logicals | ic inbox | LITTLE HADES

[About 10 minutes after midnight, 9 hours after this conversation, John sends a text.]

Sorry, last patient. Keeps trying to show me pictures of her dog. Will be out soon.

Tedious.

Knock her out.

That'd just make my shift even longer.

Go deduce some illnesses in the waiting room, I'll be out in a bit.

This is why I prefer being fashionably late.

You prefer being fashionably late because you can't be bothered to respect other peoples' schedules.

Don't steal any of the magazines from the waiting room.

Perhaps other people should learn to respect my schedule.

_{[ He is very busy and important, what with holding down two Brimstone jobs, a Reform Branch job, DearStalker and stalking/torturing for cash, so it's a wonder he has any time to himself at all.

And yet he still makes time in his busy schedule for what's likely to be intensely awkward dinner with one of his flatmates.

The miracles just keep on giving. ]}

I don't do that.

_{[ He totally does that. ]}

Yeah, you do.

[There's a couple of issues of 'Brutal Injuries Illustrated' and 'Hell Housekeeping' lying around Lestrade's house as proof that Sherlock is light fingered when it comes to waiting room magazines.

When John finally hangs up his coat and his stethoscope and exits the tiny office, the waiting room is nearly empty. The nurse at the desk grunts something unintelligible when he wishes her a good night.]

Done. [He texts to Sherlock, not seeing the man anywhere in the waiting area.]Where are you?

[ Don't forget the 'Cosmopolitans' - he's not paying for those.

Instead of going to a likely deserted waiting room, Sherlock elected to spend his time wandering the halls in order to see what's on offer. As it turns out, startlingly little. Upon discovering that sad fact, he opted to go and wait by the entrance with a cigarette permanently glued to his mouth.

Seemed like a better use of his time. ]

Deducing smokers.

You mean 'destroying your lungs'.

[John sighs and makes his way out to the little alcove where the smokers all huddle between shifts. Sherlock's a long, black shadow against the brick, made bulkier with the added weight of wings folded down his back.]

You're actually supposed to be ten feet from the building before smoking. [he points out, despite the fact that no one at all cares about following the rules, least of all the hospital staff.]

Clinging to the concept of preservation seems a tad redundant at this point.

_{[ Sherlock inclines his head towards the source of footsteps echoing out from the hospital's entrance, eyes still largely gued upon the demon standing opposite him as he desperately tries to blow smoke rings to rival his. It's a friendly sort of competition that he's winning with resounding success.

Perhaps this victory will set the tone for the rest of this evening.

Somehow he doubts it. He finishes his cigarette, allowing it to drop to the floor where he stubs it out before turning his attention onto his short friend.

He mumbles a quiet 'oh' with John's revelation and turns his attention briefly back onto his demon friend. ]}

Do you mind? No? Yet another dire crisis averted.

_{[ Ah, the sarcasm is strong with this one tonight. He might not be actively smiling, but the smugness is, as ever, radiating off of him with alarming intensity. ]}

You're paying.

_{[ Because you're late. And he paid last time. ]}

[You're paying, said with the smug confidence of someone who isn't the slightest bit concerned about the way the smoke exhaled from his mouth along with the words floats and curls around his head, or how the cherry of the cigarette is so bloody dramatic against pale skin that John can hardly stand it.

He looks away awkwardly and clears his throat.]

Sounds about right.

[He's definitely paying for every single moment.]

C'mon then, I'm starved. What kind of name for a place is 'Chicken Brothers' anyway?

_{[ The first manifestation of awkwardness shows itself in the way that John can barely keep his eyes on Sherlock before looking away and coughing, trying to enforce sound just to make up for the fact that he's uncomfortable.

Sherlock sees it, obviously, but he doesn't let it register on his expression, his body language long since schooled into the realms of careful stoicism.

For his part, he does his best not to act too out of the ordinary, even if his eyes do shift and linger down the expansive line of John's neck, knowing full well what marks lie underneath his jumper.

