thoughtformed | Text to Sherlock Holmes

[ Sherlock considers petulantly refusing to acknowledge the call, but frankly it wouldn't do him any good. He breezes from his bedroom, immaculately dressed, looking perfectly casual and not at all as if he'd spent the week sulking under his bed. (Which means, naturally, that it might be obvious to John by omission that that's exactly what he had done.)

He eyes John suspiciously, his expression beady and pinched along the edges.

Imperiously: ] Well?

[ He pauses when he catches sight of Sherlock, his throat tightening up again and his brain doing everything in his power not to give in to the urge to turn right back around and leave. Instead, he stands there with squared shoulders and arms tight against his sides, staring up at the source of all of his problems over the last few days right in the face. He swallows, in effort to loosen up his throat enough to talk. Before he says even a single word, however, he pulls out the gift from under his arm and holds it straight out in front of him for Sherlock to take. ]

...Happy Christmas, Sherlock.

[ Taking the box silently, Sherlock at least does John the courtesy of not deducing the contents; he's already aware that they each share the status of being on 'shaky ground' with the other, and if John isn't willing to let Sherlock pick a fight over it, there's no point to it. He tactlessly pulls open the gift without so much as a by-your-leave, then spends a moment looking into it, faintly wide-eyed. ]

John...

[ It's what appears to be a polished cherrywood box, but when opened, reveals itself to be an actually rather nice humidor complete with a smaller, long box with a matching tobacco pipe inside. ]

I know we're not in London anymore so... it might be easier for you to indulge. Just... promise me you'll put natural tobacco in it at least. Better for you.

Better for brainwork.

[ Sherlock doesn't smile, but neither does he look quite as harsh as before when he turns sharply and disappears back into his room, returning without the box but with two parcels of his own. At least they're not being sentimental about it.

His own gifts in return had been chosen with the intention of making John smile -- no matter what anyone said, Sherlock Holmes was not entirely thoughtless, nor was he completely ignorant of social and emotional cues: what a poor investigator that would make him! What he does recognize is dismissed as irrelevant to himself and having no impact upon himself personally, and the obvious exception is John.

Thus the contents of the first gift he thrusts at John in return, stuffed inside a gaudy Christmas-themed shopping bag (packaged courtesy of some gift-wrapping table specifically set up for the holidays, how convenient,) are two jumpers: one in a spectacularly eye-searing and cheerfully winter pattern, to make up for the loss of John's Icelandic one, and the other a more thoughtful and practical fawn brown. In the second bag, from the grocery store because Sherlock had done it up himself, is a bottle of unnecessarily nice whisky, stolen from Mycroft after Sherlock had gone to him for advice and needed to leave with something tangible to use as an excuse for the visit.

He has nothing to say about either of them, but his calculatedly expressionless face and inability to stay still probably say enough. ]

There, are we done?

[ The fact that Sherlock got John anything at all was frankly astounding, but that he had gone out of his way to not only get him two gifts, and had actually seemingly put thought into them was nothing short of a miracle. He has no doubt at all that the jumpers will be a perfect fit (leave it to Sherlock), and smiles quite broadly at the amazing-looking bottle of whisky, taking a moment to look the bottle over and check the year. He can't keep himself from smiling even as he shakes his head in disbelief. ]

Sherlock this... it's amazing. Thank you so much. I'm not really sure what to say. Especially... [ Oh boy. Here comes the fun part. ] Especially after I treated you so poorly. That's what I've come to discuss.

[ All of the feelings that had been making him sick the last few days had now migrated up to his head, buzzing about and turning his confusion-driven nausea into straight confusion, and even a little dizziness. He clears his throat and, with his arms full of gifts and his shoulders tight and locked, he chews his lip uneasily, blinking while he sorts through the right words and phrases. ]

Sherlock I- ... I'm sorry. I've been rude and not taking you into account.

[ There it is. For all that they both have their own reasons for not trying to talk about feelings, when John gets it into him to soldier through something, even Sherlock hasn't an easy time convincing him otherwise. Even so, he returns John's obvious discomfort with a front of his own, a vicious bodily dismissal, flicking his hand sharply at the wrist and turning away to fold his arms across his chest. ]

Why would you think there's something to take into account?

