theblogger | Appointments

[Once he goes into his room and realises it has been gone through, there will be a momentary worry. After all, he has something secreted away there. Not for use but to avoid a row likely to be far more vicious than any over cigarettes. Especially so early. But he was extremely careful in choosing to hide the lone syringe that had found its way here. He hadn't even been looking for it-- it had been in its place in his evidence kit. A reminder of where he'd been before here.

Nothing had come with it, and he hadn't had any interest in finding either of the powders that should have accompanied it, been tucked away in a pouch of the kit. He was bored enough to smoke, but the situation wasn't yet dire enough to require anything stronger than nicotine. Working alone, hunting Moriarty and his assassins alone... that required more. But, even with Moriarty here, this place was... safe enough that he didn't need those.

But he wasn't sure John would believe him if he found the syringe. (Maybe, he considered, he wasn't being totally honest with himself. If he didn't think he'd ever have use for it, why keep it? ...But that's a question for another day.) Logic will dicate, though, after the initial concern that if John had found the syringe, he would have taken it from its hiding place and confronted him with it now.

As it stands, he looks at John holding the cigarette. Perhaps he has some idea what the game is. Perhaps he really is lost. Either way, his reply is simple, neither angry or dismissive. He's almost confused.]

You don't smoke.

[And always protest smoking quite a lot, in fact.]

You quit.

[ A simple retort for a simple statement. John's eyes track over the world outside the window for a moment, fingers pulling the cigarette out and rolling it between them with the delay. But then his gaze shifts and his brows heft as he stares at the other, asking for the next step and seemingly ready to follow through on the turnabout. ]

[His reply to Donovan can't be called on here. He can't just shrug it off, even if John knows better than her the erratic nature of his need for a cigarette.

Recalling Mycroft's answer when he mentioned smoking indoors won't help. John will just list off all the damage he could do to himself. Probably invoking the (irritating but perhaps not inaccurate) potential to slide into worse habits.

Pointing out that he's done worse in the months since he "died"... is precisely what he wants to avoid. He's sure John could guess, but he came here clean and he doesn't intend to undo that. One cigarette doesn't count.

Damn it.]

I'll quit again.

[After this one.]

[ John can see the internal debate going on here, or at least the fact that one is present. ]

Okay.

[ His palm is held out again. If it's just one, Sherlock... If it doesn't really count... If it's that important to you... ]

[Sherlock can identify sentiment when he sees it. Of course. He may not always understand the cause of it, but sometimes he can-- cutting the wife out of a picture, giving away a gift. This, though... It's sentiment of some kind.

He's trying to make some sort of point. Even if Sherlock can't quite deduce what it is.

John is the doctor. The one with all the objections to smoking.

Sherlock does retrieve a book of matches from his pocket. More useful than a lighter, he's found. Much more manoeuvrable, which makes them much more suitable for a variety of situations. He doesn't hand them over yet, though, just watching John.]

These are poor quality. Hardly what someone should start with.

[Bluff? Excuse? Or is he being serious?]

[ Have a flat look, Sherlock. That's what you're going for? ]

All cigarettes are shit. Besides, it's good enough for you. I don't see why I deserve any better.

[ And John doesn't mean to pick up the habit. He doesn't want to do this. But he will.

His fingers twitch and extend toward the matches, but he doesn't reach. Sherlock will have to give them to him. ]

[...Damn it.]

Good enough for a smoker who hasn't had one for awhile. Not something to start on.

[But it's weak. He knows it's weak.

It's not that he objects to John smoking. Not really. But John doesn't approve of smoking. So him picking up the habit... or even acting like he intends to pick up the habit.

Why should he care? He's always firmly told his flatmate (while sometimes listening to him, nonetheless) that what he does is none of John's business.

The reverse should be true.]

You won't like them.

Does it matter?

[ This is a development, or at least John is reading it as one. He doesn't think the other man would have protested months ago to this. He doesn't think Sherlock would have cared enough. But he will now, or that's what John thinks. And whatever Sherlock chooses to do about the matter may be telling to them both. ]

I wouldn't let a non-drinker start with Corona.

[That's his argument: If you're going to have a first something, it should be good.]

It's not the first time I've smoked.

[ College absolutely counts. What now, Sherlock? ]

You don't need to smoke.

[But he does. Needs to think. Needs to sort out the thoughts that he can't discuss. Figure out what to do about Moriarty, how much can be done without bringing John into it.

Without risking his friend more than necessary.]

If you smoke, I smoke.

[ There it is, Sherlock, this much and more out in the open. No more argument: this is how it's going to be so far as John is concerned. Now is the time for a decision. His hand is open. ]

[He's half tempted to give John the matches and watch him try to smoke the cigarette Sherlock already knows will be a disappointment to him and likely a choking hazard to John.

...Okay, so probably not that bad, but still...

