Truths of Great Value: Inquiry
Title: Truths of Great Value
Chapter Title: Inquiry
Author: Bizarity
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventually)
Word Count: 2,482
Summary: There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. After living with Sherlock for six months, John is noticing some things about Sherlock and about himself that he doesn't fully understand.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexual themes.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson do not belong to me, in any of their incarnations. This fic makes use of the characters in the BBC adaptation, but is not intented to profit me in any way.
For three weeks, life in 221B Baker Street continues as normal. They spend four days racing around London on the trail of an arsonist Sherlock is convinced is connected to Moriarty. Between cases, Sherlock sinks into boredom and John still hasn't found a hiding place for his gun where Sherlock won't find it. John returns to wearing his dressing gown to and from the bathroom and Sherlock, of course, hasn't changed his habits at all. The summer heat dies away quickly, making way for a surprisingly gloomy September.
“Thai tonight?” Sherlock asks him one Friday afternoon.
“Not for me.” John is in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. “I'm taking Sarah out for dinner.” He isn't surprised when Sherlock says nothing. A few hours later he's showered, dressed and ready to walk out the door. Smart shoes, smart trousers, comfortable jumper over an uncomfortable shirt.
“No gift?” Sherlock asks, emphasis on the last word and face twisting into a sneer. Since Mrs Hudson's little talk, John's been taking gifts less and less often. Sarah doesn't seem to mind.
“Nope,” he answers.
“Pick something up on your way.” John stops checking his wallet and looks over at Sherlock.
“Sorry?”
“I said pick something up on your way.”
“Why?” John asks, voice pitching higher.
“Because I'm the world's only consulting detective and you should listen to me,” says Sherlock. “You're going to be late.” John looks at his watch and Sherlock is right. After a quick goodbye, he takes off.
Despite himself, he's looking out for a chocolate shop or a florist that's still open. He's halfway to the restaurant they'd booked when he finally passes a Clinton's Cards. Inside, he bypasses the cards and makes straight for the gift aisle. Glancing around in a rush, John wrinkles his nose. There are no flowers and no chocolates. There is champagne, but that would be weird when they have nothing to celebrate. He resigns himself to looking at the other gifts, rapidly rejecting a mug with Sarah's name on it as too unromantic; a cushion with 'the one I love' in bright red letters makes him flush uncomfortably. Everything he looks at is ridiculous. A pair of keyrings which fit together to make a heart (with optional engraving), a set of 'Mr & Mrs' passport covers, a snowglobe with hearts instead of snow falling on the heads of a hapless and expressionless couple on a park bench. Shaking his head, he retreats. It would be better to ignore Sherlock than to get Sarah any of these gifts. He's on his way out when he spots a section of half price soft toys. The choice is limited, mostly bears with names like 'Alan' and 'Vince' embroidered on their t-shirts. Hiding behind a 'Congrads' bear in a mortar board, though, there is a plain grey bear holding red roses. Sarah isn't really the soft toy type, John suspects, he's certainly never seen one in her flat. He can still see Sherlock's mysterious expression, hear him saying 'you should listen to me'. So he takes the toy up to the counter.
Sarah is waiting for him outside the restaurant, carrying what looks like a gift bag. John rushes over, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Sorry, am I late?” he asks. Shaking her head, she alerts the waiter they are ready to be seated.
“I wasn't sure if you'd remember,” she says once they're sitting down. She gestures to the Clinton's bag now at John's feet. John tries not to show his confusion. His smile feels awkward on his face and he wonders if Sarah can tell. Sherlock would notice, but Sarah is no Sherlock. She pushes the gift bag across the table to him. John reaches for it, turns the tag over and reads:
'John, happy six months, Sarah'.
Feeling idiotic, John counts months from 'The Blind Banker' in his head. They've been together for six months. They've been together for six months and John didn't notice. Silently thanking Sherlock for the tip-off John hands Sarah the Clinton's bag.
“I didn't wrap it,” he says, knowing he has no excuse. Now that she's really about to open it he wonders if he's made a terrible mistake. To distract himself from awful moment he's sure is about to come, he opens the gift bag and pulls out a shirt. Good quality, a nice shade of green. He likes it and is pleased he won't have to wear a shirt he hates just to appease her. Unfolding it, he notices the short sleeves and his mind jumps back three weeks to the day he decided to test Sherlock's reaction. The bitter taste of adrenaline is already in his mouth when he looks up to see Sarah's reaction to his own gift. She's holding the little bear in one hand, fingers of the other hand touching the petals of the rose gently.
“He's lovely, John,” she says. John feels a stab of guilt about how little thought he put into it.
“Well, I'm glad.” He tries to smile. “The shirt's great. Great!” He hopes he's convinced her. Champagne comes with dinner and John realises she planned this because she wasn't sure he would. She was right. He can hardly taste his steak but tells her it's perfect. After sharing a desert, they walk back to Sarah's flat hand in hand. London is beautiful at night but all John can think is how wrong this feels. Not Sarah, who is beautiful and clever and makes him laugh. John knows he's the problem. He feels like he's deceiving her. They pause for a moment outside Sarah's flat before she invites him upstairs. John turns his phone off, because she will not let it slide if Sherlock phones in the middle of the night tonight. It shouldn't matter; if anything comes up Sherlock can bounce ideas off Lestrade, or his skull. Closing Sarah's front door behind him, John tries not to hope that unusual criminal activity will wait until tomorrow.
John doesn't leave Sarah's flat until the next afternoon, already wearing his new shirt. It's too small, but he's too polite to ask if he can exchange it for a bigger size. Sarah had told him he looked good, wrapping her fingers around the muscles of his forearms. It's not her reaction he's worried about. 221B is empty when he gets there and he feels a slight pang, wondering if Sherlock's on a case without him. Craving a cup of tea, he finds a note under the only clean mug.
Out to see Mycroft. Back for dinner. SH
P.S. No need to thank me.
John smiles. He walks around the empty flat, wondering at the quiet. It's not often he's here and Sherlock isn't. John goes out to work, to the shops, to see Sarah or Harry or occasional other friends, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat. Sherlock, on the other hand, leaves mostly for cases or food and usually John goes with him. Feeling a rush of liberty, John walks back to the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He takes it off and stuffs it into the washing machine with a Persil tablet.
It is late when Sherlock returns, John is dressed in the familiar long sleeved shirt and comfortable jumper combination. He left his favourite jumper, the cream cabled one, at Sarah's by accident so he's wearing the thinner green one.
“I made curry,” John says when Sherlock has flung his suit jacket over the back of a chair.
“Thank you,” says Sherlock, stretching himself out on their couch. John sighs, then gets up, bowing to the inevitable.
“Got a case?” John asks. Sherlock shakes his head, so John steps into the kitchen to plate the rice and curry. In three trips, he brings two plates of lamb curry, a beer and a coffee. Sherlock drinks coffee with everything and John has long since given up trying to understand it.
“How was Sarah?” Sherlock asks between bites. John is always happy to see him eat.
“You could have told me it was my sixth month anniversary,” says John, though he's not really annoyed. There is a moment of silence and John looks over to see if Sherlock is too busy eating to respond. Sherlock is looking at neither the food nor John.
“You bought her something,” Sherlock deduces, just as John is starting to be concerned by the lengthy silence.
“Yes, I did.” John is glad he doesn't have to tell Sherlock what he bought for a moment before it occurs to him that Sherlock might somehow know. Uncomfortable, he takes a large bite of curry and nearly chokes. “How's Mycroft?”he asks, in an attempt to cut off any frightening insights Sherlock might be inclined to reveal.
“Interfering as usual.” Sherlock scowls.
“Trying to get you to take a case?” Mycroft is always sending his brother cases, which Sherlock very rarely deigns to take. The fact that the brothers bothered to meet in person suggests to John that Mycroft is probably pushing harder than usual.
“In my personal life,” Sherlock answers, still scowling. Astonished, John doesn't know how to react. He isn't aware Sherlock has a personal life. Wary of requesting more information, he says nothing. If Sherlock has a secret personal life, it's probably secret for a reason and he won't appreciate John prying. He takes his unfinished curry back into the kitchen. The washing machine light is flashing so he takes his new shirt out and hangs it on the radiator drying rack. Back in the living room, he focuses on his beer. Sherlock is silent, reading or studying or possibly just thinking while staring absently at the papers in front of him, John isn't sure. They spend a few hours together in silence before John leaves Sherlock to whatever it is he's decided is more important than sleep.
*
John is woken early next morning by his phone ringing close to his ear, vibrating against the wood of his bedside table.
“Sherlock?” he asks, before he's fully awake. He can't think of anyone else who would call him this early.
“No, John, it's Sarah.” John rubs sleep out of his eyes and clears his throat. “My dad just phoned. He and mum are going to stop in at my place for lunch on their way home from the airport.” She pauses. John may not be the only consulting detective in the world but even he can tell what is coming. “Why don't you come over? It's a chance for you to meet them and you know they aren't in London often.” John agrees and the details are quickly settled. Unable to get back to sleep, John wraps himself in his dressing gown and makes his way to the bathroom for a shower. Sherlock is already up, or he never went to bed. He's watching morning television, the volume turned up so high John is surprised he couldn't hear it from upstairs.
“Your mistress, obviously,” John hears before he shuts the bathroom door. In the shower, with hot water washing away the last traces of a not entirely peaceful night's sleep, John starts to realise what he has agreed to. Meeting Sarah's parents, the day after their sixth month anniversary. It feels like they've stepped carefully over a boundary and been launched into full speed. He steps out of the shower, shaking water from his hair. The way he's thinking isn't fair to Sarah. She isn't manipulative, she hasn't been waiting until she was sure of them before throwing all the trappings of a serious relationship at him. Back in his bedroom, he dries off and dresses in his smart trousers and shoes before staring into his wardrobe. Judging by the light streaming through his bedroom window, the weather has turned again. John was going to be uncomfortable enough, meeting Sarah's parents, he didn't want to be wearing an uncomfortable shirt and worried about whether or not he was sweating.
It takes him a moment before he comes, reluctantly, to the conclusion that the best thing he can do is wear the shirt Sarah gave him. It isn't until he reaches the door of the living room that he realises he's come downstairs wearing only trousers and shoes. He fights the urge to run back upstairs and grab his dressing gown, telling himself that it's ridiculous. He should be able to walk across the living room shirtless without worrying he's going to freak out his brilliant, eccentric house mate. Sherlock is the most logical man John's ever met, how could a little bare skin possibly be enough to discomfit him? Telling himself that Sherlock won't even notice, and trying not to wonder why that makes his chest feel hollow, John walks purposefully towards the kitchen.
He doesn't look up until he's finished buttoning the shirt. Sherlock's head is turned away, his gaze fixed on the wall. The television is still blaring. John stands, waiting for Sherlock to return his attention to the show. Nothing happens. John stands there for three or four minutes and Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off the wall. The moment stretches out until John cannot bear it. He walks to the television and turns it off. Sherlock still doesn't look at him.
“What do you think of this shirt?” John asks. He has forgotten about Sarah and her parents. He wants Sherlock to look at him. Slowly, Sherlock's head turns and John's breath catches painfully in his throat. He feels itchy everywhere. Sherlock's bright eyes are on him but he says nothing. “Well?” John prompts, amazed he can speak.
“You want to know if Sarah will like it,” Sherlock clarifies. John opens his mouth to correct him but Sherlock isn't listening. “You know I'm married to my work, John. I have no experience relevant to your question.”
“So tell me what you think,” John says, his shoulders squared. Now that he's broached the subject he can't back down.
“I am not a woman,” Sherlock points out.
“You still have opinions,” says John quietly. “You feel sexual attraction.” He isn't at all sure of this, but unlike Sherlock he doesn't have to be right about everything. Sitting down when John is standing, Sherlock looks almost small, almost vulnerable.
“It would be pointless to express sexual attraction when I cannot -” Sherlock begins. John knows what he is going to say and cuts him off.
“Doesn't mean you can't appreciate it,” he says, repeating something Sherlock had said to him months ago. Sherlock's eyes go dark for half a second and then they are staring at each other, neither of them moving. John can feel himself breathing. He thinks he can see Sherlock's chest rising and falling underneath his constant formal layers. Finally, Sherlock gives a quick nod. John turns to hide the grin that he's not sure is really appropriate.
Previous Chapter
Chapter Title: Inquiry
Author: Bizarity
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventually)
Word Count: 2,482
Summary: There are some things about Sherlock Holmes that John cannot mention in his blog. After living with Sherlock for six months, John is noticing some things about Sherlock and about himself that he doesn't fully understand.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexual themes.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson do not belong to me, in any of their incarnations. This fic makes use of the characters in the BBC adaptation, but is not intented to profit me in any way.
For three weeks, life in 221B Baker Street continues as normal. They spend four days racing around London on the trail of an arsonist Sherlock is convinced is connected to Moriarty. Between cases, Sherlock sinks into boredom and John still hasn't found a hiding place for his gun where Sherlock won't find it. John returns to wearing his dressing gown to and from the bathroom and Sherlock, of course, hasn't changed his habits at all. The summer heat dies away quickly, making way for a surprisingly gloomy September.
“Thai tonight?” Sherlock asks him one Friday afternoon.
“Not for me.” John is in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. “I'm taking Sarah out for dinner.” He isn't surprised when Sherlock says nothing. A few hours later he's showered, dressed and ready to walk out the door. Smart shoes, smart trousers, comfortable jumper over an uncomfortable shirt.
“No gift?” Sherlock asks, emphasis on the last word and face twisting into a sneer. Since Mrs Hudson's little talk, John's been taking gifts less and less often. Sarah doesn't seem to mind.
“Nope,” he answers.
“Pick something up on your way.” John stops checking his wallet and looks over at Sherlock.
“Sorry?”
“I said pick something up on your way.”
“Why?” John asks, voice pitching higher.
“Because I'm the world's only consulting detective and you should listen to me,” says Sherlock. “You're going to be late.” John looks at his watch and Sherlock is right. After a quick goodbye, he takes off.
Despite himself, he's looking out for a chocolate shop or a florist that's still open. He's halfway to the restaurant they'd booked when he finally passes a Clinton's Cards. Inside, he bypasses the cards and makes straight for the gift aisle. Glancing around in a rush, John wrinkles his nose. There are no flowers and no chocolates. There is champagne, but that would be weird when they have nothing to celebrate. He resigns himself to looking at the other gifts, rapidly rejecting a mug with Sarah's name on it as too unromantic; a cushion with 'the one I love' in bright red letters makes him flush uncomfortably. Everything he looks at is ridiculous. A pair of keyrings which fit together to make a heart (with optional engraving), a set of 'Mr & Mrs' passport covers, a snowglobe with hearts instead of snow falling on the heads of a hapless and expressionless couple on a park bench. Shaking his head, he retreats. It would be better to ignore Sherlock than to get Sarah any of these gifts. He's on his way out when he spots a section of half price soft toys. The choice is limited, mostly bears with names like 'Alan' and 'Vince' embroidered on their t-shirts. Hiding behind a 'Congrads' bear in a mortar board, though, there is a plain grey bear holding red roses. Sarah isn't really the soft toy type, John suspects, he's certainly never seen one in her flat. He can still see Sherlock's mysterious expression, hear him saying 'you should listen to me'. So he takes the toy up to the counter.
Sarah is waiting for him outside the restaurant, carrying what looks like a gift bag. John rushes over, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Sorry, am I late?” he asks. Shaking her head, she alerts the waiter they are ready to be seated.
“I wasn't sure if you'd remember,” she says once they're sitting down. She gestures to the Clinton's bag now at John's feet. John tries not to show his confusion. His smile feels awkward on his face and he wonders if Sarah can tell. Sherlock would notice, but Sarah is no Sherlock. She pushes the gift bag across the table to him. John reaches for it, turns the tag over and reads:
'John, happy six months, Sarah'.
Feeling idiotic, John counts months from 'The Blind Banker' in his head. They've been together for six months. They've been together for six months and John didn't notice. Silently thanking Sherlock for the tip-off John hands Sarah the Clinton's bag.
