(no subject)
Nov. 18th, 2013 06:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsnotatrickShe always calls the next day. Aftercare protocol. And Sherlock always answers -- more so than he did in the beginning, in fact, when he needed it more. Barring the occasional wild experiment that might leave him shaken, they're a lot more like casual chats these days.
"Morning, dear. How's the shoulder?"
"Repairing." He's lying on top of his bedsheets, phone in one hand, the other resting on his stomach, on top of a buttoned shirt. He's gotten up and showered by now, gotten dressed before heading back to bed. Never know. Lestrade might call.
"You were distracted last night." Right to the point. He prefers it when she does that. "Not that it isn't like you to be distracted -- it's one of my favorite things, watching your eyes snap into the present... What was it this time?"
His thumb makes little circles in the fabric of his shirt.
"Red John case."
"The American serial killer? Haven't you worked that one out yet?"
"Not worth the airfare. Besides, you know how American bureaus are about jurisdiction."
"That's a no, then," Irene purrs. She never can help teasing, but at least he doesn't sneer at it anymore. "What about it?"
A pause before Sherlock answers.
"He's killed again."
"As serial killers will do. What's special about this time?"
Again, a beat.
"Did I ever tell you there was someone before you?"
"I'm appallingly jealous." She'll be tossing her head right about now. Possibly shifting in her seat, pulling her feet up under herself. Not jealous, no, but intrigued. "I had an inkling. Few are that experienced from research alone."
A second later, it hits him. The worst part about sub drop, in Sherlock's opinion: the sudden and unexpected hot rush of emotion, stopping up his throat and burning at the backs of his eyeballs. It's been so long since it happened like this.
"Sherlock?"
He shuts his eyes tight, takes a breath.
"Do you need me to come over?"
"No," he says as the breath releases. He's fine; he'll be fine. Steady "But I may need to go to America."
Now it's her turn for a moment of silence.
"Well, you know you should wait a day or two before making any big decisions."
"Yes, I know."
"Which is not to say that--"
"Yes."
After the next stretch of silence, Irene sounds cautiously chipper: "Any calls from the Inspector?"
Sherlock, likewise, has used the time to compose himself. "Not this morning."
"And what about breakfast?"
An almost sheepish pause. Years later, and remembering to eat is still an issue.
"Not yet."
"Well, don't call back until you've got yourself some eggs."
And if she doesn't hear back in the next half hour, she'll be calling. Irene protects her investments.
She also gives them opportunities to quip back. Sherlock's eyebrows -- and tone -- broadcast a mock deference.
"Yes, Miss Adler."
"Talk soon, Mister Holmes."
"Morning, dear. How's the shoulder?"
"Repairing." He's lying on top of his bedsheets, phone in one hand, the other resting on his stomach, on top of a buttoned shirt. He's gotten up and showered by now, gotten dressed before heading back to bed. Never know. Lestrade might call.
"You were distracted last night." Right to the point. He prefers it when she does that. "Not that it isn't like you to be distracted -- it's one of my favorite things, watching your eyes snap into the present... What was it this time?"
His thumb makes little circles in the fabric of his shirt.
"Red John case."
"The American serial killer? Haven't you worked that one out yet?"
"Not worth the airfare. Besides, you know how American bureaus are about jurisdiction."
"That's a no, then," Irene purrs. She never can help teasing, but at least he doesn't sneer at it anymore. "What about it?"
A pause before Sherlock answers.
"He's killed again."
"As serial killers will do. What's special about this time?"
Again, a beat.
"Did I ever tell you there was someone before you?"
"I'm appallingly jealous." She'll be tossing her head right about now. Possibly shifting in her seat, pulling her feet up under herself. Not jealous, no, but intrigued. "I had an inkling. Few are that experienced from research alone."
A second later, it hits him. The worst part about sub drop, in Sherlock's opinion: the sudden and unexpected hot rush of emotion, stopping up his throat and burning at the backs of his eyeballs. It's been so long since it happened like this.
"Sherlock?"
He shuts his eyes tight, takes a breath.
"Do you need me to come over?"
"No," he says as the breath releases. He's fine; he'll be fine. Steady "But I may need to go to America."
Now it's her turn for a moment of silence.
"Well, you know you should wait a day or two before making any big decisions."
"Yes, I know."
"Which is not to say that--"
"Yes."
After the next stretch of silence, Irene sounds cautiously chipper: "Any calls from the Inspector?"
Sherlock, likewise, has used the time to compose himself. "Not this morning."
"And what about breakfast?"
An almost sheepish pause. Years later, and remembering to eat is still an issue.
"Not yet."
"Well, don't call back until you've got yourself some eggs."
And if she doesn't hear back in the next half hour, she'll be calling. Irene protects her investments.
She also gives them opportunities to quip back. Sherlock's eyebrows -- and tone -- broadcast a mock deference.
"Yes, Miss Adler."
"Talk soon, Mister Holmes."
