Appointments

[theblogger]

This post is for IC threads that don't fit in logs or network posts (aka this is an excellent choice for a private thread).

Games: Ataraxion and Luceti

Please indicate the date and the game you're from in the subject line!

Comments

[theblogger]

[ 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?

[notquiteheartless]

[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.

[theblogger]

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. ]

[notquiteheartless]

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.]

[theblogger]

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. ]

[notquiteheartless]

["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.]