It's a difficult line to walk, but the sobering thought of their earlier texted conversation keeps him largely in check. The nicotine helps with that, too - and where one cigarette falls to its death, there's one already waiting to take its place. ]}

You know, it's never really been especially high up on my list of priorities to ask. They serve reasonably priced and exceedingly tasty Southern-fried chicken. That's about the extent of my knowledge.

[Ugh. The chain-smoking is not a good sign.

Then again, at least it's not anything more toxic than nicotine. John decides to count his blessings.]

I'm not disparaging your choice of chicken eatery. This time of night I'd eat pretty much anything that's not still moving.

[He shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets to hide the tremor that's started, flexing his fingers to ease the cramp.]

[ He's definitely not high right now, which is a step in the right direction. Probably.

This entire meeting seems to be proof enough that sex just serves to complicate things. Clearly enforcing a strict rule of celibacy upon himself was for the best in every respect, given the way things seem to be going so far.

It doesn't exactly help that his mind is rudely bombarding him with random instances from the night before, short and stuttering but incredibly distracting all the same. He averts his eyes and concentrates on the way the smoke drags its way down his throat instead, mimicking John as he places his free hand into his pocket (knowing with startling clarity that the action of hiding his hand at all likely means that he's experiencing discomfort but trying to cover it up all the same). It must be a courtesy by this point, because as ever, Sherlock uses every opportunity to observe when he's not overly preoccupied.

Not only have they redefined everything their friendship once was, he's somehow made John worse in the process.

He keeps his information to himself, of course - filed away and alphabetised under the ways in which John reacts to situations that are emotionally stressful as opposed to physically. If only they could find a quick fix of adrenaline - they could really do with a pick me up, in more ways than one.

Jesus, why is this so difficult? They may have toed across a line or two, but surely their friendship is strong enough to withstand a minor blip in the road? Perhaps it was already too tenuous in the first place. God knows they haven't been on the same wavelength for months, not really.

Except it felt like they were finally getting somewhere, only for it all to be smashed to pieces the moment sobriety reared its cruel and ugly head.

And now they're stuck having a lengthy discussion regarding the consumption of chicken, despite it being a conversation neither one of them is especially invested in having. ]

Hm, better keep moving, then.

_{[ Except is that an inappropriate joke, given the previous night? He's not even sure. Why should it even matter, it's not like Sherlock follows social etiquette closely enough anyway. It's Sherlock's turn to clear his throat as he chances a quick sideways glance down towards John. ]}

Please tell me you had some interesting patients today.

_{[ Because the only interesting thing that happened to him today John wouldn't approve of, so please God let's just keep this conversation evolving past whatever awkward stage it's at now. ]}

Preferably ones that don't have an unhealthy relationship with their pets.

[Oh god, this is so awkward and awful that John almost feels sick to his stomach, although that could be the combo of cigarette smoke and an empty stomach working against him.

He should be able to at least look at Sherlock, because it's painfully obvious just how much of an effort the man is making for a dull, damaged, not-terribly-worth-it John Watson and this is a man that rarely makes an effort for anything. But. It's just.

It's legs eating up the pavement in long strides that had so recently wrapped insistently around his waist, and it's long fingers that stroked and spread and pulled him apart so thoroughly. And John knows, knows for a fact, that if he reaches out right now and massages just exactly the right spot on the wings sprouting from Sherlock's back that he can bring the man to his knees and it's...

Too much. Far too much.

He shouldn't know these things. He shouldn't be thinking about these things. Especially if he's the only one thinking them while Sherlock watches and scoffs and gets irritated by John's inability to ignore his 'baser urges' like a rational person.

Gratefully, he latches onto the change in subject. Work. He can talk about work, fine. No problem.]

Mostly stitch-jobs. People come in with a lot of cuts and amputations and...well there was one decapitation where the guy was carrying his head under his arm and that was fairly surreal.

Said someone chopped it off with an axe in a bar fight.

[Which would be the second axe-wound that John's had to patch up thus far in his career at Abbadon Hospital.]

Also had a guy with a pretty good burn on his hand. It stood out because I thought demons weren't exactly flammable anymore once they got sent down here. Could be wrong about that though. He wouldn't tell me what happened.

