Disguise, part 3a/?
anonymous
April 3 2011, 23:04:45 UTC
a/n: This part is divided into 2 comments. I so appreciate people's patience between updates; I don't normally get reliable writing time apart from the weekends. I'll get the next part up next weekend, if not before. And thank you very much for reading. It means a lot. <3
~*~
Sherlock returns less than an hour later. He hangs his coat and comes into the sitting room. The disguise is gone. John has made a cup of tea and is sitting in his chair with it balanced on his knee. The telly is on, but he has the sound off.
"You're angry with me."
John doesn't say anything.
"You left the laundromat without saying a word. You couldn't have walked anywhere before you returned to the flat. You made a cup of tea, discarded it in anger, then made a second. You've managed to stare at the curls of steam rising above it, but not drink a single sip."
Of course Sherlock has characterised John's approach to tea preparation and consumption. Of course he has. But John is still pissed off at... at well, everything. He doesn't bloody understand why Sherlock would--
And yet, he's still fascinated by Sherlock's remarkable ability to take a cursory glance around and see things. There's one piece of Sherlock's little monologue of which John can't make sense.
"How do you know I didn't go for a walk before coming back here?"
"Obvious. You took the most direct route back from the laundromat."
"Maybe I did," John said, still interested in spite of himself. "How did you know?"
"The most direct route home passes the Chinese restaurant and a bookshop, but no market. Any other possible route passes at least one market. We are in need of milk. There is no new milk in the kitchen, no milk in your tea. Inference: you took the most direct route home."
"Maybe I was too upset to get milk."
Sherlock raises his eyebrow at John, then cocks his head. John can't help but smile. His anger -- well, it doesn't melt, but it shrinks a little. It's not battering around in the front of his mind anymore. Sherlock's right, the bastard. John would never pass a market without going in if they were in need of milk. Bloody consulting detective. Always -- or very nearly always -- right.
John picks up his teacup and takes a small sip, grimaces at the lack of milk, then looks toward the door where Sherlock hung his coat.
"Wait, where's the washing?"
Sherlock blinks, looks around, and then genuinely looks sheepish. "I have no idea."
~*~
Sherlock returns less than an hour later. He hangs his coat and comes into the sitting room. The disguise is gone. John has made a cup of tea and is sitting in his chair with it balanced on his knee. The telly is on, but he has the sound off.
"You're angry with me."
John doesn't say anything.
"You left the laundromat without saying a word. You couldn't have walked anywhere before you returned to the flat. You made a cup of tea, discarded it in anger, then made a second. You've managed to stare at the curls of steam rising above it, but not drink a single sip."
Of course Sherlock has characterised John's approach to tea preparation and consumption. Of course he has. But John is still pissed off at... at well, everything. He doesn't bloody understand why Sherlock would--
And yet, he's still fascinated by Sherlock's remarkable ability to take a cursory glance around and see things. There's one piece of Sherlock's little monologue of which John can't make sense.
"How do you know I didn't go for a walk before coming back here?"
"Obvious. You took the most direct route back from the laundromat."
"Maybe I did," John said, still interested in spite of himself. "How did you know?"
"The most direct route home passes the Chinese restaurant and a bookshop, but no market. Any other possible route passes at least one market. We are in need of milk. There is no new milk in the kitchen, no milk in your tea. Inference: you took the most direct route home."
"Maybe I was too upset to get milk."
Sherlock raises his eyebrow at John, then cocks his head. John can't help but smile. His anger -- well, it doesn't melt, but it shrinks a little. It's not battering around in the front of his mind anymore. Sherlock's right, the bastard. John would never pass a market without going in if they were in need of milk. Bloody consulting detective. Always -- or very nearly always -- right.
John picks up his teacup and takes a small sip, grimaces at the lack of milk, then looks toward the door where Sherlock hung his coat.
"Wait, where's the washing?"
Sherlock blinks, looks around, and then genuinely looks sheepish. "I have no idea."
~*~
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