[ John looks as though he's been hit with a flash grenade with the way he draws back and blinks. Clearly, he's missed something. ]

Wh- of course there is. You. I'm- well I'm supposed to be your friend. And my actions over the last few days well, they don't exactly reflect that, and for that, I apologise. I never meant to hurt you.

[ Agitated by being stuck so far out of his area, Sherlock's lean figure is stiff and hard-lined, and though John's reaction does not escape his notice, it only serves to confuse him more. ]

You had your reasons, I'm sure, any number of them, and it would be beyond irrational for me to be hurt by whatever specifically motivated your flight. Nevertheless, if you insist, then your apology is accepted.

[ That, at least, puts the smile back on his face. He looks relieved and he relaxes a little. ]

Thank you, Sherlock. It really means a lot to me. Happy Christmas, Sherlock.

[ As to where to proceed from here, John is still a little awkward. Do they talk about the kissing? The fact that they were, at least for a couple of days, happily "married"? Or perhaps now's the time to talk about how to repay Mycroft for that little favour. ]

Yes, well.

[ Good, excellent, of course acquiescing to John's sense of chivalry and honor would be the fastest route to making him drop the subject. And now to distract him from working himself up into another subject, as Sherlock can clearly see him doing. ]

Some tea would be good now, I think.

[ Well, at least it's easy enough to get back into the swing of things. John nods and takes a breath to relax before he goes to set the kettle to boil and set his gifts down. The jumper does look quite comfortable, and he has every intention on putting it on later, but now really isn't the time. In an effort to move the discussion away from the awkwardness, John clears his throat and begins: ]

So what did you do while I was away? Did you see any clients?

If only. No, there was nothing of interest outside of these walls. Frankly there wasn't anything of interest inside either.

[ A pause. ]

Though I did have an unfortunate run-in with one of the Doctors.

[ And, hideously, the irritating teenager that usurped John's previous room, but Sherlock has already expunged the experience from every single corner of his mind. ]

One of the doctors? Looking to replace me so soon, hm?

[ It takes John a moment to realise what he meant by that. ]

Oh! Oh one of The Doctors.. Yes. Okay, I think I understand. So what happened, then? Certainly you didn't seek him out for help on something, did you? I know you weren't that desperate without me.

[ For a split second Sherlock looks thunderstruck, as if the very idea of replacing John were as reasonable as replacing one's circulatory system -- but the moment passes, virtually unnoticeable. ]

Don't be ludicrous. His TARDIS malfunctioned and arrived in my bedroom.

Well, anywhere else, I would say that sounds absolutely insane but... well, I've spent as much time here as you have.

[ He throws a smile over at Sherlock and reaches for the teabags, unmoved and likely untouched since he left, and gets them ready for use. ]

Did you two get on, then? Friends, or something like it?

Not as such. [ Sherlock's expression is sour. ] He kissed me.

[ There may have been mistletoe. (There was.) ]

[ The spoon that John had been shoveling sugar into Sherlock's cup with dropped from his hand and clattered against the cup and saucer at such an admission. This time, he turned about quicker, as much of a shocked expression as his dropping of a spoon would imply. ]

He did what? And you... You let him? [ A pause for consideration. ] Surely that mistletoe didn't find its way.. in here, did it?

[ Sherlock's eyes narrow at the hesitation, looking consideringly at John and categorizing his reaction. ]

Yes, of course there was mistletoe here, I was experimenting on it. [ Then, because the next line of John's thinking is easy to predict: ] And no, there isn't any left. It -- disappeared, not long after it arrived.

[ The twist in his mouth now is clearly a result of his dissatisfaction with having to resort to such an imprecise and unscientific way of speaking. 'Disappeared,' like it was magic, how distasteful. ]

Oh... That's unfortunate [ But he does seem a bit more relaxed now. But only a little. It is nice to know that there wasn't any more of that wretched plant left in the flat to make things... awkward. ]

I guess that means you didn't really learn anything about it. That's too bad. I'm sure it would have been really helpful. At least in figuring out why we... did what we did.

Text to Sherlock Holmes

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject