whatofthewarts | (no subject)

(no subject)

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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"I have no doubt. Improving is what we do."

He pauses to tsk at a bruise low on Sherlock's leg.

His foot arches leg cramping a touch, trying to stretch.

"Where did you learn to fight? I can box perfectly competently-"

"Many of my techniques are used in the Far East. They can be learned here from immigrants. Others I developed myself, through practical study of human anatomy."

"Fascinating."

He whispers, easing as his leg does.

"Better. Thank you."

"What sort of world do you live in, that a man doesn't need to fight in proximity to other men?"

Because he finds it so strange that boxing has done so well for Sherlock, there.

"A very cold one."

Is how his tired mind explains it right now. That's all he can manage.

He doesn't need to ask why Sherlock is in a rush to get back to it. Besides, this world is less than personal, too. It's the human condition.

"You sound fatigued."

"I don't remember the last time I slept."

He confesses, dazed. Good time to be playing, obviously. Better time to lose his virginity.

"Now that won't do."

He fluffs a pillow meaningfully.

"I'm not an invalid."

Falling backwards, though.

"You might feel like one come morning."

"It might be best if you left before then. This is humiliating."

Quiet.

He would want the same thing. Watson wouldn't give it, of course. But Holmes doesn't deal as well with this sort of thing.

"I'll be back on the morrow. Meals in bed."

He looks at him with outright ire.

No.

Holmes stares back, unbudging.

"If something should happen, if something should show up after the adrenaline has all worn off, then it is my responsibility."

"And what? Have violent intercourse with me?"

Eyes rolling.

"No one comes here."

"And make sure that no cracked ribs became broken ribs, which may then puncture your lungs."

Now Holmes is sounding testy.

"Does someone feel a little bit guilty?"

He makes a face at him.

"I may have been a virgin but I was hardly blushing."

"Perhaps not, but you are a proud man, and proud men tend to ignore vital injuries."

So there. Even if they both know that Sherlock is more than bright enough to recognize when he needs help. He probably knows better than Holmes how to treat it by himself.

"Then stay, if you want."

Caving in, quietly, when he doesn't bolt at the admission of his utter inexperience.

Although Holmes had meant to leave and come back in the morning, he changes his mind now. He takes off his shoes, and his coat, and settles in bed beside Sherlock.

He rolls over onto his side. The position highlights the difference in their heights, the subtle weight of muscle Holmes has over Sherlock, the bony jut of Sherlock's shoulder above his. He smiles.

"When you visit my world, I'll let you hide in the back room for days with a chemistry textbook."

"And mathematics. And global politics."

He's almost salivating at the thought of all that information.

"You can come on faces and pretend to speak only french, to keep from being asked to explain things you can't."

Plotting, happily.

"Alors je le ferai."

Smirking. But he tilts his head a little.

"'Come on faces'?"