the smoky atmosphere immediate and striking. He scrunches up his nose and looks around, trying to spot John by any of the tables.

And notes that he's... sitting more or less by the door.

Well.

He looks at the other man for a moment, gaze softening a fraction. John's nursing a beer (not the first, it's a re-fill, third, going by the traces of foam on the side of the glass as well as the imprints of the glass on the table surface), looking... not exhausted, exactly, more... tired. Something that goes far beyond the PNS, nothing cured by neither sleep nor... well. Drink. Obviously. He thinks about last night. Remembers, vaguely, John putting him to bed and going to sleep, folded up against him. The absolute safety of it. Peace. Swallowing, he walks over to him, pausing in front of the table and clearing his throat. ]

[ He doesn't -- actually notice Sherlock until the man's standing right in front of him, clearing his throat. Okay, supposedly that goes to show that his observational skills are markedly affected currently, probably the beer. Most likely the beer. Definitely the beer. Blinking a couple of times, he licks his lips and pushes the pint away, then thinks twice about it and pulls it closer once more. His fingers are slipping over the dewy glass and he can still taste the fermented liquid at the back of his throat. He can still taste other things back there, too, let's be real, but -- yeah, no need to think about it. Sherlock's right there. ]

Hello. [ He says. Dumbly. Immediately shaking his head once and following it up with a marginally less dumb: ] You don't drink when you're working.

[ Meaning that the other man isn't here to join him, right? Whatever he's here for, it's not to get smashed and forget that he can't quite control himself around him -- John around Sherlock, that is. Sherlock's doing fine. As always, Sherlock's doing just fine in that department. ]

[ Pause. ]

Clearly.

[ He pushes his hands into his pockets a bit awkwardly, looking around the bar (two men by the neighbouring table, one plans on cheating tonight, the other hoping to win at darts - not that he will; a group of younger men in the corner, here to watch the game on telly, all except one who's in love with one of his buddies, too bad they're all ragingly homophobic; bartender's minding the bar on his own, used to it, knows everybody, par for the course - stop) before remembering why he's here in the first place. Not here to drink, no.

Hands clenching into fists in his pockets, he finally just throws it out there. Hard to know what else to do, really. ]

I thought last night was really... quite good. And so did you. [ The men at the next table glance in their direction. Sherlock pauses, considers - then steps closer and lowers his voice considerably. ] You're drinking because you think it ought to bother you somehow and that's a waste of time, John. It doesn't bother you because it was nice. You don't have to sit here, pondering what's already blatantly obvious!

[ Sherlock's standing before his table with his hands in his stupid coat pockets, looking as out of place in The Blue Anchor Inn as you can possibly get, what with the two, no doubt raging homophobes sitting to their left. Come on, it's Helston, Cornwall on a Friday night after ten. John purses his lips, considers taking another long drink of his beer, but eventually decides against it, because Sherlock's being very earnest and very honest and those are two things you don't necessarily get from him all that often. Better not get intoxicated and forget what it feels like, right. He swallows something hard in his throat.

Why is he sitting here again? Like a 20-year-old with a case of gay regret so bad you shouldn't think he's led as busy a sex life as he actually has, everything considered. For God's sake... Shaking his head, he breathes out heavily, noting the very poorly disguised looks from the next table over, gets to his feet and looks Sherlock in the face. He's got a consenting partner, apparently that should make all the difference these days. ]

Did you come to Helston to remind me how I don't observe?

[ They're starting to draw attention, no doubt on account of being obvious outsiders in more than just one way. Sherlock ignores the men at the table to the left as well as the group further back who are all eyeing them with something that could escalate, given enough time. Enough incentive. Instead, he focuses on John who's getting to his feet now, looking bone-tired still but slightly less drawn to the drink (the proof being how he leaves it behind without even a last sip for the sake of it).

He scoffs at the question. ]

I came to tell you to stop being an idiot. [ He purses his lips for a second. ] Same category of admonishments, probably.

[ With that, he steps away from the table and turns slightly, ready to head for the door. It's been a long day and the night will be even longer, waiting for dawn and the chance to set his sample on fire. Imagine if he'd left John here, though, to drink and be ridiculous about their sex life. He would have had to wait it out all by himself (and John would as well) and he's had enough of that, actually, for a life time. ]

[ They throw that word around a lot, idiot. He can't count the number of times they used it, when they first met, their first case and since then, it's just become foundation, hasn't it? That they're idiots in each their different way and maybe John would (and should) be embarrassed about this preference of his, wasn't that what he called it, had he explored it with anyone else, because honestly. Would anyone else be able to ground him in it, that's the real question here. But Sherlock isn't anyone. He isn't doing this with just -- He's doing this with someone who matters and that's why it's not a problem. Shouldn't be.

So, as Sherlock turns away and makes ready to head for the door, clearly intending to have him follow or disappear the way he usually does, John stares straight ahead for a moment, then to the side at the men who will give them trouble in a few additional moments, unless he tells them how they can kindly sod off. Groaning slightly at the back of his throat, he pushes off the table, hurrying after Sherlock and coming up behind him, up next to him, quite unceremoniously slipping his arm around the other man's waist as they head for the door, side by side. Waist is easier than shoulders anyway, or he'd have gone for that. Height differences make it difficult, though. ]

Wouldn't hold out hope, if I were you.

[ It's said with a scoff. Mood-lightener. He gets it, Sherlock. Really.

Thank you. ]

storyline one.

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