Knit Two Together (4/?)
anonymous
December 13 2011, 21:26:56 UTC
Sherlock frets about the problem to the point that he snaps the point off his circular needle. He takes a trip back to the same yarn shop, with his anonymous canvas knitting bag in tow, hoping they have the same brand and size still in stock. The manager, a big elderly lady with a sweet voice, remembers him and greets him by name. She is positively eager to see his work in progress, and her praise is a welcome reassurance that he hasn't gone wrong along the way; she helps him thread the new needle into place and remove the broken one, and gives him some clever pointers on attaching the sleeves as he works his way up the yoke before finishing the collar.
Finally, hesitantly, Sherlock confides his concern over the uneven gift-giving, and she smiles indulgently.
"He will be touched and pleased, no matter what, I promise you. But you're wise to consider it ahead of time. Best advice I have: think on what you would consider a fair exchange for this gift."
"But I don't need..."
"You don't need to receive anything, because his pleasure in this," she says, fondling the wool, "will make you happy. But he may need to give you something. So think, son. Any talent he has that makes you happy? Something only he can do for you?"
Sherlock ponders, relieved that for once there's no hint of innuendo about him and John, even if the making of this gift for his flatmate has become almost as intimate as it is domestic. He thanks her for the assistance and returns home, still pondering, to find John already in the kitchen, something appetizing bubbling on the hob.
Sherlock leans in to smell and identify before he remembers the bag he's holding.
"What's that?" John asks.
"Ah. Christmas gift. Let me just tuck it upstairs," Sherlock smiles, but not before John's lips tighten. He hurries up to his room, hides the bag in the bottom drawer of his chest. Back in the kitchen, John is clearing the table, and Sherlock takes over, moving his chemistry equipment off to the round table on the side. John turns back to the the cooker.
"About Christmas," Sherlock says, to the back of John's head. "I know you think I hardly need any more clutter in the flat and... in light of -- that is, would it be too awkward to just tell you what I'd like?"
John rests his spoon on the hob, and turns to look at Sherlock warily. No, not wary...insecure.
Sherlock gestures toward the sink, and John sniffs at a sponge before dampening it slightly for him, and tossing it across the table. Sherlock begins wiping the table down, searching for the right words. "What I'd like, if you're willing, is for you to expand your blog posts. Include more details about the crimes and how we solved them."
John watches him as if he's grown a second head. "I thought you didn't like my blog?"
"I have...on occasion, been frustrated with your blog. For obvious egotistical reasons." He smiles, ruefully, he hopes. "But also, because it's frustrating to see fascinating cases reduced to a handful of succinct paragraphs."
Sherlock looks up, and John exchanges a dry towel for the sponge; Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment, knowing John must be able to trust his sincerity in this.
"I admire your way with words, John, and I value your insights. Would you, please, consider expanding at least one of your write-ups into a proper article? Or story, if you prefer the fiction form. Something closer to ten or twenty thousand words, rather than a thousand. I know it's a lot to ask."
Finally, hesitantly, Sherlock confides his concern over the uneven gift-giving, and she smiles indulgently.
"He will be touched and pleased, no matter what, I promise you. But you're wise to consider it ahead of time. Best advice I have: think on what you would consider a fair exchange for this gift."
"But I don't need..."
"You don't need to receive anything, because his pleasure in this," she says, fondling the wool, "will make you happy. But he may need to give you something. So think, son. Any talent he has that makes you happy? Something only he can do for you?"
Sherlock ponders, relieved that for once there's no hint of innuendo about him and John, even if the making of this gift for his flatmate has become almost as intimate as it is domestic. He thanks her for the assistance and returns home, still pondering, to find John already in the kitchen, something appetizing bubbling on the hob.
Sherlock leans in to smell and identify before he remembers the bag he's holding.
"What's that?" John asks.
"Ah. Christmas gift. Let me just tuck it upstairs," Sherlock smiles, but not before John's lips tighten. He hurries up to his room, hides the bag in the bottom drawer of his chest. Back in the kitchen, John is clearing the table, and Sherlock takes over, moving his chemistry equipment off to the round table on the side. John turns back to the the cooker.
"About Christmas," Sherlock says, to the back of John's head. "I know you think I hardly need any more clutter in the flat and... in light of -- that is, would it be too awkward to just tell you what I'd like?"
John rests his spoon on the hob, and turns to look at Sherlock warily. No, not wary...insecure.
Sherlock gestures toward the sink, and John sniffs at a sponge before dampening it slightly for him, and tossing it across the table. Sherlock begins wiping the table down, searching for the right words. "What I'd like, if you're willing, is for you to expand your blog posts. Include more details about the crimes and how we solved them."
John watches him as if he's grown a second head. "I thought you didn't like my blog?"
"I have...on occasion, been frustrated with your blog. For obvious egotistical reasons." He smiles, ruefully, he hopes. "But also, because it's frustrating to see fascinating cases reduced to a handful of succinct paragraphs."
Sherlock looks up, and John exchanges a dry towel for the sponge; Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment, knowing John must be able to trust his sincerity in this.
"I admire your way with words, John, and I value your insights. Would you, please, consider expanding at least one of your write-ups into a proper article? Or story, if you prefer the fiction form. Something closer to ten or twenty thousand words, rather than a thousand. I know it's a lot to ask."
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