[There. That wasn't so bad, was it? They could get through this.]

_{[ In chancing a glance towards John, it becomes plainly obvious that the man can't even so much as look at him before turning away. That probably shouldn't sting half as much as it does, and as easy as it would be to mentally disengage from this entire situation, John is always worth the effort. He purposefully chooses to ignore the way his mind supplies snippets from their text conversation wherein John refused to denote whether consent was offered, because it's a slippery slope that makes his pulse falter uncertainty every time he touches upon considering it.

Consent was not an issue last night. John was just as engaged as Sherlock was, there's no doubt about that - there was a mutual insistence, certainly, but there was no forcing. It was... honestly the best sexual experience he's had to date, except now it's been soured slightly by the cold light of day and a text conversation that left both of them distinctly disappointed.

So he denies the quiet insistence of losing himself within his own head to escape the awkwardness prevailing their every movement and instead opts to examine the way John won't even attempt to meet his eyes and is actively avoiding looking in his direction at all.

There comes a point where the awkward and stagnant atmosphere circling around them needs to be addressed, but Sherlock isn't exactly the most tactful when it comes to the social sciences. His usual tactic of just ignore it and hope that John will join in and fall into old patterns of behaviour seems to be backfiring, because although he latches onto the new conversational topic, there's an awful lot of words that need to be said going unsaid, here.

He's not even sure what words need saying, which is why he keeps his mouth preoccupied around a cigarette, his oral fixation only making things that much more awkward.

Sherlock interrupts the flow of John's sentences the second he hears about a bloke wandering around with his head coddled in his arm. That, in his mind, is a very important thing. ]}

Did you get a picture?

_{[ Seriously, Sherlock wants to see this shit for himself. And if John didn't get a picture - well, that's fine, he supposes, but next time he better think twice. This is the sort of thing Sherlock clearly needs to see, his curiosity needs to be sated especially in a place like this.

He's certainly seen an odd thing or two in his time here, but he'd really like to add the Headless Horseman to his mentally half-ticked Hell Bingo chart. ]}

Hmmm, might have been a Limbo case.

I was a little busy trying to reattach the guy's head. Besides which, pausing in the middle of the operating theater to whip out your phone isn't the most professional move, and I want to keep my job.

[Of course Sherlock would want pictures though. He should have known.]

I've got X-rays, will that do? Not that I'm going back in to retrieve them.

[Turning back now is liable to get him ambushed with more dog photos and as much as he wants to avoid this awkward conversation, it's got to happen sometime and they're already through the first hurdle of simply being in the same vicinity without dying on embarrassment.

That's got to count for something.]

I didn't know Limbo cases could burn.

[He says it thoughtlessly, then pictures Sherlock holding a cigarette lighter to his arm just to find out for sure and tries to backtrack.]

But I'm sure you're right. That must have been it.

Could've turned his head around. He'd have been none the wiser.

_{[ That sort of statement should obviously be followed with a smirk of amusement, but Sherlock is far too distracted by conversation they're not having to throw John a halfhearted smile. Sherlock's stoic resignation in ignoring the elephant in the room can only stretch so far, especially when ignoring it might be doing them more harm than good. ]}

Hmm, acceptable. You can bring them with you after your next shift.

_{[ There's a knowing sideways glance aimed in John's direction at the obvious way in which he tries to backtrack. ]}

Of course we can burn.

_{[ He doesn't need to try it. He's already tried it; that's the nature of smoking as often as Sherlock does - burns occasionally happen.

If they're not careful, another silence could end up cropping up, and that doesn't seem especially productive given the awkward way things have already been proceeding. Should he just act as if it didn't happen? Would that make things easier? He's definitely capable of that. Or should he address it, harsh and quick like a plaster being yanked away from overly tender skin?

Both options have their pitfalls. He'll just study John silently for the time being, wings twitching listlessly as he tries to discern what he actually wants from him. Sherlock's feeling increasingly out of his depth in this situation and that's not a feeling he enjoys having, but it's one that keeps cropping up regardless. ]}

[It's fairly obvious that John wants things to be the way they were before he knew what Sherlock's 'o' face looked like, just as much as it's fairly obvious that things can't really be that way now.

