ximilialog | Like a moth to a flame

CHARACTERS: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes
LOCATION: Station kitchen
DATE: Backdated to right after returning from the mission
CONTENT: A little check-up
WARNINGS: N/A for now

[ It might be easier to call or text, and he does consider it, but who knows what the response will be. During the mission, Sherlock had been acting ... off. John hadn't wanted to presume, hadn't pushed him, because it's not like he really knows this Sherlock, but now ... It doesn't hurt to at least ask how he's doing.

And if he's anything at all like the Sherlock John knows, it's probably better to just spring the question on him.

It takes time to find him, though. If that's because he's spending most of his time holed up alone or because they're just passing each other, John doesn't know, but he hopes it's not the former. Of course, it's most likely the former.

But he finds him eventually, making himself coffee in the kitchen. John idly wonders if he's eaten properly recently. ]

Hey. Is there enough for a cup for me?

[ Even if he's usually more of a tea person, he doesn't turn down coffee. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Sherlock's nightmares continue with added insecurity about his role on the mission (amounting to nothing or causing greater danger) and his sanity. T-800 checked-in with him earlier, but given it had happened over voice communications, Sherlock was able to make himself seem better than reality. Luckily, Ximilia is spared from him falling completely into one of his dismal moods by the magic of the mistletoe.

Needing more caffeine to ward off sleep a little longer, Sherlock leaves his studies of the occult book and modern technology for the kitchen. He's in the middle of making some coffee when Watson arrives and looks up at him with exhausted grey eyes. ]

Of course. I have not seen this machine run out yet, and I have visited it often.

[ Often is an understatement. He's living off the stuff. ]

How do you take it?

[ Wow, the man really doesn't look good. You don't even need to know him well to see that. Although he doesn't point it out, the concern flickers across his face, because he was never good at pretend. ]

Milk and sugar.

[ Sherlock gives a brief meek, half-smile as if to respond to that flicker of concern. He knows he's a mess, but there's not much he feels like he can do about it.

So, instead he goes to pour Watson a cup of coffee and adds some milk and sugar. ]

Here, I'll leave these out in case it needs adjusting.

[ It probably needs more because Sherlock makes his coffee strong. ]

Thank you.

[ It hits him, then, that this is very unusual. ]

Usually I'm the one making the coffee. Or, err, tea. We usually have tea.

Hm, most of the time Mrs. Hudson makes tea or coffee. The fireplaces aren't equipped to heat water, and the Bunsen burner isn't large enough to boil more than a cup.

[ Not having access to the kitchen causes problems. ]

Ah, right, yeah.

[ He huffs quietly, a little abashed. ]

You didn't have a kitchen. I ... would probably go mad, I'll be honest.

[ Sherlock pauses taking a sip of his own coffee to look at Watson, trying to deduce something about him, and then looks like he comes to one conclusion only to immediately disregard it for another. ]

Ah well, you should be glad you are not my Watson then. There is enough madness in 221B without adding madness induced by the lack of a kitchen.

Oh, I know what madness is induced by a kitchen. It's ... fine. I'd rather have the kitchen.

[ Though this does make him wonder what this Sherlock gets up to in his flat. ]

[ He has yet to shoot the wall with a pistol. There is no Persian slipper yet. The knife has yet to find a home in the mantle.

However, there is a wall covered in tacks and Watson's syringes to link clues together. He also pulled Watson's bed out from his room to use as a stepping stool, and he ate the food Watson had set aside for himself later. And the place is a mess with papers and such strewn everywhere. ]

Why do you put up with me--with your Holmes?

[ He quickly corrects, though the previous iteration is just as valid. ]

[ Why? How does he put that in words? How much does he want to put in words? Those are two very different things. There's a limit to how much he'd probably tell 'his Holmes', so that limit at the very least also applies here. And this is Sherlock, but it's not Sherlock.

His smile softens. ]

Because he cares. Maybe he's bad at showing it, but he does. When it matters.

[ That look isn't the same, but Sherlock can't deny how familiar it is to him. He has to turn away from it. ]

And that is enough? That's worth all the hassle and difficulty from just being around him? What if he could no longer be a consulting detective? Or unable to use his mind to impress others or be useful to anyone?

[ His brow furrows just slightly. ]

Your mind isn't the only useful or valuable thing about you.

[ Like many people, Sherlock is complex. If you try to sum up all his parts, the conclusion is that he's a good man. At least to John, and to plenty of other people too. ]

[ He was talking about the other Sherlock Holmes, not himself! ... Okay, he was talking about himself. ]

Hm.

[ Sherlock takes a long sip of his coffee to give himself time to think of a response. ]

Well, if that comes to pass, I suppose that'll be some comfort.

[ That begs the question, though ... ]

If you couldn't be a consulting detective anymore, what would you do?

[ Sherlock once more employs the stalling technique of taking a long sip of his coffee. In all honesty, he doesn't want to give up his profession, but what if he has no choice? ]

I could perhaps take to the stage.

[ Although, if his fears come true, then pretending to be someone else could make things worse. ]

Or I could follow in my parents' footsteps and take up archeology. Or beekeeping, though I would need to move away from 221B permanently to do that.

Like a moth to a flame

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