The Engagement (4a/?)thedeadparrotSeptember 25 2010, 00:09:38 UTC
The Watsons' flats are far more modest than Sherlock expected. In London, displays of status are almost worth as much as status itself. The Stuarts, for example, have decided build a zoo on the edges of their section of London, despite the fact that everyone knows that they don't have the funds, and the Smythe-Featheringtons like to throw elaborate dinner parties just so that they can give themselves the best seats at the table. Sherlock finds it vaguely ridiculous, but like many other things in London, it's something that is very important to understand.
The woman who lives downstairs, just a commoner who has earned favor with the family by the look of her socks, answers the doorbell when Sherlock rings. She smiles at him, far to knowingly, as she lets him in. "Come in, dear," she says. "He's waiting for you upstairs." Out of spite, Sherlock decides not to tell her that her husband is wanted by the Adlers for two counts of murder.
Sherlock climbs the stairs two at a time, eager to finish this meeting so that he can get on with more important, more interesting things. The living room is quiet when he arrives, and so he takes a moment to observe his surroundings. The rooms are small, what some might even term "cozy," though Sherlock finds them much closer to "claustrophobic" after living in rooms with high ceilings and large windows his entire life. The walls are painted a pale green, and the bookshelves are stacked full of medical textbooks and mystery novels. The couch in front of the telly is old and well-used -- Sherlock can see a dip in center from where weight has been applied to it repeatedly and there are food stains on the arms from a particularly eventful dinner party several years ago. There are no personal photographs hung up on any of the walls, nor are there any placed on top of any of the surfaces. There is a soft rug thrown over the hardwood floor that has seen much better days. A battered copy of The Art of War sits on one of the end tables, underneath a lamp.
"Oh, hello," a man says as he walks out into the living room from the bedroom. John Watson is shorter than Sherlock expected, his hair cut into a neat military style. He limps, very slightly, putting more weight on the left foot rather than the right. He is wearing a plain oatmeal-colored woolen jumper and a simple pair of jeans. It is remarkable how unremarkable he seems. Unlike most royalty, it would be possible to pass Prince John on the streets and not realize who he was. Sherlock has devoted quite a bit of time into figuring out how to make himself forgettable. For John, it seems to come naturally. "You're here a bit early," John says. "I was about to put on some tea."
Despite the many lessons in protocol Sherlock received while growing up, Sherlock was never properly coached on how to greet one's future husband when meeting him for the first time. A handshake seems too awkward, and a kiss seems too intimate. He decides to follow John into the kitchen, taking note of the scuffs on John's shoes and the worn edge's of John's belt, the tan lines along his wrists.
The kitchen is small, as modest as the rest of the flat, and it shares the same lived-in quality as the other rooms. None of the plates or cups match, and there are faint knife marks on the wooden counters from where someone didn't bother putting down a cutting board before chopping up vegetables. John pulls two mugs from the shelves. The larger of the two is blue, with messy white lines painted along the sides. The other is a solid pale yellow with a tiny curved handle. Sherlock has never learned how to make tea for himself. It is a simple enough process, he is sure, but it had never seemed necessary to learn when all he had to do was snaps his fingers in order to get one of the servants to make a cup for him. "I'll have it with sugar," Sherlock says.
"All right, then," John says. He smiles, a small curl of his lips, and Sherlock finds himself entranced by the barest hint of scarring near the base of John's neck. It is mostly covered up by the collar of his shirt, but when he moves, the collar shifts, revealing more skin to Sherlock's hungry eyes.
The woman who lives downstairs, just a commoner who has earned favor with the family by the look of her socks, answers the doorbell when Sherlock rings. She smiles at him, far to knowingly, as she lets him in. "Come in, dear," she says. "He's waiting for you upstairs." Out of spite, Sherlock decides not to tell her that her husband is wanted by the Adlers for two counts of murder.
Sherlock climbs the stairs two at a time, eager to finish this meeting so that he can get on with more important, more interesting things. The living room is quiet when he arrives, and so he takes a moment to observe his surroundings. The rooms are small, what some might even term "cozy," though Sherlock finds them much closer to "claustrophobic" after living in rooms with high ceilings and large windows his entire life. The walls are painted a pale green, and the bookshelves are stacked full of medical textbooks and mystery novels. The couch in front of the telly is old and well-used -- Sherlock can see a dip in center from where weight has been applied to it repeatedly and there are food stains on the arms from a particularly eventful dinner party several years ago. There are no personal photographs hung up on any of the walls, nor are there any placed on top of any of the surfaces. There is a soft rug thrown over the hardwood floor that has seen much better days. A battered copy of The Art of War sits on one of the end tables, underneath a lamp.
"Oh, hello," a man says as he walks out into the living room from the bedroom. John Watson is shorter than Sherlock expected, his hair cut into a neat military style. He limps, very slightly, putting more weight on the left foot rather than the right. He is wearing a plain oatmeal-colored woolen jumper and a simple pair of jeans. It is remarkable how unremarkable he seems. Unlike most royalty, it would be possible to pass Prince John on the streets and not realize who he was. Sherlock has devoted quite a bit of time into figuring out how to make himself forgettable. For John, it seems to come naturally. "You're here a bit early," John says. "I was about to put on some tea."
Despite the many lessons in protocol Sherlock received while growing up, Sherlock was never properly coached on how to greet one's future husband when meeting him for the first time. A handshake seems too awkward, and a kiss seems too intimate. He decides to follow John into the kitchen, taking note of the scuffs on John's shoes and the worn edge's of John's belt, the tan lines along his wrists.
The kitchen is small, as modest as the rest of the flat, and it shares the same lived-in quality as the other rooms. None of the plates or cups match, and there are faint knife marks on the wooden counters from where someone didn't bother putting down a cutting board before chopping up vegetables. John pulls two mugs from the shelves. The larger of the two is blue, with messy white lines painted along the sides. The other is a solid pale yellow with a tiny curved handle. Sherlock has never learned how to make tea for himself. It is a simple enough process, he is sure, but it had never seemed necessary to learn when all he had to do was snaps his fingers in order to get one of the servants to make a cup for him. "I'll have it with sugar," Sherlock says.
"All right, then," John says. He smiles, a small curl of his lips, and Sherlock finds himself entranced by the barest hint of scarring near the base of John's neck. It is mostly covered up by the collar of his shirt, but when he moves, the collar shifts, revealing more skin to Sherlock's hungry eyes.
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