“I didn't wrap it,” he says, knowing he has no excuse. Now that she's really about to open it he wonders if he's made a terrible mistake. To distract himself from awful moment he's sure is about to come, he opens the gift bag and pulls out a shirt. Good quality, a nice shade of green. He likes it and is pleased he won't have to wear a shirt he hates just to appease her. Unfolding it, he notices the short sleeves and his mind jumps back three weeks to the day he decided to test Sherlock's reaction. The bitter taste of adrenaline is already in his mouth when he looks up to see Sarah's reaction to his own gift. She's holding the little bear in one hand, fingers of the other hand touching the petals of the rose gently.
“He's lovely, John,” she says. John feels a stab of guilt about how little thought he put into it.
“Well, I'm glad.” He tries to smile. “The shirt's great. Great!” He hopes he's convinced her. Champagne comes with dinner and John realises she planned this because she wasn't sure he would. She was right. He can hardly taste his steak but tells her it's perfect. After sharing a desert, they walk back to Sarah's flat hand in hand. London is beautiful at night but all John can think is how wrong this feels. Not Sarah, who is beautiful and clever and makes him laugh. John knows he's the problem. He feels like he's deceiving her. They pause for a moment outside Sarah's flat before she invites him upstairs. John turns his phone off, because she will not let it slide if Sherlock phones in the middle of the night tonight. It shouldn't matter; if anything comes up Sherlock can bounce ideas off Lestrade, or his skull. Closing Sarah's front door behind him, John tries not to hope that unusual criminal activity will wait until tomorrow.
John doesn't leave Sarah's flat until the next afternoon, already wearing his new shirt. It's too small, but he's too polite to ask if he can exchange it for a bigger size. Sarah had told him he looked good, wrapping her fingers around the muscles of his forearms. It's not her reaction he's worried about. 221B is empty when he gets there and he feels a slight pang, wondering if Sherlock's on a case without him. Craving a cup of tea, he finds a note under the only clean mug.
Out to see Mycroft. Back for dinner. SH
P.S. No need to thank me.
John smiles. He walks around the empty flat, wondering at the quiet. It's not often he's here and Sherlock isn't. John goes out to work, to the shops, to see Sarah or Harry or occasional other friends, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat. Sherlock, on the other hand, leaves mostly for cases or food and usually John goes with him. Feeling a rush of liberty, John walks back to the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He takes it off and stuffs it into the washing machine with a Persil tablet.
It is late when Sherlock returns, John is dressed in the familiar long sleeved shirt and comfortable jumper combination. He left his favourite jumper, the cream cabled one, at Sarah's by accident so he's wearing the thinner green one.
“I made curry,” John says when Sherlock has flung his suit jacket over the back of a chair.
“Thank you,” says Sherlock, stretching himself out on their couch. John sighs, then gets up, bowing to the inevitable.
“Got a case?” John asks. Sherlock shakes his head, so John steps into the kitchen to plate the rice and curry. In three trips, he brings two plates of lamb curry, a beer and a coffee. Sherlock drinks coffee with everything and John has long since given up trying to understand it.
“How was Sarah?” Sherlock asks between bites. John is always happy to see him eat.
“You could have told me it was my sixth month anniversary,” says John, though he's not really annoyed. There is a moment of silence and John looks over to see if Sherlock is too busy eating to respond. Sherlock is looking at neither the food nor John.
“You bought her something,” Sherlock deduces, just as John is starting to be concerned by the lengthy silence.
“Yes, I did.” John is glad he doesn't have to tell Sherlock what he bought for a moment before it occurs to him that Sherlock might somehow know. Uncomfortable, he takes a large bite of curry and nearly chokes. “How's Mycroft?”he asks, in an attempt to cut off any frightening insights Sherlock might be inclined to reveal.
“Interfering as usual.” Sherlock scowls.
“Trying to get you to take a case?” Mycroft is always sending his brother cases, which Sherlock very rarely deigns to take. The fact that the brothers bothered to meet in person suggests to John that Mycroft is probably pushing harder than usual.
“In my personal life,” Sherlock answers, still scowling. Astonished, John doesn't know how to react. He isn't aware Sherlock has a personal life. Wary of requesting more information, he says nothing. If Sherlock has a secret personal life, it's probably secret for a reason and he won't appreciate John prying. He takes his unfinished curry back into the kitchen. The washing machine light is flashing so he takes his new shirt out and hangs it on the radiator drying rack. Back in the living room, he focuses on his beer. Sherlock is silent, reading or studying or possibly just thinking while staring absently at the papers in front of him, John isn't sure. They spend a few hours together in silence before John leaves Sherlock to whatever it is he's decided is more important than sleep.
*
John is woken early next morning by his phone ringing close to his ear, vibrating against the wood of his bedside table.
“Sherlock?” he asks, before he's fully awake. He can't think of anyone else who would call him this early.
“No, John, it's Sarah.” John rubs sleep out of his eyes and clears his throat. “My dad just phoned. He and mum are going to stop in at my place for lunch on their way home from the airport.” She pauses. John may not be the only consulting detective in the world but even he can tell what is coming. “Why don't you come over? It's a chance for you to meet them and you know they aren't in London often.” John agrees and the details are quickly settled. Unable to get back to sleep, John wraps himself in his dressing gown and makes his way to the bathroom for a shower. Sherlock is already up, or he never went to bed. He's watching morning television, the volume turned up so high John is surprised he couldn't hear it from upstairs.
“Your mistress, obviously,” John hears before he shuts the bathroom door. In the shower, with hot water washing away the last traces of a not entirely peaceful night's sleep, John starts to realise what he has agreed to. Meeting Sarah's parents, the day after their sixth month anniversary. It feels like they've stepped carefully over a boundary and been launched into full speed. He steps out of the shower, shaking water from his hair. The way he's thinking isn't fair to Sarah. She isn't manipulative, she hasn't been waiting until she was sure of them before throwing all the trappings of a serious relationship at him. Back in his bedroom, he dries off and dresses in his smart trousers and shoes before staring into his wardrobe. Judging by the light streaming through his bedroom window, the weather has turned again. John was going to be uncomfortable enough, meeting Sarah's parents, he didn't want to be wearing an uncomfortable shirt and worried about whether or not he was sweating.
It takes him a moment before he comes, reluctantly, to the conclusion that the best thing he can do is wear the shirt Sarah gave him. It isn't until he reaches the door of the living room that he realises he's come downstairs wearing only trousers and shoes. He fights the urge to run back upstairs and grab his dressing gown, telling himself that it's ridiculous. He should be able to walk across the living room shirtless without worrying he's going to freak out his brilliant, eccentric house mate. Sherlock is the most logical man John's ever met, how could a little bare skin possibly be enough to discomfit him? Telling himself that Sherlock won't even notice, and trying not to wonder why that makes his chest feel hollow, John walks purposefully towards the kitchen.
He doesn't look up until he's finished buttoning the shirt. Sherlock's head is turned away, his gaze fixed on the wall. The television is still blaring. John stands, waiting for Sherlock to return his attention to the show. Nothing happens. John stands there for three or four minutes and Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off the wall. The moment stretches out until John cannot bear it. He walks to the television and turns it off. Sherlock still doesn't look at him.
“What do you think of this shirt?” John asks. He has forgotten about Sarah and her parents. He wants Sherlock to look at him. Slowly, Sherlock's head turns and John's breath catches painfully in his throat. He feels itchy everywhere. Sherlock's bright eyes are on him but he says nothing. “Well?” John prompts, amazed he can speak.
“You want to know if Sarah will like it,” Sherlock clarifies. John opens his mouth to correct him but Sherlock isn't listening. “You know I'm married to my work, John. I have no experience relevant to your question.”
“So tell me what you think,” John says, his shoulders squared. Now that he's broached the subject he can't back down.
“I am not a woman,” Sherlock points out.
“You still have opinions,” says John quietly. “You feel sexual attraction.” He isn't at all sure of this, but unlike Sherlock he doesn't have to be right about everything. Sitting down when John is standing, Sherlock looks almost small, almost vulnerable.
“It would be pointless to express sexual attraction when I cannot -” Sherlock begins. John knows what he is going to say and cuts him off.
“Doesn't mean you can't appreciate it,” he says, repeating something Sherlock had said to him months ago. Sherlock's eyes go dark for half a second and then they are staring at each other, neither of them moving. John can feel himself breathing. He thinks he can see Sherlock's chest rising and falling underneath his constant formal layers. Finally, Sherlock gives a quick nod. John turns to hide the grin that he's not sure is really appropriate.
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