docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ Does John care that his nose is glued on? Does he care that it's going to sting a little, getting that stupid thing off his face again? No. Might even, hopefully leave a rash that he unfortunately doesn't have the remedies to treat until they get back home, how sad. Eyes narrowing slightly as Sherlock works the prosthetic off, his eyes tearing up from the pain which is obviously well-deserved and just, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his seat, one shoulder against the window frame.

What John cares about, nothing less and nothing more, is not to get derailed when he asks a question. Because he sees what you did there, Sherlock.

With the nose off, there's nothing left to hide behind, unless you count the wig, but it's really too ugly to hide much -- except it's been just ugly enough to hide everything, hasn't it, yes and John lets his eyes slide over the blonde, slick-looking locks to the other man's face, features looking all wrong beneath that mess. His eyes are slits at this point, lips pursed, chin raised.

He won't be ignored, Sherlock. He really won't. A bit not good. ]

How long?

[ He rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. Glances at John, then away. ]

Er.

[ He considers, briefly, whether or not to lie. Would be a bit hard to uphold a decent alibi, though, knowing that John saw him in his disguise three days earlier. Also, there's really no point to lying at this point, is there, what with John looking like a thunder cloud, knowing full well that he's been deceived already. Lying would only be repetition and Sherlock's really no fan of that, not even in the interest of... what? Avoiding the consequences?

That sounds pitiful.

Thus, he scratches the back of his neck, his body language no doubt visibly sheepish as he says: ]

A little less than four days.

You were the guy with the roses? [ John stares at him pretty much dumbfounded for a second, doing some quick math in his head and remembering, vividly, the blond gardener with his head in a rosebush while John told Sholto about -- ] Great.

[ Not only has Sherlock been working a case from home that implied one of John's closest associates, but he has been actively deceiving him for four days and, what, does he expect John to just sit around and accept that? This isn't Moriarty whose intricate plots could get John to pick up Sherlock's phone from his arse crack if need be, this is -- quiet times, good times and he's bloody well ruining that! Christ! John's hands are resting on the table between them, fingers flexing restlessly and a bit aggressively on top of that. He licks his lips. Glares daggers at Sherlock.

Then, he makes a decision. Steadies himself. Deep breaths. Calm. Controlled. Good. When he speaks, his voice is completely unbothered, completely level, a notch deeper than normal, too: ]

I expect you to clean out the sitting room when we get back. [ And just to spell it out for him, because you can never know with Sherlock whether he's actually going to catch on to the real problem, not all the made-up ones in his head: ] You've got four days of lying to make up for.

[ With the entire picture laid out for him, John takes a moment - a very short moment - to react. His body language speaks volumes even on an purely nonverbal level, with the... aggressive finger tapping and the glaring and the...

Oh.

God, his voice - oh. John's demeanour seemingly strengthens, gains another level of hardness when he tells Sherlock that he expects him to clean out the sitting room because he's got things to make up for and even if Sherlock had felt like being obstinate (a part of him will always remain a spoiled, over-indulged child with too many ideas and too few limitations), John's attitude just... overrules it. Puts him... in his spot, so to speak. He licks his lips. Swallows heavily. If they'd been different people - if John had been someone else, hell, if this had been earlier in their acquaintance, he would have told the other man exactly where to shove it and belittled him mercilessly. But things have changed.

They've done better, somehow.

And this would have cost Sherlock dearly in the past. As it has, many times over, before he met John. There's a reason the drugs became his only steady source of companionship. The skull. Murder victims and the stories they told him because he knew how to listen properly.

Dead things with no feelings to cross.

Thus, he simply sits back in his seat a little bit further, meets John's steady gaze and nods. Looks away once more at the landscape passing by outside, something curiously like relief along with a tint of something warmer settling in his gut. ]

storyline one.

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