If he doesn't hand over the matches and instead hands over the cigarette he's holding... John wins, and he's revealed more than he likes.
If he does hand over the matches and smokes a cheap American cigarette with John... he's still lost.

Damn it, John.

He says nothing, keeping his eyes locked on John.

Are we really going to do this?]

[ John is aware of the position he's putting Sherlock in. It's a game of hands now, if even that. He'll meet the other's stare, steady, waiting.

Looks like. ]

[Fine.

The matches are between fore and middle finger of his right hand, almost as if to be offered out... then it's back into his pocket.

He hasn't let go of his cigarette, though.]

[ Fine.

The top of the cigarette pack is thumbed open, and the cigarette between his fingers holding it, but John doesn't replace it. He also doesn't drop his open hand. Something needs to go there. ]

[Sherlock looks at John's hand, then at John's eyes.

He changes his hold on the cigarette, about two things from the end he'd light. One nail sort of pressing into the paper but not enough to break it. Not yet.

Another offer at compromise. This one entirely silent.]/small>

[ John's eyes go from Sherlock's to the man's hand and his silent proposal. After a moment's consideration, his own grip on his cigarette shifts to mirror Sherlock's. ]

[...Fine.

Fine.

With all due reluctance, the whole cigarette is put in John's hand. Sherlock's expression? Not a happy genius.

Not happy at all.

There will be sulking involved. And plotting how to get that box back. Without John noticing.]

[ There's a blink as the cigarette lands in his palm, a few milliseconds of staring at it before John's eyes move up to Sherlock's face. This had been a possibility, but not what John had expected. For a moment, the former soldier's expression is quite open with shock. The detective is playing his part, looking well and truly miffed at him for being denied the pacifier. John's role is to play a man who expected this outcome all along, because it was the right thing to do, but it's just not working out. He's touched.

His fingers fumble slightly replacing the cigarettes in their pack, and he drops his eyes awkwardly to pay attention to what the hell he's doing. His throat feels thick, so he clears it, softly. Instinct to not make a scene very quickly makes him move away from the window, though not... without reaching out to brush a hand across the other man's shoulder as he passes. ]

Dinner?

[Sherlock tells himself that he will simply find the pack later and sneak one of the cigarettes. John's mind isn't as acute. He won't remember that there's only one missing (smoked by the pack's previous owner, not by the detective) instead of two.

He'll sneak one in the middle of the night, smoke it outside. On the roof. Yes. It's decided. On the roof. He still has to prove to himself that he's not going to flinch away from heights, or train himself out of it if he does.

The question, though, pulls him out of one thought and into another. A thought about the mobile in the drawer. Of blood-red lips. His answer is automatic.]

I'm not hungry.

[And in a heartbeat, he remembers where he is and who he's talking to, and the tone is a little more relaxed. Somewhat more natural.]

I'll grab something later.

You're busy now?

[ Skeptical if curious. That box goes into his inner jacket pocket for now. Sherlock will try to lift it from him later - he can guess that. He'll have to think of somewhere good to put it, but for now he'll just be patting his pocket if Sherlock gets close or tries to leave the flat. ]

There's no Italian here. Or Chinese.

[It doesn't really matter, but it's easier than repeating that he's not hungry. Because then John will just argue with him about how he should eat something anyway.

And he will eventually to pacify the doctor.

But it is a thought he can't help. There's a Chinese restaurant on Baker Street. Open until 2. And there's Angelo's.

...It's as close as he'll come to admitting to homesickness.]

Pasta's easy enough to cook.

[ Feeding Sherlock is actually not the issue here. It is an issue, one that John keeps track of more readily than he does the days at times, but not one he'll push. He's not pushing. He's pushed enough. What he's trying to offer is to do. Not an offer to feed, but an offer to cook for. Gratitude is... odd between them. ]

Edited 2012-04-30 10:52 (UTC)

["It's not about the food."

The words are on the tip of his tongue. Sharp, dismissive. But they both already know it.

He's homesick. Not just for London, no. Because even in London, he couldn't sit down at Angelo's and have a dish he'd only eat maybe a fifth of. He couldn't even show up at the door late at night and get a box of take-away. ...Well, he could. But he worried that Angelo would tell John, wanting to help. If John even went around that place any more. Why would he?

And John... John is being tolerate. He's won. Rare enough. But he's not holding it over him. Why? Because John doesn't want a fight? It's been thirty-five days since they walked to 2-21 from the Clinic, two days since the row on the way here. Since Sherlock made it clear he wouldn't return in London and John delivered a deserved blow.

Since then... What? They've been sort of, in their own way, trying not to argue. There's been no shouting over the cigarettes.

To entirely dismiss the offer would be... Sherlock can't find the word, but he's not eager to be what it would make him. So he nods faintly, just once.]

Might eat a bit.

[He never ate much, but he could make a proper effort at it since John was putting himself out.]

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