(Untitled)
This is without a doubt one of the stupidest things Sherlock has ever experienced. He's sprawled in an armchair, a book lying open and unread in his lap, a nicotine patch on each arm, staring listlessly at the wall.
Stupid. His eyes flick down to the book and he concentrates on the words, reading for what must be half an hour, if not forty five ( Read more... )
Stupid. His eyes flick down to the book and he concentrates on the words, reading for what must be half an hour, if not forty five ( Read more... )
Tomorrow should be fun, then.
His eyes flick over John. Irritated, frustrated, unlikely to put up with much- and he's been counting paces again, too, probably, though that's hard to know for certain in this instance. He also- judging from his clothes, his state of mind, his expression- hasn't had sex.
Sherlock, satisfied, returns his gaze to his book. Blinks once. Goes over what has just gone through his head one more time, with a kind of surprise.
John hasn't had sex with Sarah...and this is a good thing. Because, Sherlock reasons- because, obviously, he'd have been detained for longer if they were- ugh. Sherlock's poked through more dead bodies and unsavoury things than most people see in their nightmares, but the thought of John and Sarah- no. How vile.
It's a good thing because it means he's home sooner, and because it means he's less distracted from important things like crime and Sherlock, and because it means that nothing vile has taken place and Sarah has kept her distance- and this reasoning is only going in circles.
"Not worth going out full stop, actually," he says, defaulting to pessimism and staring at the page.
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Enough. Thinking about Sarah and trying to work out what it is he's doing wrong will only frustrate him further. He forces a smile at Sherlock.
"You're not going to that auction after all, then?"
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He saw that hesitance with the scarf and analyses it, even as he tries to focus on the text. Sentimentality? Hardly. That was annoyance he'd seen in John's eyes.
Again; good.
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It's not fair, really, being irritable with Sherlock when it isn't his fault- but right now John can't bring himself to care. He feels like a complete pillock for even bringing a condom. Can she tell he does that? Maybe she thinks it's like he's expecting--
Really, enough. He can't work out what to do with his hands, rubbing them together as if to warm them up- but they're not cold, they were in his pockets. Tea. He'll make tea. Maybe even grab a couple of hobnobs. He makes his way through to the kitchen without waiting for a response, knowing full well from experience that he'll be able to hear Sherlock's doubtlessly witty retort perfectly well while filling the kettle.
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The word escapes him. Vile? No. Annoying? No. Boring? No. Well, she's all three, but that's not what he's trying to express right now. He gives up for the moment. It'll come easier to him with caffeine. "And tea would be lovely," he adds in a quieter, sardonic tone, sounding arch and reproachful, as if he deserves the moral high ground. "Thank you for offering."
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Where were those biscuits anyway? He doubts Sherlock's eaten them all, if he's eaten anything today. Idiotic man.
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Yes, Sherlock does know what drain cleaner is and knows where in the kitchen it resides. This is more of a fluke than anything, however; he hasn't grasped the concept of things having proper places, hence why the cupboard under the sink houses the hobnobs he removed from the counter earlier to make way for a microscope and assorted bits of scientific paraphernalia. It was closest.
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He shakes his head and retrieves the (mostly full) packet, putting it aside as he pulls out a couple teabags and dumps them in the mugs. They need a biscuit jar. Maybe one of those sets for tea, coffee and biscuits.
God, but he's thinking about ceramics. That's what the unholy tag team of Sarah's inexplicable reluctance to let him into the bedroom and Sherlock's superior wit has reduced him to. He pours out the kettle and dunks the teabags moodily.
"We're out of assam," he notes. "You like that one or the lady grey better?"
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"I'll get some more tomorrow after lunch. You want anything else?"
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Lucky.
Oh.
Well.
Well.
"That's new," Sherlock murmurs, more to the book than to John, in a tone of slight shell-shock.
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"What is?" he asks, putting the mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink of finality. Sounds like Sherlock's got a case.
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"What? Oh. Nothing." While he's usually pale, 'waxy' might be a more appropriate word now, but he can manage an approximation of being fine aside from that. He is, after all, an excellent actor. "Reading." The book is entitled The Ancient Art of Strangulation, because Sherlock thinks fiction is just what people read when they've run out of interesting non-fiction, and in his world, 'interesting non-fiction' tends to involve death. Death or bees.
His head is spinning, and intellectually, he's fairly sure he knows this can't be right. For goodness' sake, he is not a teenager. In fact, even as a teenager, nothing this ridiculous happened to him. He's making facts fit theories rather than the other way around.
Lucky, he thinks again. Notes the lack of sex, the condom John had taken and then also returned home with, John's relative mood. Wonders if perhaps he should amend that to ungrateful, though he's not sure if sex interests him or not. It's certainly never been anything but boring before- not that he's had any particularly wide experience. Not even that he's had a normal level of experience, whatever a normal level is. Another licked finger. Another page turn. John isn't ever boring, despite what Sherlock frequently claims.
It's with quite a detached air that he calmly comments to himself, I'm entirely doomed.
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"Strangulation? Would have thought we'd done enough of that recently. How are those rope burns healing?"
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Just transport.
He's still nervously fidgeting with the corner of the page, the fingers of his other hand drumming on the book as he glances up, giving John another long look.
"Sarah was her usual..." A word, a word, a word, why must he spent so much time looking for adjectives for that damned woman? "...charming self, I see," he drawls. He can't help himself. Best to needle a little. Gather information. Familiarise himself with the basics of the situation before getting too closely involved. Not that he intends to get involved in any way which could be...messy. No, if it comes to that, it would be better to simply cut ties altogether.
He can't seem to stop tapping his fingers. He clenches his hand into a fist in an attempt to stop himself.
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"Sarah's wonderful, thanks," he replies curtly, snatching up a hobnob and dunking it in his tea viciously. "She asked about you."
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