docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ Sherlock disappears into the kitchen and returns with two cups, coffee for John and tea for himself, though he doesn't sit down, instead handing John his cup and walking over to the window with his own, opening it slightly, a fresher, cooler air blowing into the room, bringing the sounds of the London street below with it. He leans back against the headboard, sips his coffee and watches Sherlock. Watches Sherlock being very quiet (sometimes I don't talk for days on end) and looking contemplative. Lost in thought. John wants to ask him what he's thinking about, but at the same time he respects the man's need to just be right now, not be pulled back to reality and stay in whatever inner landscape he's caught up in. There are other things John could ask, after all, less intrusive things, strangely enough. Seeing as what he asks is -- ]

How's your arse?

[ Very specific, very physically centered. Sherlock can have his thoughts to himself, but they shared his body tonight, John's allowed a certain interest, isn't he? Besides, if there's anything he needs to fix, as a doctor, now's a good time. It's been more than 24 hours, if Sherlock's experiencing anything beyond general aches, possibly something's not quite right. While talking, he's moved on from the coffee and the toast to the eggs (which are the most delicious thing he's ever eaten for breakfast) and a nibble off the pastry which isn't quite his thing, but not unpleasant or anything. Just -- raisins. Yeah.

Eating his eggs along with a sausage in a few big, greedy bites, he looks over at Sherlock, thinking he might remember the stiffness to his movements for quite a while to come. Might even savour the memory a bit. There's something extremely satisfying about having left an impression, a completely physical one. It's like being twelve again, right, and writing J + S with a knife in the trunk of the tree at school. A little something for prosperity, not that John ever cared about that before.

That's how things change, presumably. ]

[ As John digs into his breakfast, Sherlock notes that he clearly likes the eggs (they are delicious and more interesting than regularly fried eggs) and that the raisins aren't... to his taste. Ugh. There's always something, isn't there. He adds that little slip of knowledge to his John!file and decides to bake croissants one day, when he has the time and the inclination. It does take quite a while, at least if you do it right. They have a French cookbook, his family, that's been passed down from generation to generation and every recipe is quite elaborate.

He's deep in thought and thus, realises only about half a minute later that John's asked him a question. Blinking again, he looks up. Thinks back, rewinding. Oh. Oh, right. ]

It's fine.

[ He could add something obvious about it being a little bruised, a little swollen or what have you. But John's a doctor - fine, in his terminology, refers to a wide range of states, all firmly within the concept of no medical intervention required. Anything beyond that, Sherlock would mention. You don't want that particular part of your body to suffer serious complications of any sort, really. However, John was careful with him. Took... care.

That's a nice thought.

He sips his tea and leans against the window sill, gaze gliding away from John once more, thoughts wandering pleasantly without gaining any sort of actual purchase. It's a good way to be. ]

storyline one.

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