This is why, this is the whole reason that John's steadfastly refused to entertain thoughts about Sherlock in a sexual manner. He's had a total of one successful long-term sexual relationship and that was to a woman who was also an assassin who shot his best friend and really it was only successful because John had clung onto it tooth and nail whenever circumstances threatened to derail it. Because apparently that's what he likes.

He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him and it's so different and uncomfortable to how he usually feels when being deduced (ie. annoyed but still kind of awe-struck and flattered by the attention), that he stops walking abruptly and rubs his hands over his face.]

Look. I...I'm not good at this. This talking about serious things...thing. I don't do it. You know that.

[He throws Sherlock a rather desperate look.]

That's why we work so well together, because you can just look at my shoes or a bit of toothpaste on my chin and figure it out and I don't have to say a thing. Can't you do that now?

This just can't be it. It can't be the thing that ruins us. You fucking made me watch you jump off a building, you made me think you were dead for years, and we still managed somehow to be us, hmm? To be Sherlock-and-John.

[He presses his lips tightly together, suddenly realizing that he's shouting in an alleyway in the middle of the night and that's not exactly the best way to travel through the streets of Little Hades unmolested. He mutters his next words instead, eyes falling from Sherlock's face to the ground at his feet.]

How the hell can this</> be the thing that ruins that?

[ Sherlock is, quite obviously, taken aback. He listens to John talk, glancing quickly from side to side (because he certainly hasn't forgotten that they're in public and even though it's a reasonably thin crowd thanks to the current time, he's still all too aware that they're being stared at).

He tries rather desperately to steer John away from the semi-populated streets and into an alleyway, but then he starts yelling and obviously the sound carries further, echoing loudly against the walls as it's reverberated down through their shortcut.

If only there was some sort of cheat sheet that allowed him to see the appropriate response to all of this, because he's almost at a loss for words - or more accurately, the words he can find aren't the words that need to be said. They're all jumbled and they sound wrong, especially in the face of John's waiting, pleading expression.

He's being asked to lay John bare and deduce the things he wants, but it's not that simple. He is emotionally compromised - he's too close to be objective, he sees what he wants to see and interprets things with a biased view, because that's what people do. There's a fundamental difference between deducing emotion based off of micro expressions and body language, but his knowledge on John stretches far too deeply and to analyse every bit of information he has would take weeks, months, years.

But how can he explain that without totally giving himself away? ]

I can only do so much. I can only see so much before other factors take precedence and skew the results. I cannot remain impartial, you have- infected me with a conscience, and as a result I find it- I find it difficult to make an unbiased observation, which is neither helpful nor accurate in this case.

_{[ He can see so much, he always sees so much, but he takes everything with a grain of salt because the alternative is getting too hopeful or too depressed, given the stimulus he's reacting to. ]}

You can't expect me to know your feelings when I find it laborious enough trying to navigate my own.

_{[ It's Sherlock's turn to look desperate as he watches John closely - there are so many paths to take and each of them veer off in new directions, he doesn't know which one to try and commit to, he doesn't have enough data, he doesn't- he can't be the only one making these decisions.

John has placed so much on his shoulders: deduce it, fix it, it's what you do, and hopelessness hits him because this isn't what he does. The murky waters of emotional depth are traitorous and cruel, which is why he sticks to hard facts and logical reasoning.

None of this is logical. None of this is factual. It's all wishy-washy and it's too many steps removed from what he's used to.

But if John wants him to take charge, and if he wants him to act as if everything's fine, then he'll do that. If John wants him to approach this problem with cold, calculated efficiency, then he will.

Neither of them will like it, but he'll do it. ]}

Just- forget about it. Forget about all of it. It never happened. Do whatever you need to do to get rid of whatever hang ups you have about what transpired, and- just... delete it.

_{[ Oh god, this goes against everything he wants, but John is so distressed and it's his fault, so if he has to be the villain, then so be it. ]}

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