Sympathy Spaghetti (2/?)sursum_ursaDecember 28 2011, 11:49:55 UTC
While 'Come back any time' is generally considered a polite if somewhat imprecise way of extending hospitality, Angelo has been around women long enough to know when they're...skittish.
A bit like horses.
Not that he knows a lot about horses.
Regardless, he spends the next two weeks noticeably tenser than usual. Even, as his niece comments, a little...snappish.
To the point that, when Sherlock comes in to stake out something 'dull' ("Dull but lucrative!" John amends) across the street, he spends a whole five seconds just looking at Angelo, trying to work out the difference.
That distinct feeling of being X-rayed, or MRI-scanned, or...reduced to component parts and then reassembled is as unnerving as ever.
Oddly, though, Sherlock offers no running commentary on the frankly disappointing state of Angelo's love life. Angelo supposes that even consulting detectives need more to go on than a morose face and two weeks of being sulkier than usual to correctly deduce-
'Molly Hooper.' Sherlock says, when Angelo comes over to take John's plate away.
And Angelo, well practiced, does not so much as blink. John, not so well practiced, looks confused.
'Molly Hooper what, Sherlock?' he enquires, wiping his mouth with the napkin and reaching for the water jug.
'She'll know if-' there follows a long string of words which are all but incomprehensible, which conclude with, '-and she can bring one here.' Sherlock pulls out his mobile, and begins to text. 'Angelo?' he says, over the gentle tap of long fingers on a touchscreen.
'Yes, Sherlock?' His voice doesn't even waver, and he's ludicrously proud of this fact.
'Would you bring us another chair, please? We're expecting another person in, oh, seventeen minutes or so.'
'Of course!' Angelo even manages to force some ebullience into his voice. John looks slightly confused. Sherlock doesn't even look up.
Molly Hooper arrives twenty-nine minutes later, bundled up in a thick brown wool coat and sky blue hat, scarf and honest-to-goodness mittens. Angelo didn't think anyone over the age of nine wore mittens any more, but he finds it hopelessly endearing nonetheless.
She enters shyly, and Angelo smiles encouragingly at her as he takes her coat, shows her to her seat, hands her a menu. She's carrying a Tupperware box with who-knows-what inside, which she passes to Sherlock with a dazzling smile.
Sherlock smiles perfunctorily back, and Angelo sees her face fall.
And it is the most ridiculous thing, but suddenly he really, REALLY wants to make her smile like that again.
Sherlock opens the Tupperware and then shuts it hastily when John scowls at him. A sudden, genuine smile lights his face.
Angelo, rather belatedly, puts two and two together and makes four. As Sherlock bolts out of the restaurant, John hot on his heels, Angelo decides it's now or never.
'Doctor Hooper?' he says softly, and she flinches, very slightly. 'Molly? Sherlock's...that was him, wasn't it?'
It's only barely a question. Molly smiles again, this time with a look in her eyes that nearly breaks his heart.
'And he was the less stupid option.'
'I have a better one.' Angelo says, before he can stop himself. 'What are you doing next Friday?'
The hopeless look doesn't quite vanish. But it's beaten back by a hope that burns like the heart of a star.
'I'd like that.'
Which is wonderful, he realises three hours later, as he closes up and sends his niece home early.
A bit like horses.
Not that he knows a lot about horses.
Regardless, he spends the next two weeks noticeably tenser than usual. Even, as his niece comments, a little...snappish.
To the point that, when Sherlock comes in to stake out something 'dull' ("Dull but lucrative!" John amends) across the street, he spends a whole five seconds just looking at Angelo, trying to work out the difference.
That distinct feeling of being X-rayed, or MRI-scanned, or...reduced to component parts and then reassembled is as unnerving as ever.
Oddly, though, Sherlock offers no running commentary on the frankly disappointing state of Angelo's love life. Angelo supposes that even consulting detectives need more to go on than a morose face and two weeks of being sulkier than usual to correctly deduce-
'Molly Hooper.' Sherlock says, when Angelo comes over to take John's plate away.
And Angelo, well practiced, does not so much as blink. John, not so well practiced, looks confused.
'Molly Hooper what, Sherlock?' he enquires, wiping his mouth with the napkin and reaching for the water jug.
'She'll know if-' there follows a long string of words which are all but incomprehensible, which conclude with, '-and she can bring one here.' Sherlock pulls out his mobile, and begins to text. 'Angelo?' he says, over the gentle tap of long fingers on a touchscreen.
'Yes, Sherlock?' His voice doesn't even waver, and he's ludicrously proud of this fact.
'Would you bring us another chair, please? We're expecting another person in, oh, seventeen minutes or so.'
'Of course!' Angelo even manages to force some ebullience into his voice. John looks slightly confused. Sherlock doesn't even look up.
Molly Hooper arrives twenty-nine minutes later, bundled up in a thick brown wool coat and sky blue hat, scarf and honest-to-goodness mittens. Angelo didn't think anyone over the age of nine wore mittens any more, but he finds it hopelessly endearing nonetheless.
She enters shyly, and Angelo smiles encouragingly at her as he takes her coat, shows her to her seat, hands her a menu. She's carrying a Tupperware box with who-knows-what inside, which she passes to Sherlock with a dazzling smile.
Sherlock smiles perfunctorily back, and Angelo sees her face fall.
And it is the most ridiculous thing, but suddenly he really, REALLY wants to make her smile like that again.
Sherlock opens the Tupperware and then shuts it hastily when John scowls at him. A sudden, genuine smile lights his face.
Angelo, rather belatedly, puts two and two together and makes four. As Sherlock bolts out of the restaurant, John hot on his heels, Angelo decides it's now or never.
'Doctor Hooper?' he says softly, and she flinches, very slightly. 'Molly? Sherlock's...that was him, wasn't it?'
It's only barely a question. Molly smiles again, this time with a look in her eyes that nearly breaks his heart.
'And he was the less stupid option.'
'I have a better one.' Angelo says, before he can stop himself. 'What are you doing next Friday?'
The hopeless look doesn't quite vanish. But it's beaten back by a hope that burns like the heart of a star.
'I'd like that.'
Which is wonderful, he realises three hours later, as he closes up and sends his niece home early.
But what are they going to do?
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