docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ The room is at one and the same time unchanged and completely different from that night when John made himself a murderer to save Sherlock. Sure, there were no fortune cookies on the table, fine china or Chinese take-away back then, but Sherlock was there and Sherlock was being a cock, ready to risk his life to prove himself cleverer. Really, that hasn't changed much, has it? John's still here to save him from serial killers and incinerators alike. Christ.

Sherlock's first comment, I'm not the sentimental type, only warrants a raised eyebrow as he looks up at the other man, looming over him like a very tall, curly-haired tree. Oh, he knows, Sherlock, he knows sentiment is your Kryptonite and will eventually kill you, but could you honestly think of a better way to go than this? Beats a cabbie any day.

Smiling slightly as the other man sits down, though only after having dropped a parcel on the table in front of him, because you'd expect Sherlock to one-up him with his usual drive for excellence, yes, he leans back in his seat and just looks at the gift for a second. He won't try to guess what it is, come on, he'll just be making a fool of himself, but it looks expensive. It looks nice. And Sherlock has got him something, being very unsentimental and removed from his emotions, the idiot.

A shake of his head as he picks it up, the box inside hard and unyielding to his touch. When he begins unwrapping it, not too neatly, but neither in a mess of ribbon and wrapping paper, he notes: ] It isn't exactly fiction I write, is it. [ It's a watch.

John stares at it for a moment, automatically reaching up with his right hand to touch the frayed edges of the watch he's currently wearing on his left wrist. The Breguet is more than ten years old at this point and although he's cared for it with great reverence, it's beginning to look its age. John has been considering taking it to a clockmaker and get the strap fixed, at least, but the watch itself has got some scratches and dents as well. He's been away a lot, after all. Yeah, he's seen the world, since his family got together and gave him this when he was accepted into med school.

One of the last things they all did as a family. John swallows, swallows again, hard. It's an insanely pricey gift, but Sherlock -- if any, has probably got the funds for it. That's not the part that gets to him, it's the observance which is only to be expected, of course, from that man. Quietly, he takes off his old Breguet, pockets it. ]

You'd have come pretty far with a blowjob.

[ Nevertheless, as Sherlock no doubt knows, he'll get farther with this. ]

[ He watches as John unwraps the gift. It doesn't take much to figure out the backstory of the man's expensive watch - coming from a family of moderate social economic status (obviously), he wouldn't ever be able to afford that on his own merit, perhaps except if he were to spend a hideous amount of his military salary to get it and really, John Watson? Unlikely scenario. He's sentimental, yes, but not with regards to his own vanity. With regards to his family history, however - well. The watch has seen better days but he keeps it, all the same, despite scratches and visible wear. He's an orderly man, is John, but he's tolerated the watch growing older and older, visibly so, without exchanging it for another. Sentiment. Family.

And according to John, Sherlock is family too. Consequently, the circle comes together perfectly. Going by the man's response, they both appreciate it.

He doesn't linger too long at the warmth this thought generates in his chest; it's what it is. John's done all this - the place, the food, the implications - for him. Would have been bad (pitiful) if he'd returned with too little.

At John's comment, he leans back in his chair, raising one eyebrow slightly. ]

Where as now, I can only disappoint?

[ He says it with a teasing edge to his voice, something he rarely manages because Sherlock's life is very black and white; boxes, neatly arranged, information stacked and ready to be used or discarded. This play of words, of intentions and underlying stories that they can't tell each other, even now - it's unusual. It feels like a very new, very untrodden path. Exciting, in a way, untravelled and unknown. All the same, his gaze does flitter sideways after a second or two. He's no good at this, whatever you call it; after all, that's how he forgot to care about it (about John, by extension) in the first place. ]

[ Although it comes naturally to them, this effortless back and forth, always, you can still hear -- when it's with a romantic or sexual angle, that being in a relationship with someone is new territory for Sherlock. Sure, he is a fast learner and never left behind for long, but you can still derail him with these things. Momentarily. Like the way he says where as now, I can only disappoint with a teasing edge to his voice, but his eyes flitters sideways after a couple of seconds, John's lips curving in a satisfied smile as he, blindly, slips the new watch into place. It's heavy and luxurious against his wrist. Sherlock must have emptied his bank account for it, which means next month's rent is on Mycroft. Lovely. His smile widens.

Without replying at first, he reaches over and gets the rice, the aromatic duck, puts the foil trays directly in front of Sherlock where he can't ignore them forever. When he speaks, his voice sounds mildly amused, not to mention -- fond: ]

Wouldn't be surprised if you could manage a 7000 pound blowjob, Sherlock.

[ With a long, lingering gaze up at the other man's face, John reaches for the rice, serves Sherlock first, a pile of rice and a lot of duck, lots of sauce. Then, he treats himself to an even bigger portion, watching the way his watch catches the light out the corner of his eye. He had one family once, yet he's got another now. Both of them help him keep track of time, yes. It's all very symbolic and fantastic, although this is a non-fiction story and shouldn't come with any fantastic elements.

Apparently life does, sometimes. Who would've thought? ]

storyline one.

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